At 10:21am CDT, the Governor of Michigan appeared on Channel 8. Standing at a podium, he was flanked by the commander of the Michigan National Guard and the Captain of the Michigan State Police.

"...all road travel is banned for non-emergency personnel effective noon today through noon Monday. Anyone on the road during these times will be arrested. We are expecting very high winds and heavy snowfall, the worst of which will occur tomorrow afternoon. Please, stay in your homes."

It was already snowing across much of the state, the outer bands of Winter Storm Carrie stretching as far east as Detroit. In the Upper Peninsula, it was coming down at a rate of an inch an hour by 10:30. At 10:35, the first person to die in the state filled his Jeep on an icy road. He was pinned in the wreckage as flames consumed him.

In Battle Creek, a transformer blew when a gust of wind knocked a chain-link fence into it; the resulting boom was heard for five miles in every direction. Windows rattled and walls trembled. Most of the town was plunged into darkness.

A fleet of plow trucks roamed the interstates, in places escorted by National Guard vehicles. One slid off the road near Hackanaw, crashing headlong into a ditch after a minivan traveling in front of it fishtailed and slammed into the dividing wall between lanes. In spots, the snow accumulated so rapidly that people were forced to abandon their vehicles and trudge out on foot. News choppers filmed crooked lines of stalled cars on I-94 east of Lake Michigan and the dozens of refugees fleeing them.

In Royal Woods, the snow was light at 11:00am, and visibility was good. An emergency shelter administered by the local Red Cross was established in the gymnasium of Royal Woods Consolidated. Eight people where had settled there by 11:10; the elderly and the sick, those who could not afford to be snowbound in their homes for days on end. It was stocked with beds, blankets, medicine, food, and warm clothes; there were also sixty-five body bags stored in the cafeteria kitchen, just in case. At the police station on Main Street, Sheriff David Katz sat in his office and watched the snow falling. He had twenty-five deputies out patrolling the streets. It was their responsibility to look out for fallen trees, downed power lines, or collapsed roofs. A National Guard unit was stationed in Harkfield, seven miles to the north, and would render assistance if necessary. Katz hoped it wouldn't become necessary. He had all the respect in the world for servicemen and women, but Royal Woods was his town. He'd been elected sheriff five times, and if he called in outside help during the storm, he would look weak. He might even lose the election in March.

At noon, the travel ban went into effect across the state, and within the first hour over fifty people had been arrested for breaking it, many of them in the city of Detroit. Most areas west were already finding it near impossible to drive even if they wanted to.

On Franklin Avenue, the Loud family hunkered down as the snow began to pick up around 1. Sporadic wind gusts shook the walls and roared in the eaves. Most of the family was in the living room, watching live reports of the storm bearing down on them. Luan was upstairs in her room, trying to think of a way to voice her suspicions to Lincoln. She didn't know she was pregnant, and she didn't want to tell him until she knew, but part of her grinned at the thought of saying I'm pregnant. Another part, a much bigger part, was scared shitless...for many reasons.

"Man," Luna sighed. She was sitting in her bed with her radio in her lap. A weather report was on. "This storm crap's kicking my music off."

"Listen to a CD," Luan heard herself say as if from a great distance.

"I don't want to listen to a CD, or Youtube. I want to listen to the radio."

"Listen to it, then."

"Whatever."

Outside, in the rising tempest, Clyde McBride crouched in a bush and peered up at a certain window, his hands shoved into the pockets of his red fur-lined parka and his face tingling from the cold. The bush was visible from the back door, but was so dense that even void of vegetation, no one would be able to see him.

He had been there for two hours staring at the spot where Lori's window had been just the other day. In its place was a piece of plywood. He knew she was behind it, though...he could feel her presence, and that was good enough: Several times he considered going up to the front door and knocking, but he was afraid that Lincoln would send him away, and in his current state, he didn't think he could handle the rejection. This would have to do.

You know we love you, Clyde, right? Howard asked him that morning, making him uncomfortable.

Sure, he replied.

We love you with all our hearts and always will, Harold added. Never doubt that.

Why were they telling him that? Was he talking in his sleep again? Did they hear him whimpering as the dreams tormented him in the night? That scared him, because he didn't know what he said when he was asleep, and if they knew just how messed up he really was, they might not want him anymore. The fact that they took the time to tell him how much they loved him gave him a glimmer of hope. Maybe they really were telling the truth. Maybe he could trust them unconditionally.

Then again, that's how you set yourself up for a fall: You trusted and hoped, and then the rug was yanked out from under you and you fell flat on your ass.

With Lori, it was different because...

...because he was already flat on his ass.

A gust of wind raked him, and he shuddered. His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he checked it. Harold: The storm is getting worse. Please come home.

Home.

Yes, he would like to go there very much.

In another part of town, Ronnie Anne Santiago sat cross-legged on the couch, watching as scenes of destruction flashed across the TV screen. National Guardsmen were rescuing people trapped in their vehicles across Wisconsin, Illinois, and Michigan. The roof of a nursing home in Gary caved in, killing thirteen people, and a small number of looters ransacked businesses in Chicago: Smashed windows, overturned police cars, and fires jumped out at her. Yesterday, she told Luan Loud that she wasn't afraid, and maybe then she wasn't, but she was now.

Luan Loud.

That made her think of her brother, Lincoln. She took a deep breath and tried to push those thoughts away. She was no longer going to let that boy dominate her consciousness. It was over, after all. He had someone else and he was probably happy. Pining after him like a dweeb was stupid.

"Hey, sis, what'cha watching?"

Bobby dropped onto the couch next to her.

"The news," she said.

"Yeah? What's up in newsland?"

"Just the end of the world."

Bobby watched with growing interest as video clips of havoc played one after another. By the time the news went to commercial, he was sitting forward with his arms on his legs. "Daaaamn," he drew, then looked uncomfortably up at the ceiling. "You think...you think we'll be okay?"

Ronnie Anne glanced up and studied the ceiling. Their house was thirty-five years old, shabby, and drafty. "I don't know," she finally said.

In Detroit, Eric Wayne Freeman watched out the barred window as snow fell in the streets. A traffic light swung in the wind, cycling from green, to yellow, to red even though not a single soul was stirring.

"We're probably gonna stay the whole weekend," the black guy said. If Freeman remembered, his name was Charlie.

"Yeah," Freeman said, craning his neck to look out the window. "There's no way they're gonna move us in this."

A half hour later, to his great surprise, three guards led him and his cellmates through the building and into the parking garage, where a prison bus idled. If there's one thing more powerful than a declaration from the Governor, Freeman thought, it's money. Someone greased someone's palm and said, "We gotta get those guys in here ASAP." Had to be.

There were already two other prisoners on the bus. Freeman, his hands cuffed in front of him, was shoved into a seat halfway to the back. One of the guards sat in the seat across from him, and removed a revolver from his hip. He sat it across his lap and let Freeman get a long look at it.

"Try anything, you're dead," the guard said.

Freeman flashed an innocent grin. "Wouldn't think of it," he said, but his mind was already working. If he could get that gun away, he could bust out of here, or at least die trying, which looked a whole lot better than where he was going otherwise.

The bus pulled out of the parking garage and onto the desolate, snow-swept street. It was starting to come down heavier, the buildings looming out of it like tombs out of cemetery mist. The back tires skidded, and the bus shook. At an intersection, a massive orange snow plow with a blinking orange light on its roof sped by, salt spilling from its back and falling across the pavement like diamonds. Freeman watched it go, thinking of all the fun he could have if he stole one of those. Hell, you could crush people, cars, and even buildings, and kept on trucking.

A half mile later, the bus turned onto the interstate and started north. No other traffic moved in either lane: Ahead, a tractor trailer was parked under an overpass, its caution lights winking rhythmically. They were going ten miles per hour, and Freeman was beginning to think it would be a long, long, trip.