Hope you got your things together.
Hope you are quite prepared to die.
Looks like we're in for nasty weather

- Creedence Clearwater Revival

Does anybody here remember Vera Lynn?
Remember how she said that
We would meet again
Some sunny day?

- Pink Floyd

Clyde did not sleep that night: He alternated between sitting by the window and staring out at the storm and lying in bed thinking. At one point he turned on the radio to fill the silence, and heard about the accident at Flip's. The newscaster said the driver (who was not being named) was rushed to Royal Woods General and died in the operating room. Clyde almost envied them. Their days of rage, pain, sadness, and uncertainty were over, now they could float peacefully in the void.

Toward dawn, the wind intensified, the moaning sounds it made eerie and unsettling. The lamplights along the sidewalk swayed back and forth. At 5:30, one came down and lay across the road. Shortly thereafter, a car came down the street in the opposite direction, its headlights cutting through the driving storm. Clyde watched as it skidded across the road and sank partially into a snowbank. The tires spun and spun, kicking up snow and rocks. Finally, inevitably, the driver gave up and walked away, leaving the car blocking part of the street.

He wondered how Lori was doing. He hoped she wasn't scared. The thought of her being afraid made his stomach queasy.

At 6, a particularly strong gust rattled his window, startling him from his thoughts. Misty snow swirled in the yard. It looked rough out there.

But he had already decided he was going to the Loud house today.

He would have to sneak out and hope his parents didn't find out at least until he was far enough away that they couldn't easily track him down. He planned to tell them he wasn't feeling well and that he needed a nap. That usually worked: They left him alone until he came out on his own. Dr. Lopez called it "respecting space and boundaries," but sometimes Clyde wondered if they weren't happy to have him gone for a few hours.

Shoving that thought aside, he got up, used the bathroom, and lay down on his bed. He turned the radio on, and listened to a steady stream of news reports: Rolling blackouts, downed power lines, people going off the road. A bus transporting prisoners to a prison on the UP flipped nearby. All of those onboard were killed, one in the accident and eight others by gunshot; police were searching for Eric Wayne Freeman, who was being considered "armed and extremely dangerous." Clyde glanced out the window. As if his trek to Lori (and Lincoln) wasn't going to be nerve wracking enough, he was going to have to worry about some loony with a gun.

He's probably dead.

He was wearing an orange jumpsuit when the bus crashed. Dressed like that, there's no way he could have made it through the night. Clyde pictured him huddled in a cave somewhere, sitting up and frozen solid like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining, one of the rare horror movies his dads let him watch.

He liked The Shining. He could relate to Jack Nicholson. He was a good guy trying to do his best by his family, but the hotel worked to drive him crazy. Clyde knew it what it was like to try and try and try, only to have outside forces working against you. In Jack's case, it was ghosts. In Clyde's, it was...well, ghosts too, for the most part, but ghosts of the mind rather than actual ghosts.

My mind is a haunted house, he thought, and couldn't help smiling at the image. What was that old saying about someone having "bats in the belfry"? It meant they were crazy. Haunted houses had bats too. They call people "mad as hatters." Do you know where that came from? In the olden days of yore, hat makers worked with a lot of mercury, and it drove a high number of them crazy. Haunted houses aren't known for having fantastic collections of hats or mercury, but that was an interesting little tidbit he'd picked up. Mad as a hatter. Bats in the belfry. Crazier than a shithouse rat. He didn't know where that last one came from. He assumed it had something to do with outhouses. Did rats live in outhouses back in the day? And were they especially violent or erratic?

The day was lightening. Soon, he would have breakfast with his dads. He wanted to leave right after that, but he worried it might arouse too much suspicion. Better to wait a while. He checked his phone and sighed. It wasn't even seven 'o'clock. Time was funny, wasn't it? The nights swept by in a streak, but the days dragged like a ninety-year-old man with a broken hip and a twisted ankle. He wondered if that was why people drank and did drugs, just to kill time, because too much time is hell for some people, and it was hell for him. He recalled an Adam Sandler movie he saw once where this guy got ahold of a magical remote control and used it to "control" his life. He could rewind time, fast-forward, pause. Clyde sometimes wished he had one of those so he could skip hours or even days. In his darker moments, he thought he would fast-forward through his entire life. I've seen enough, let me off this ride.

Deep inside, though, he hoped. He hoped for it all to be better. At some point, he imagined, it would be. The trick was getting there.

Three streets over, Ronnie Anne Santiago was thinking along similar lives. The hardest part will be getting there.

She was sitting on her bed and dividing her gaze between the window and her phone. She had been up most of the night scrolling through photos of her and Lincoln in happier times. Looking at them made her smile, but they also made her mad. She knew vaguely that she was being unreasonable, but she didn't care. The anger felt good. She'd rather feel that than the heartache; the tightness in her chest, the shortness of breath, the rolling in her stomach. That emotion was new and strange. Anger...anger was an old friend.

Outside, the snow was coming down at an angle. She could barely make out Mrs. Acker's house ten feet away. She briefly considered the possibility that she was being stupid and acting like a heartbroken little girl. She didn't know what she would do when Lincoln came to the door (kiss him or punch him), but giving in and going to him was a sign of weakness. Let him go, a small part of her mind whispered,

Only she didn't want to let him go. She wanted to hold on to him, whether as an object of love or hate, it didn't really matter. Lincoln was a part of her life, a part of her, and she couldn't get rid of him any easier than she could get rid of her heart, even if it beat too fast sometimes and ached over stupid things like boys.

She was going, she decided. He didn't live very far away. She'd biked and walked the distance from her house to his a million times over the past year. It took her ten minutes, fifteen tops. So what if there was snow and wind? She'd be there in half an hour or forty-five minutes, then she'd be home. The whole thing would take an hour and a half if that. She would dress warm, she would move quick, and she would follow the sidewalk (or rather the snow covering the sidewalk). She knew the route by heart. It wasn't like she was going to get lost or anything.

She tried to envision the confrontation in her mind, but couldn't. She couldn't see herself breaking down, tossing away her pride, and kissing him, but she also couldn't see herself popping him in the nose. She wanted to do both. She thought of last night: Both her mother and her brother came separately into her room to ask what was wrong with her. "You've been acting weird the last couple of days," Bobby said. "You seem upset," her mother said. She was open about her anger. When she was mad, you knew it; it made sense that she would be the same way with heartache, but it irritated her that she was. She imagined it threw off a scent like body odor, a scent that people would smell, and they would know that she cried herself to sleep the night before over a boy...they would know, and they would shake their heads in pity. How pathetic.

She seethed. I'm not weak! I just liked him!

That was weakness, wasn't it? Opening your heart to someone and letting them smash it into a thousand pieces? Wasn't it weakness when all you did about it was run away and cry?

She clenched her fists. She was going to hit him, so help her God. He'd open that door and she'd punch him so hard in his face she'd probably break a few of her fingers, but she didn't care. He deserved it for doing this to her, for bringing her to this point. She looked once more at the driving snow. Screw the storm. She didn't care if she got lost of froze to death of anything, just as long as she got to plow Lincoln in his stupid mouth.

The object of her hatred, Lincoln Loud, rose early that morning; though they had planned earlier in the week for Luan to sleep in her room that night (they kept to a strict schedule), she insisted on staying the night with him, not that he complained. He liked having her in his bed. When she wasn't, he had trouble falling asleep, and would find himself waking up throughout the night as he reached for her but found only emptiness. She was extra affectionate, he noticed, touching him and kissing him and cuddling him close.

"What's with you?" he asked at one point, bemused.

"Nothing," she said, "I'm just in love with you. That's all."

When she left to go back to her own room, she kissed him and stroked his cheek. He muttered sleepily and smiled. She left and he thought he would drop back off, but he couldn't, and after what seemed like a long time of teetering on the brink, he sighed, sat up, and checked his phone. He thought of texting Clyde (he didn't spend nearly enough time with his best friend as he should, and that pained him), but he decided against it. It was barely 6am, and Clyde would probably still be asleep. He also considered texting Ronnie Anne, but didn't. He knew she hated him (she'd been ignoring his texts), and...to be honest, he was kind of ashamed. He should have told her sooner. Of course, the ultimate outcome would have been the same, but in hindsight, he would have felt a lot better. As for finding someone else...Lincoln couldn't help that. He and Luan fell in love and that was that. He didn't seek this out, it came to him. He didn't ask for this. Up until August, he planned to be with Ronnie Anne. He was even considering asking her out officially, but didn't because he didn't really think she would have that. At least not now. She was a mystery. She had a beautiful heart and a wonderful soul, but she cloaked it in a shroud of anger and violence. She loved slapping, kicking, and giving Indian burns, but she was so uncomfortable with displaying any other emotion that it was sad. Once, when they were walking through the arcade, he tried to hold her hand, but she batted it away. She never mentioned it, never told him he was wrong to try and never asked him what he was thinking ("We're only friends!" he imagined her saying). She never acknowledged it.

He hoped she was doing okay. He felt like the biggest piece of shit in the world, and to anyone looking from the outside in he probably looked like one, but he really did care about her. One day, he hoped, she would forgive him and they could be friends. She had a place in his heart and always would, and he wanted her to occupy it.

Swinging his feet out from under the covers, he got up and went to the bathroom, slipping in just as Lori came out. She sighed. "Hurry up, please."

"I'm just taking a leak," he assured her and shut the door. He pissed, flushed the toilet, and washed his hands. By the time he went back into the hall, Leni, Luna, and Lucy had already gotten in line. Man, that happened quick. With eleven kids, lines were a fact of life, and sometimes they sprang up in the twinkling of an eye.

He started out, and Luan suddenly flew into the hall, her hand clamped to her mouth, She cut the line, bumped into Lincoln, and slammed the door behind her. From inside, he could hear the sound of her vomiting.

"What's with her?" Lori asked.

"Yeah," Luna said, "she was pretty quick on the upchuck."

Everyone laughed, except for Luan. A muffled "Shut up!" demonstrated her displeasure with the pun.

"You okay?" Lincoln asked, pressing his face against the door.

"I'm fine," she called back. "I've been up all night with the runs. I think it was dad's beans and franks."

Lori nodded. "Yeah, that'll do that."

"Why was she up running all night?" Leni wondered, putting a thoughtful finger to her chin.

A few minutes later, the toilet flushed and Luan stepped into the hall, her eyes puffy and her face red. Lola, Lana, Lynn, and Lisa had all joined the line while she was throwing up. Their faces were concerned.

"At least the diarrhea's all done," she said and smiled weakly. "I guess it's run its course." She looked at Luna. "That's how you make a pun."

"My pun was pretty bitchin," Luna said, "you gotta admit."

"Yeah, yeah," Luan grinned.

While the others waited to use the bathroom, Luan went back into her room and sat down. Her stomach still rolled and flipped, but it wasn't as bad as it had been. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and leaned forward. Suddenly, Lincoln was beside her, his warm hand on the back of her neck; a shiver went down her spine.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," she said, and looked at him. Her heart filled with love and she certain that she would cry. Damn hormones. "My tummy's just a little upset." She gave an exaggerated frown.

"Awww," Lincoln said, and wrapped his arm around her. "Poor baby."

"I'll survive, though," she said, "the show must always go on."

"That's my girl," Lincoln said, and kissed on the forehead.

That's my girl, Eric Wayne Freeman thought as he petted the revolver he'd taken from the guard the night before. Presently, Freeman was sitting in the kitchen of a farmhouse at the end of a dirt road north of Royal Woods, a steaming cup of coffee before him. The gun sat in his lap.

After escaping from the bus, he trudged overland through the snow for what seemed like an eternity, the snow so deep in places that it reached his knees. The blowing wind chilled him, and by the time he had made it into the forest at the end of the field, he was numb and shivering. Wouldn't it be some shit if I froze to death? He thought darkly at one point, and laughed until tears rolled down his cheeks. He could imagine the cops standing over his frozen body in the light of day, the bus and the highway still in sight. "He didn't make it very far."

The forest stretched for about a mile before giving way to hills and pastureland. He spotted the farmhouse through the tempest; a single porch light glowing in the snow-shrouded night. It could have been a house or a church or even a prison for all he knew, but he went to it, because he was starting to get tired, and he knew enough to know that when you get tired in the cold, you're on your way out.

Thankfully the only people home were an elderly man and his wife: Freeman tied them up and left them on the kitchen floor while he ransacked the place. He stole five hundred dollars in cash, some jewelry, and some winter clothes from the closet: They were a size too small, but they fit well enough. In the bathroom, he shaved and cut his hair as short as he could. With a knit cap on his head, even he barely recognized himself.

In the kitchen, made himself something to eat, and ate while mocking the terrified couple. "Hey, gramps, when's the last time you stuck it to your woman? Fifty years? I think it's time a real man takes a shot at it. Beat the dust off that thing." He remembered that upstairs he had seen framed black-and-white photos of a smiling young man in an army uniform from WWII or something. "How about I beat the dust off your thing too, pops?" Nothing would humiliate a manly-man war veteran than being raped up his ass. The thought made Freeman laugh, but he had no intention of raping either one of them. Instead, he took a butcher knife from the drying rack by the sink and stabbed them both to death, laughing as their blood splattered his face.

Presently, he finished off his coffee and got up. The phone on the kitchen wall rang, and he winced. Second time the past fifteen minutes. Someone reaaaally wanted to talk to grandma and grandpa, probably a worried kid or grandkid. He had to go, because sooner or later someone would come looking for them, even in the snow.

Outside, weak morning light showed a world lumpy with snow. More drove from the sky, pelting him in the face and eyes: The wind ripped the breath from his lungs, and he gulped like a fish out of water.

A garage sat behind the house, its sides and front heaped with snow. He peered through a dusty window, and saw the Jeep Grand Cheokee the old man told him about before he passed away. The snow was too high to simply pull the doors open, so he looked around for something to shovel it with, saw nothing, and, sighing, used his bare hands. Within moments they were red, raw, and aching, and just as he was finishing up, a strong wind gust knocked him over.

Inside, he checked the tires (there were chains on them...just like grandpa said) and then threw some things he thought he could use into the cargo hatch: A gas can, a snow shovel, some tarp, a toolbox. He did a quick once over, and found an old lever action Winchester rife sitting on a high shelf next to a box of rounds. He checked it, loaded it up, and went outside to test her out: He aimed at side window and fired: The glass shattered.

Alright. He threw that into the passenger seat and climbed in behind the wheel. He started the engine and let it idle for a minute, listening to a news broadcast on the radio. He suffered through five minutes of weather bulletins until they started talking about him.

"Convicted serial killer Eric Wayne Freeman escaped from a police transport vehicle late last night, killing several people in the process. The vehicle slid off the road and rolled over near the town of Royal Woods. Freeman managed to escape in the chaos and killed a guard and several inmates execution style. Police are currently searching the area, but their efforts are being hampered by Winter Storm Carrie, which continues to drop snow and produce high winds across the region."

Freeman nodded. So they were already looking for him. He couldn't say he was surprised, just disappointed. He'd have to find a place to hole up until the storm passed and he could drive out.

He threw the Jeep into drive, and rolled out of the garage, the tires sinking in the snow and getting instantly stuck. Damn it. He floored the gas, and they spun impotently. Gritting his teeth, he pressed harder, and the Jeep came free, rocketing forward and jumping over a mound of snow. He was jostled, his head hitting the roof. After a few feet, he stepped on the brake and looked south. The farm sat on the top of a hill. Unbroken snow covered everything. There had to be a driveway to the road, but he couldn't see it.

Throwing caution to the wind, he turned and started down, the Jeep shaking and jumping. After five hundred feet, he slammed into something, and the front end jerked violently. Metal shrieked. White smoke shot up from the crumpled hood. Goddamn it.

Seething, he threw open the door and stepped out, his feet and legs sinking into the snow. He went around the front and looked the vehicle over. It was caught on something. A fence post, probably. That meant he'd have to walk.

Great. Just fucking great. He reached in, grabbed the rifle (and the box of rounds), and started down the hill, wind driven snow lashing him. At the end of the hill, he randomly took a left and started walking. He had to lift his feet clear of the snow, which had to be close to two feet. Today was going to be a baaad day, he could just tell.