The Royal Woods police station was abuzz with activity: State police officers and uniformed National Guardsmen made phone calls, studied maps, stacked and unstacked pallets of bottled water and MREs (Meals Ready to Eat...processed slop Uncle Sam deemed fit for his finest), and generally got in Sheriff David Katz's way. Katz's resented their presence, but even he had to admit: Shit was getting out of hand. Since the storm started the previous afternoon, five people had died in Royal Woods, not counting the Johnson woman, who went early enough that they were able to transport her out: Mr. Williamson, 69 last Spring, had a heart attack while shoveling his driveway and keeled over; Mr. Frederick, thirty-five and healthy, slammed his car into a support column of the Mercer Bridge and went over the side; Mrs. Stevens, wife to the former Mayor, suffered a dementia episode and wandered out into the storm; and Mr. and Mrs. Jacobs had been butchered in their kitchen by the proverbial persons unknown, though Katz knew damn well who it was: That Freeman asshole.

In addition to the dead and the escaped son of a bitch finishing what the storm started, roofs had been collapsing all day, power lines were down, abandoned cars blocked at least four streets, the Methodist church steeple came down, and trees had fallen on three houses. The refugee center at the school was filling up fast, and so was his jail: All of the stiffs aside from Mrs. Johnson were stacked in two adjoining cells, zipped tight into black body bags. Though there was no way they were beginning to decompose already, Katz imagined he could smell them in there, ripe and sickly sweet.

What else was there? Oh, right, the McBride boy and the Santiago girl were missing and their parents were going out of their minds. As far as he could tell, they had no reason to be together, so it was probably a case of two dumb kids wanting to explore and getting lost. Though he didn't tell the parents, they probably wouldn't find them until the snow started melting.

Katz was pouring himself a cup of coffee in the breakroom when Billy Sidwell, his deputy, poked his head in. "Got another couple missing kids, Sheriff."

Katz's shoulders sagged. Goddamn it. "Who?"

Sidwell glanced at a scrap of paper in his hands. "A Lincoln and Luan Loud. They're friends of the McBride boy and their parents think they went looking for him."

"Great," Katz said, "just what my day needed." He took a swig of coffee.

"Should we send someone out?"

"Probably you and me," Katz said. "Everyone else is busy."

Eight of his deputies were sweeping the town for Freeman and another two were patrolling for damage, three were already looking for McBride and Santiago, the state boys only cared about Freeman and making sure the highways were clear, and the guardsmen were only sticking around to deal with supplies: They were currently loading pallets into the back of an olive green transport vehicle for shipment to the school.

"Alright," Sidwell said. "I'll get the snow mobile ready."

While Sidwell rushed off, Katz finished his coffee and went into his office. He had half a mind to let those stupid fucking kids freeze. Of course if that happened, the people would vote him out so fast his badge would spin, and at fifty-three, Katz was too damn old to start another career.

He shrugged into his heavy green coat and pulled on a pair of gray snow pants. By the front door, he sat and put on snowshoes, followed by a black knit cap. Using a key, he unlocked a gun cabinet near the sergeant's desk and took a rifle and a shotgun. Outside, Sidwell pulled up on the snow mobile. Katz backed out of the door and stepped into the storm, a gust of wind smacking him across the face like a jilted woman. Hunching over, he made his way down the stairs (which were clear five minutes ago but already starting to get snowy again), and handed Sidwell the rifle. "In case we see that bastard Freeman!" he shouted into the deupty's ear. Sidewell slung the rifle over his shoulder.

Katz climbed onto the back of the snow mobile and laid the shotgun across his lap. "Go slow!"

In an oasis of warmth two miles northeast, Clyde McBride stared up into the shadows clustering in the ceiling, his heart and mind racing. Ronnie Anne's head lay on his chest, and he absently stroked her hair, marveling at how soft and warm it was. He licked his lips, and the taste of her lip balm flooded his mouth. It was a good taste, a comforting taste.

He was still in shock over what had happened, and was shocked even more when, after, as they lay in awkward silence, he rolled over and kissed her again, her face in his hands. She didn't resist, but gave herself willingly, melting into him. The first kiss may have been a fluke, Clyde thought, but the second...the second was...well, Clyde didn't know what it was, but right now, he didn't care. She felt warm and right in his arms, and everything was right with the world.

"I can't believe I'm doing this again," she muttered sleepily.

"Doing what again?" Clyde asked, not realizing until he spoke that he, too, was drowsing.

"Opening my heart up to someone."

"I can't believe you're doing it either. At least to me."

She shrugged. "I guess I have a thing for dorks."

Clyde chuckled. "You sure know how to pick them."

"You're sweet," Ronnie Anne said, looking up at him. "And...and I like that."

Less than five hundred feet from the shed, Eric Wayne Freeman forced Lincoln and Luan into the back of the van at gunpoint and climbed in after them.

"Lay on your stomachs," he commanded, and they did, dropping side-by-side. Taking roll of duct tape from the back he prepared back at the house, he wrapped both of their wrists tight, and then their ankles. He cut the tape from the roll with the knife and then prodded each one of them in the back. "You try anything and I'll cut your throats. Got it?"

Neither of them spoke.

"Got it?"

"Yes," the girl said miserably.

"Yeah," the boy said.

"Good." Freeman tucked the knife into his belt and crawled to the cab, where he sat behind the wheel. Outside, the storm pressed close against the windows. He glanced in the rearview mirror. The kids weren't moving, but they were talking.

"Shut the fuck up," he barked, and they fell silent.

When he was sure they were minding him, he turned his attention back to the road. He pressed the gas, and the van jerked roughly forward. The tires spun, and the back end started to slid. He held the wheel hard and corrected. Jesus H. Christ, he knew snow was hard to drive on, but this was ridiculous.

Suddenly angry, he stomped on the gas, the van shot forward.

In the back, Lincoln turned to Luan. Her face was red and tear-streaked. Rage rose in Lincoln's chest. His thoughts turned to the unborn child possibly nestled in his sister's womb, and the world blurred.

"Can you reach me?" he mouthed.

She nodded, sniffed, and shuffled closer, whipping her head to look into the cab. The man was focused on the road, the wheel shuddering in his hands. She scooted closer, and then used her knees to shimmy down. Lincoln didn't know what she was doing, then he felt her doing something to his back. He craned his neck around as far as it would go, and watched as she attacked the duct tape binding his hands with her teeth. He turned to the cab. Their kidnapper was not paying attention. The front end slid, and he jerked the wheel to the left. "Come on, you piece of shit!" he yelled. "Come on!"

Lincoln's heart was slamming against the floor. He looked back, and saw Luan come up for breath. Blood dripped from her gums.

She went back to it, and he tried to help by pulling his hands as far apart as he could. He could feel it beginning to give.

The van came to a sudden, jerking halt. "What the fuck is this?" the man yelled. Lincoln looked, terrified that they had been caught. The man grabbed a rifle from the passenger seat and threw the door open.

"Hurry!" Lincoln hissed.

He flexed and pulled, flexed and pulled.

Outside, a gunshot rang out, and Luan yelped in fear.

Lincoln pulled, and his hands came free.

-2-

Eric Wayne Freeman watched as the snow mobile floated out of the storm, its headlights flashing blue and red. Here, piggy, piggy, piggy.

When he could make out the shape of the cop driving it, he lifted the rifle to his shoulder and fired. Pow! The asshole slumped off and dropped to the snow. Another cop leapt off and ducked behind it. Freeman pulled the lever, ejecting the spent cartridge, and fired again as he shuffled forward: The bullet ricocheted off the side of the snow mobile with a metallic ping! He cocked the lever and fired again.

"Come on out, you fucking pig!" Freeman cried into the wind; the words were shoved back down his throat, along with a heaping helping of snow. He was cocking the lever again when the cop jumped up and fired from the hip: Buckshot struck Freeman's right arm and side, tearing away his flesh. He screamed and returned fire; the cop jerked and fell, but not before getting off one more blast: Pellets dug into his right shoulder, neck, and the side of his face. Hot agony filled his consciousness, and he screamed as his knees gave out and he fell into the cold snow.

In the van, Lincoln ripped the tape from his feet, and hurriedly freed Luan. Outside, the killer and the cop traded shots.

Looking around for a weapon, Lincoln spotted a big red wrench sticking out from under the passenger seat. He crawled to it, grabbed it, and looked at Luan. "Run," he said.

"Lincoln..."

"Run!"

Outside, the killer fell into the snow and didn't move for a minute. Lincoln threw open the driver door and jumped down, the snow consuming his legs up to the knee. He looked back at Luan, who seemed to snap awake: She opened the back doors and jumped into the storm.

The killer was struggling to get to his hands and knees. Lincoln saw him, but didn't: He saw instead Luan and his unborn child, the woman he loved and his baby. And he saw a threat to them.

Gritting his teeth, Lincoln trudged toward him. Just as he got to his hands and knees and looked up, Lincoln brought the wrench down in a deadly arch: The killer's eyes widened, then snapped closed when it struck him in the side of his head: Blood shot from his nose and mouth. Lincoln brought it back up and down again; Freeman went face down in the snow, and Lincoln straddled his back. He hit him one, two, three, four, five more times, screaming in primal fury. Blood spurted across the snow, turning it from white to crimson; chunky pink brain matter seeped from his ears and the back of his head; splinters of jagged white bone thrust up through the mess.

Lincoln hit him one more time, burying the wrench deep into Freeman's skull cavity. He was panting, his heart racing. He turned, and Luan watched him from behind one of the doors, her face twisted in horror.

Catching his breath, Lincoln stood up and approached her. He expected her to shy away from him, but she didn't, and he took her in his arms. She was stiff.

"I love you," he said, "and our baby. And I will do anything to protect you."

She broke down crying then, and Lincoln held her as her body shook. He cried too.

The storm slackened around 5 that afternoon. Clyde was dozing with Ronnie Anne in his arms when a piercing wail started them awake: Red and blue lights streaked across the walls.

"What's that?" she muttered.

"I think it's the cops."

Clyde got to his feet and went to the door, but it was blocked, so he went to the window and peered into the gathering gloom: Through the snow, he could make out several police cars parked in the tundra, their lights flashing.

"It is the cops!" Clyde said excitedly over his shoulder. Ronnie Anne got to her feet and limped over. Clyde tried to lift the sash, but it wouldn't budge. He looked around, and spied a hammer hanging from a hook in the wall. "Watch out," he said as he grabbed it. Ronnie Anne stood a step back and covered her eyes as he smashed the pane, then picked the remaining shards from the frame.

"I'll go first," he said. He quickly pulled his boots on and donned his jacket. He climbed head first through the window, and dropped into the soft snow. He got up and Ronnie Anne's face appeared. "Come on," he said.

She went out backwards, and started to fall, but he caught her, and they both fell.

"You're a regular Peyton Manning," she said and giggled as they got up. Hand-in-hand, they walked to their salvation.