Before we get started, I just wanted to say something: I am deeply hurt by being called "disgusting" and being told my stories are "insane" and "crap." I have been crying nonstop since yesterday, and am in fact typing this missive through a sheen of tears.

But seriously, guys, cut it out, because the more you tell me I'm horrible, the more tempted I am to write a graphic and detailed sex scene between Lincoln and Luan that would make your head explode. I might even throw Lynn and Ronnie Anne into the mix just for the hell of it.

Another thing: Some people don't seem entirely thrilled with the Eric Wayne Freeman character. Trust me, he's going to play a major part in the story later on.

The first thing to go was the TV: The screen went dark at 5:28pm while Lola and Lana were watching cartoons. Several times during the previous two hours the signal cut out only to return moments later. This time it didn't. "Lovely," Lola said, "there goes my evening."

Most of the others had drifted away from the living room and were embarked on their own tasks. Lucy was writing a poem about the storm; Lynn was bouncing a basketball in the upstairs hallway and dodging her siblings as though they were competritors; Leni was painting Lori's nails; and Lincoln was preparing reading a comic book in his room. They had all been outside in the snow at one point or another: It was wet, heavy, and five inches deep across the backyard. A bone-freezing wind blew, shaking trees, power lines, and everything else.

Presently, Luan sat in the kitchen with a mug of hot chocolate and watched through the back door as snow fell in slanted sheets. Beyond ten or fifteen feet, the gathering twilight was a white, smoky blur: She could make out someone's porch light shining in the din, but little else.

Dad had proposed the idea of everyone sleeping together in the living room. Though he didn't say anything, Luan knew he was afraid of the roof collapsing: Their house was old and not in the best structural shape. Luan wondered after the idea of hunkering in the living room, because if the roof collapsed, the second floor might very well go too, which meant they'd have more debris raining down on them, but she didn't say anything. She took a long sip and let her thoughts turn to her possible pregnancy. She had to find a way to know for sure. She considered talking to Lori, but she didn't know how her sister would take the news. She was against hers and Lincoln's relationship in the beginning for this very reason. She thought of going to Lisa, but after the events of October, she wasn't sure she could trust her.

She had to tell someone, though. She needed to get it off of her chest if nothing else.

Outside, wind driven snow danced across the white expanse: Enough had fallen since they came in to obliterate their footprints. The only sign they had been there in the first place was a snowman near the fence, his eyes black coal and his nose a twisted stick.

Luan finished off her hot chocolate, sat the mug in the sink, and went upstairs, pausing at the top step and debating with herself on what she should do. Finally, she went to Lisa's door and knocked.

"Enter."

Inside, Lisa was working on what looked like a futuristic crockpot: It sat on her desk, all chrome, black knobs, and plastic. This, Luan supposed, was the generator she'd been talking about.

"Hey, are you almost done?"

"Maybe," Lisa replied, turning. Her face was red and sweaty. "I'm hoping that last calibration did the trick. This baby was producing so much heat that it nearly singed my eyebrows. If we put it into use in its current state, the house would catch fire and would we all most likely burn to death."

"When you're done, I need to talk to you."

"Alright," Lisa nodded. She turned back to the device. "Give me...half an hour."

"Okay."

In her room, she dropped onto her bed and tried to block the thoughts battering her. If she was pregnant, her parents couldn't know Lincoln was the father. All of her sisters would know, and that scared her, because one might break down and tell. If none did, and it was left up to her, she would lie, how she didn't know. Maybe she'd say she was raped. No, she didn't think she could say that. It would kill her parents. She'd have to tell a version of the truth: That she willingly had sex and got pregnant. They would angry and disappointed; she hated it when her parents felt that way, but she could handle it.

But what would they tell them about the father? They would demand she tell them, and she would have to say something.

Then, putting that aside, what if she was pregnant, and the baby was born with something wrong? It was her brother's after all.

For the first time since she fell in love with Lincoln, Luan realized just how disturbed the relationship was. Her stomach turned, and she ran to the bathroom, puking into the toilet. When she was done, she flushed and got to her feet.

"I suppose this is what you wanted to see me about," Lisa said from the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back.

Luan washed her mouth out with water from the sink and spat. "Yes," she said.

"Well," Lisa said. Behind her, Lynn tossed a football and ran ahead to catch it, tripping over her feet and crashing to the floor. Lola and Lana appeared at the top of the stairs, bickering. "Follow me."

Lisa led Luan into her room and closed the door. Lilly was asleep in her crib.

"How long have you been experiencing it?" Lisa asked.

"A couple days."

"Just nausea and vomiting?"

"Yes."

Lisa sighed. "I don't have anything on hand, but if you'll give me until tomorrow, assuming this snowstorm doesn't wipe us off the face of the earth, I should be able to concoct a rudimentary pregnancy test."

Hearing that word, pregnancy, from someone else, in regards to her, was strange and frightening.

"Until then, I advise you to drink plenty of fluids and get plenty of rest. Don't overexert yourself. Also, keep a log of all vomiting incidents and how you feel. You very well could have simply contracted a stomach bug, or something else could be wrong. We won't know until you take the test. Try not to worry or stress yourself."

"But what if I am pregnant?" Luan worried. "What will I tell mom and dad? They can't know it's Lincoln's."

"I agree. If worse comes to worst, I can give you something to flush your system."

Luan blinked. Flush her system? What could would that do?

"A chemical abortion, in other words."

"What?"

Lisa shrugged. "It's a simple matter, especially at this stage."

The thought of aborting her baby turned Luan's stomach. "I-I don't know if I can do that."

"You should," Lisa said, then, realizing how callous she sounded, she added, softer, "the probability that the baby will be born with significant genetic defects is very high. I understand that you and Lincoln are in love and that's wonderful, but you must understand that you are still genetically siblings, which means any children born to you will most likely suffer physical or mental deformities. That doesn't mean that they will, of course, only that there is a very high likelihood. If you want to have this child, if you even are pregnant, is up to you, but there are options."

Luan's head spun. "I-I don't know. I have to think about it."

Lisa patted her hand. "Just relax and try to take it easy."

Sitting in her room, she found that relaxing was the last thing she could do.

A mile and a half away, Clyde McBride watched the rising fury of the storm from his bedroom window. The snow was coming down much faster now. There was less wind than he expected, but he supposed that would come tomorrow. He started counting the flakes as they fell in a vain attempt to distract himself from the growing need inside of him. He needed to see Lori. And, yes, he needed to see Lincoln too. He was tired of being on the outs with him. He wanted to go to him, beg his forgiveness for whatever he may have done wrong, and ask him to please still be friends with him.

He wanted to go do it now, but it was getting dark, and his dads probably wouldn't let him leave the house.

You could sneak out.

No, he couldn't. Maybe if it was just the storm, but not with the storm and nightfall.

He kicked himself for not doing it while he was there earlier. Why was he so damn stupid? He should have known that when he was alone and it was dark that he would start having the same thoughts and the same worries. He had them every night.

At dinner, he ate while his dads discussed the storm: Yesterday they set the gas generator up in the garage and bought several kerosene heaters from Lowes Depot. The lights had been flickering on and off for over an hour, and Harold was worrying that the power would go out soon and that they wouldn't have enough gas. Howard reminded him that they had specifically bought enough to last through Wednesday.

"The power will probably still be out by then."

"It's possible, but we'll get through the storm, and that's what matters. If we need more, I'll walk to Flip's."

Clyde spent the rest of the evening watching TV with his dads. First, the news, then, when they lost the signal, DVDs. He liked hanging out with them. It made him feel good. It made him momentarily forget his fears. Outside, the wind shrieked through the empty, snow-covered streets.

Three miles across town, Billy "Flip" Sawyer sat in his office, a bottle of whiskey between his legs and a hot dog half eaten on the cluttered desk before him. He was half drunk and starting to feel drowsy.

He'd been drinking much of the day: He only had a few customers after the travel ban went into effect, and he was thinking of closing up shop. No one would be fool enough to go out on that on foot for a slushie or a pack of cigarettes. He didn't look forward to going home, though. He lived alone in a dingy apartment over the hardware store, and walking through the door every evening was like admitting defeat. Plus, he couldn't take his truck because of the ban, so he'd have to walk the mile and a half, a prospect that made him cold and tired just entertaining it. He'd probably be better off just staying the night here.

Sometimes he did just that, passing out with his head on the desk. In the morning he woke stiff and groggy, his head pounding and his mouth tasting like the ass end of a horse.

He hated those days.

With a sigh, Flip took a long pull from the bottle, set it aside, and got up. In the store proper, flickering florescent lights bathed dirty floors, stained tile walls, and shelves crammed with cheap, damaged, or expired product: Cupcakes, cereal, potato chips, donuts, and beef jerky. Flip believed in saving money. He wasn't rich, after all. He didn't have a pot to piss in, so if he cut corners and skimmed a little off the top, what of it? He wasn't doing it to take fancy vacations or pay for a beach house in Boca Raton, he was doing it to put food on his table and whiskey in his stomach.

He was on his way to lock the front door when a pair of headlights appeared in the mist. He frowned. What was this dumbass doing out?

The headlights shook and spun. With drawing horror, Flip watched as the car skidded toward the gas pumps.

Liquor slows reaction times, and Flip wasn't the fast man alive even when he was sober: He was half way to the shutoff value when the car sideswiped the pumps. Gas sprayed everywhere, catching on a spark: Fire whumped into life. Flip reached the value and pulled it down, preventing the fire from reaching the big underground tanks. Outside, flames engulfed the car. The driver side door flung open and someone stumbled out. They, too, were engulfed.

Flip was stricken. He didn't know what to do.

The fire extinguisher!

He grabbed it from under the counter and rushed into the storm. The luckless driver was rolling in a snow bank, howling as their flesh melted from their bones. Flip aimed the nozzle and sprayed them, killing the flames. The car was a roaring inferno, long stalks of flame rolling into the sky. Unthinkingly, he grabbed the driver by their feet (he couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman) and dragged them inside the store. Then he called 911. Thank God the phone lines were still up.

While he waited, Flip grabbed his whiskey from the office and finished it off. Then he knelt beside the driver and tried to talk to her (it was definitely a her). She thrashed and moaned. Her face was burned and seeping, her hands were skinless, and her clothes were charred into her body. Most of her hair had been burned away, and what remained was red.

That's it, Flip thought, she's that teacher. Johnson.

Outside, the car exploded.

East of downtown Royal Woods, the interstate was empty save for plows, state police vehicles, National Guard troop transports, and a single bus heading north. They had been on the road for several hours now, and Eric Wayne Freeman was certain they had gone no more than twenty miles. He sighed frustratedly, and the guard with the gun asked, "You got a problem, Freeman?"

"Nope," Freeman lied.

"You in a hurry?"

Freeman shook his head.

The guard leaned close. "Big Bubba ain't going nowhere, Freeman. He'll be waiting when we get there, dick in hand. All for you."

Freeman bit his tongue and didn't reply; instead, he glanced out the window. The snow was falling in thick curtains. He could barely make out the pine trees lined up along the edge of the highway.

Suddenly, the bus shuddered, the back end sliding. The driver cursed and overcorrected; they were spinning now, Freeman's heart in his throat. Everyone was screaming.

They hit a snowbank and rolled over. Freeman flew from his seat and smacked his head. After that, he knew nothing until he came groggily awake sometime later, his neck resting at a weird angle. His head throbbed and his back ached. He coughed, and cried out when he tried to sit up. Fuck it, he thought, and flopped back down.

That's when he saw the gun. It was so close he could reach out and touch it. His eyes widened, and something like hope spread through him. The guard who'd been holding it lie just beyond it, facedown, blood trickling from his head.

He could get away.

He could escape.

For a minute he was so floored that he didn't move, then, all at once, he sat up and grabbed the gun, wincing at the pain in his back. He crawled over to the guard and felt for the keys on his belt. He found them, his heart skipping a beat, and ripped them off. He tried every last key on the ring, his hope turning to rage, until he found the one that unlocked his handcuffs. The third key he tried unlocked his shackles.

In the darkness of a broken, overturned bus, Eric Wayne Freeman smiled.

When the guard moaned and stirred, he smiled even more.

"Hey," Freeman said, pointing the gun. The guard lifted his head, saw him, and paled. "Surprise."

He pulled the trigger and the guard jumped.

Up front, he found the driver already did. Freeman took his gun too, and searched the wreckage for survivors. Incredibly, everyone else had escaped serious injury.

Freeman shot all of them for the hell of it, then, using one of the guns like a club, he smashed a window and crawled out into the snow. The storm was raging, the window blowing. He got to his feet and shivered.

He was free. That's all that mattered.

He started west across an open field.

Toward the town of Royal Woods.