Luan Loud came slowly and peacefully awake in the blue predawn light, her mind clear and her body refreshed. Lincoln was asleep with his arm thrown over her shoulders, and she snuggled closer to him, relishing the warmth they created. She was afraid to look at the clock, because it was probably almost time for her to go back to her own room. If I don't see it, it's not real, she thought, but opened her eyes anyway. 5:54am. The alarm was set for 6.
She sighed and turned to Lincoln. "Linc?"
He snored, and she smiled. He was so cute when he was asleep. Of course, he was cute no matter what he did.
"Linc?"
Nothing.
She kissed him on the forehead and slipped out of her bed, goosebumps racing up and down her naked body as the cold air washed over it. She shuddered (what's the heat set at anyway?) and picked her nightgown up off the floor, slipping it over her head. The silky fabric brushed against her nipples, and she shivered again.
After turning off the alarm, she went into her own room and got under the covers. The sheets were cool, and her teeth chattered as she drew her body tight. She loved sleeping in Lincoln's room, but hated coming back to her own bed: It always felt so big and cold and empty. In fact, the nights she slept in it were the nights she didn't sleep at all; she had grown accustomed to Lincoln's presence and his touch. It soothed her and made her drift happily off. When she was alone, she yearned for him. Lately, she yearned so badly that she made herself sick, and had to run to the bathroom and throw up. She felt like a junkie sometimes, and Lincoln was her fix; she knew vaguely that that might not be entirely healthy, but she didn't care. She was happy and that was all that mattered.
She closed her eyes and tried to get back to sleep, but the nausea slowly came upon her as it did more mornings than not. She licked her lips and tried to ignore it, but bile began coating her throat, and she knew she was going to hurl.
Again.
Wow, Linc, you should come with side effect warnings like the pills on TV.
Holding back a tidal wave of puke, she rushed to the bathroom and reached the commode just as the storm broke. Falling to her knees, she lifted the lid and hurled, splattering the bowl with chunks of last night's dinner. When she thought she was done, she leaned back, but another wave of nausea crashed over her, and she puked again. Tears streamed from the corners of her eyes. She coughed. Her stomach rolled. Acid filled her mouth, and she puked a third time.
"Jesus," she panted, gripping the lip of the bowl, and chuckled sardonically. Nothing like being sick in the morning.
Heh.
Morning sickness.
She froze.
Morning sickness?
Cold terror swept through her. No, it couldn't be, Lincoln always...it wasn't possible. They were safe.
But why was her heart in her throat, and why was she suddenly sure she was pregnant?
She knelt before the toilet for a long time, trembling with terror. It couldn't be...but what if it was? What if she was carrying her brother's child?
The prospect scared her so bad that she threw up again.
At some point, she stumbled back to bed and lay awake for a long time, her eyes wide open and her mind racing. Their parents would find out. She might get sent somewhere, Lincoln might get sent somewhere. They would be taken away from each other, and so too, probably, would their baby.
That last part affected her more than she thought possible.
"Luan?"
She blinked. They were gathered in Lori's room. Outside, snow was starting to fall; a smattering covered patches of the backyard.
"Sorry," she said. She hadn't been herself all day; her mind was on what was (or was not) growing in her stomach.
Lori rolled her eyes. "Let's try this one more time: Does everyone have everything they need for the storm? Candles, extra blankets, flashlights?"
Everyone nodded and said that they did.
A pregnancy test. She needed a pregnancy test. She couldn't just walk into the corner drugstore and pick one up, could she? Even if they let her buy one without giving her a hard time, someone might see her. Royal Woods was a relatively small town, and news travels fast in small towns if the wrong person saw or heard the wrong thing. Well, hiya, Lynn, I just wanted to ask what's going on with Luan, I saw her buying a pregnancy test today down at the store...
She shivered.
"Luan!"
"Yes, I have everything I need."
"Lisa, how's the generator coming?"
"Well," Lisa said, fiddling with her glasses, "it's not quiet done yet, and I can't promise it will be done before we lose power, but I plan on attempting."
Lisa had been working on a generator that ran on household trash. Dad's old gas generator would get them by if she didn't finish, but from what she said, it was cheaper, clearer burning, and would produce twice as much power, and power is something that the Loud house used a lot of.
"Okay," Lori said, and started talking about something else but Luan tuned her out. Was she going to be a mother? The thought alternately terrified and overjoyed her. She touched her stomach and tried to sense whether she had a passenger or not, but couldn't.
She noticed Lincoln watching her strangely, and smiled at him.
-2-
Night turned to day, the dirty gray light creeping across the walls like vines along a lattice. Clyde stared up at the ceiling, the covers pulled up to his chin. Did he sleep? He thought so. He hoped he did, because Lori was beside him for a while, and if he wasn't dreaming, he was crazy.
Crazy Clyde, that was him, the boy no one loved, the boy whose every waking moment was an prolonged anxiety attack, the boy who pined for a woman who didn't want him. Dr. Lopez asked him once if he wasn't so attracted to Lori specifically because she wasn't attracted to him.
She's safe, because she isn't interested in you, therefore you won't have to ever open your heart and risk getting hurt.
He laughed at that. No, Lori was beautiful and perfect and holy and pure. But he wondered. Lucy was closer in age to him. What if he tried to get her to like him?
That thought disturbed him. Why, he couldn't say.
There's no real risk involved.
Maybe not, but he still loved her. He yearned for her the way he imagined an alcoholic yearned for his drink of choice, his body aching and trembling. Sometimes she was all he could think about, and, every once in a blue moon, it became too much, and he pounded his fists against the sides of his head. Leave me alone! Leave me alone! Thoughts of Lori were usually happy, but at 5am, after a long, sleepless night, he was so sick of thinking about her that he could scream in frustration, and sometimes he did, startling his parents. Once, over the summer, he jabbed a pencil into the soft skin between his thumb and forefinger, hoping the pain would drive her out of his head. It worked, but it hurt; it left an ugly scar that he looked at sometimes.
Tonight the thoughts hadn't been bad. They didn't race through his mind until he was sick to his stomach and his head hurt. They strutted slowly by, allowing him to admire and savor them. In his dream (if dream it was), he was staring up at the ceiling when she slipped under his covers and threw her arm across his chest. He turned to her, and she smiled up at him. "Hi," she said.
"Hi," he said, his chest tight. He thought to ask her why she was here, but she kissed his cheek, and he didn't care. She was there and she was warm and her smell was everywhere. He gazed into her eyes, then looked back at the ceiling, happier than he had ever been in his life. For a long time they lay that way, then she was gone and he was alone. He wasn't aware of crossing the threshold of dreams, so maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe he was crazy.
If being crazy got Lori Loud to kiss his cheek and lay in his bed, he hoped he was; at least he'd be happy for once.
Sighing, Clyde sat up and rolled his neck. He grabbed his glasses off the nightstand and slipped them on, the world swimming into focus. He turned on the clock radio and listened through five minutes of morning zoo banter before a weather report came on.
"Hunker down, folks, Winter Storm Carrie is on the way. The entire listening area is under a Blizzard Warning with snow totals expected to reach over two and a half feet in the Detroit metro area. Snow should begin falling today about noon, and will last through Saturday evening, with the peak coming on Saturday afternoon. Stay off of those roads."
Clyde listened impassively. It sounded bad, but not as bad as the storm raging inside of him. At least this storm would end.
Sighing, he got out of bed and used the bathroom, being as quiet as possible to avoid disturbing his dads. Back in his room, he dropped onto his bed and thought about texting Lincoln to see if he wanted to hang out, but he knew where that would get him.
He needed to see Lori, though.
He checked his phone. It was 7am. It would be an hour and a half before breakfast was done and he could get away, ninety long, tormented minutes. He grabbed the picture of Lori from under his mattress and laid it on his chest.
1...
Lori smiled at him.
2...
Lori walked past him, and he looked after her, the smell of her perfume caressing his nostrils.
3...
Mother Superior ripped the sheets off his bed and slapped the wet spot on the bed with a ruler. "What is this?"
"I-I'm sorry," he said, looking down at his feet. Shame colored his cheeks.
She grabbed him by the back of his shirt and whacked the backs of his legs with the ruler. He howled.
4...
Kids passed him in the halls at Royal Woods Consolidated, their faces blank. His heart started to pound. At an intersection, he turned, and a nun flew at him, only instead of holding a ruler, she had an ax.
5...
Lori crawled into his bed and stared at him with a placid intensity that made him uncomfortable. "I don't like you," she said.
6...
His fathers dragged him kicking and screaming back into the orphanage. The nuns waited, their arms crossed over their chests. When he saw them, he screamed, because they were dead, and their faces were rotting.
7...
Lori sat in a lighted window, brushing her hair. He watched from a bush he and Lincoln had used as a fort earlier in the day, a pair of binoculars pressed to his eyes. She turned, and for a horrible moment he thought she saw him, but she gave no indication that she had.
8...
Nuns gathered around him with whips in their hands. He was naked, cold, his back was bloody. Kids with no faces crowded around, watching...
He flipped the picture over and looked at it, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. She always made it better. She was magic.
Still smiling, he put the picture on the nightstand and laced his hands behind his back. He really wanted to see her today, even if he had to hide in the bushes again. He didn't mind. It occurred to him that he wouldn't be able to visit her tomorrow or Sunday or whenever the storm was over, and that brought his spirits down a little. Then again, what was stopping him? A little wind and snow? Hahaha. That wasn't much of a deterrent when you were madly in love with a beautiful woman. Nothing was, in fact, if you loved her the way he loved Lori.
-3-
Bastard!
Ronnie Anne Santiago punched her pillow again, her fist sinking into its soft center. She didn't like that. She wanted to hit something hard and unyielding, like the wall (or Lincoln Loud's head), but she hit the pillow once more.
It was just after seven in the morning, and she had barely slept last night. She tossed, turned, sighed, and finally, when she was absolutely sure that not a single soul could hear her, cried. Now, before she was even out of bed and halfway ready to face the day, Lincoln was texting her and telling her how "sorry" he was, how he "didn't mean to hurt" her. Yeah, well, the captain of the Titanic didn't mean to sail it not an iceberg, but it still sank, didn't it?
Taking deep breaths and flexing her fingers (God, she wanted to hit something so bad), she got up and started pacing.
I liked you, Lincoln Loud. I really did. I thought you were a good guy, but I was wrong. I was stupid and I was wrong and I'll never open my heart again because everyone's a fucking scumbag.
She reached the window and almost sank her fist into it.
Who is she, Lincoln? What...what does she have that I don't?
That thought made her stop. In her head it sounded desperate, needy.
And that made her even angrier. She spun on her heels, panting, and laid her eyes on her headboard. She strode over to it, drew back her fist, and swung. Her fist connected, a lightning bolt of pain shot up her arm and into her shoulder. It hurt, but it felt good at the same time. She hit it again and again, knocking it loudly against the wall; she only stopped when her knuckles were scraped, skinned, and bloody. Her hand trembled.
"Roberta!" her mother called. "What was that?"
"Nothing, mom!" She cradled her wounded hand in her good one, looking and it and feeling a mixture of rage and dark satisfaction.
Her phone chimed, and she snatched it up.
"I know ur mad at me and u have every right to be but I never wanted to hurt u."
She shook with wrath, squeezing the phone so hard she was surprised the screen didn't crack. I didn't mean to hurt you, dur, dur, dur. I care about you. Yeah, okay, you prick, you goofy, weak, white haired bastard. She flung the phone onto her bed and put her hands on her hips. She had to get a grip. If she didn't, she'd lost control totally, and then she really would break a window or punch Lincoln in the head. Usually when she got like this she would take a long walk, but it was too fucking cold for that: The radio said it was below freezing. To hell with that.
Instead, she picked the phone back up, sat down, and started typing.
I'm hurt Lincoln. You knew I liked u and I though u liked me to.
She stopped and read it. No, she didn't like that. She tried again, but the results were similarly unacceptable. She tried once more, but finally gave up and dropped the phone. Grabbing her pillow, she hugged it close. No matter what she said, she thought, it was too close, too close to the bone, too close to her heart, and she hated bearing her soul like that, because when you strip away all the outer stuff, you're vulnerable. Screw being vulnerable.
You should have made your move sooner.
Yeah, she should have. She should have come right out and told him how she felt and built something with him instead of leaving their relationship dangling in limbo and assuming things. How mad could she really be? They weren't even together, not even officially. Was expecting Lincoln to act like she was his girlfriend asking too much? Was it...unfair?
She took a deep breath. Maybe it was, but the thing is he knew, he fucking knew. They were well on the road to being together and he threw it all away for someone else.
What does she have that I don't? What does she do for him that I haven't?
For one, she probably isn't afraid to declare her feelings. For two, she probably kisses him and holds his hand instead of giving him Indian burns and wedgies.
Of course. Lincoln was sensitive. That's what drew her to him in the first place. It made sense in retrospect that he needed tender love and care. He was the type of guy who needed a deeply-felt, mushy-gushy relationship.
And she didn't give that to him.
She couldn't.
Hot tears welled up in her eyes, and she buried her face into her pillow. What the fuck was wrong with her? Why did she have to be such a fucking hardcase? Why couldn't she lighten up?
Her personality was shit, she decided, and it had lost her probably the best guy she would ever find. It was her fault. All her fault. She couldn't blame him for wanting someone else. Hell, if someone just like her came along the pike, she'd probably want someone else too.
She took a deep, watery breath and let it out. She should go talk to him, show him she wasn't a bitch, show him she was okay with it. Then, whenever he and his girlfriend broke up, she would be there, and she wouldn't lose him this time, she would hold onto him and everything he needed and wanted and desired. She could hold his hand and kiss him. In public. In front of everyone. The thought made her queasy (she didn't want anyone to see her soft side), but if that's what it took to get Lincoln Loud back and make him happy, she would do it and fucking smile. No more with the lame-o crap, no more nuggies or any of that other stuff. That's not what Lincoln needed. She stood up, suddenly burning with hope. She threw on her hoodie and told her mom she was going to Lincoln's for a few minutes.
Outside, the air was bitterly cold; thick white clouds swirled overhead. The streets were eerily empty. She saw a few people weatherproofing their houses (a man boarding up windows, another moving patio furniture into a shed, but other than that, she was alone. The snow was not supposed to start until noon, but as she turned onto Franklin Avenue, the first flakes drifted lazily from the sky. She shivered and hunched over.
As she approached Lincoln's house, her heart started beating faster and her stomach twisted into knots.
What are you doing?
Going to tell Lincoln how I feel...and that I'm here for him.
That's pretty pathetic. And desperate. 'Oh, Lincoln, I love you so much, you're so wonderful, you can do no wrong. Whenever you're done with your current bitch, I'll be waiting for you like a fool.
That gave her pause. That is how it would look. It's how it felt.
She couldn't do that. She had to have some pride.
For a long time, she stood across the street from Lincoln's house, trying to make up her mind. Finally, with a sigh, she turned around and went home.
-4-
Eric Wayne Freeman, also known as The Cross Country Killer, sat in a holding cell at the Detroit city lock-up, his hands placidly on his knees. His eyes were closed and his lips were slightly parted. Passing by, you might think he was praying or meditating. He wasn't. He was remembering the murders he had committed.
Those thoughts were happy thoughts for Freeman, who had been in jail since January 2015; in absence of the real thing, they were all he had.
It was something stupid that brought him down: A broken taillight and a bored cop with nothing better to do than bust peoples' balls. Wasn't it always, though? The pigs liked to think they were so smart, but it was never good police work that caught a Son of Sam or a Charles Manson, it was something totally and utterly stupid, usually on the killer's part. A parking ticket a block from a crime scene, or boasting to a cellmate. It was his fault he was sitting on this cold concrete slab. He owned that. He stumbled, and when you stumble, it's easy for someone to knock you over.
That didn't mean he planned to spend the rest of his life in prison, though. Oh no. He was going to bust out. Someday, sometime, in twenty days or twenty years. And when he got out, the first thing he would do is kill someone just out of spite. Hell, if he could, he'd kill a guard or two; they were pigs anyway. They threw their weight around and treated you like dirt just because they could, and the law let them. How's that for justice?
In his mind's eye, Freeman saw the last victim, the Arab cabbie: He watched the gun jam into the back of his head, watched as the trigger pulled and brain, bone, and bits of brain matter showered the windshield; the luckless cab drive slumped against the wheel, hitting the horn. "A robbery gone wrong" they said, because he took twenty bucks from the guy's pocket. The money wasn't the motive, though, it was extra, the icing on the cake. He was going to shoot him anyway.
Freeman smiled and opened his eyes. There were three other men in the cell with him: A Hispanic man with a neck tattoo, a bald black man, and a scrawny white guy with bad acne and Buddy Holly glasses. Freeman had been planning their murder for hours, but probably wouldn't follow through with it: Some men thought of women to pass the time, others of cherished memories...he thought of killing people.
It had always been that way, even when he was a little boy. He would fantasize about killing everyone in his neighborhood and leaving their bodies where they fell. Sometimes he even thought of doing things to the bodies, unspeakable things.
Presently, a guard appeared at the door on his morning rounds.
"Hey, Mack, you got the time?" Freeman asked.
"10:30," the guard said.
"I thought the bus was supposed to be here at 7."
"Yeah, well, it's running late."
Freeman nodded to the window behind him. Not long ago, he had looked out to see snow misting over the city, blotches here and there on the sidewalk. "You really gonna send us out in that?" The Upper Peninsula State Prison was four hours away. By the time they got there, the whole state would be under a foot of snow.
"Justice doesn't wait for a little bit of snow."
The guard left, and Freeman made a mocking face. JuStiCe DoEsN't WaIt fOr A lItTle BiT oF snOw.
Freeman shook his head and closed his eyes again, sinking back into warm thoughts of death and destruction.
Soon, he thought.
But even he didn't know just how soon he would get to kill again.
