I-5 southbound 1½ miles north of the Terwilleger exit, Portland, Oregon.

      Traffic advanced gently over the tarmac. It was a relief to see it dry after so much rain. 1½ miles to the next exit, said the sign. “Should I, shouldn’t I?” she wondered, watching the long line of semis. If she switched lanes and passed the semis she might miss her exit. Traffic shuddered to a stop and then picked up again; rumbling toward her exit. Light stabbed through her brain... and her engine died. Data cascaded through the pain; the car’s momentum fought the frozen gears. She flipped the van into neutral and wrestled the sluggish wheel over, blinded by the light and peculiar pain. Long experience with migraines helped her focus through this pain that was no migraine.

      Rough concrete rasped jarringly along the car’s side. Her teeth clicked together as the car screeched and squealed against the concrete barrier. She practically stood on the suddenly stiff brake. Her vision cleared to the sight of semis skidding and jackknifing around cars careening out of control, or bucking to a dead stop. The highway was chaos.

      A glittering star, high in the darkening sky fell. She rubbed her head and turned the key. Nothing clicked, gurgled or buzzed. The glittering star fell out of sight. A column of black smoke climbed the darkening sky. Her incredulous, “What?” fought with gut feeling of disaster. Her stomach clenched and her brain stammered out facts. Motors dead, cars dead, smoke climbing over the I-5/217 interchange; conclusion: one traffic helicopter dead in the air; fallen. She shuddered at the sudden and gory visual.

      Light winked at her from the left, over the Willamette river. A little airplane fought its way down. She clawed open the door and stood on the running board. Great Goddess! It wasn’t so much a prayer as a plea. Kernunos, help them! The plane tried to land in the Willamette and missed, crashing into the barren eastern shore. Bending, breaking, screeching metal sounds reached her ears, but there was no explosion. Fire flickered sullenly up from the fuselage. BD looked at her section of I-5. Many accidents, some fires, but no explosions.

      She sat down again and turned the key. Nothing; no tickle, no sound, no click. Through her windshield she saw a man turning his key back and forth; across the highway people were lifting the hoods of their cars. Data started to cascade again and she reached under the seat for her little flashlight. No light. Her watch, no ticking. The street lamps had been flickering on and off as the late winter day came to an end... they were dark, no longer flickering.

      Frowning, she stood on the running board again. Craning out of the van she looked east and north to the airport. If that little plane fell down, what happened to the bigger ones taking off and landing out at PDX? She strained to see in the rapidly closing dark. Columns of black smoke stood out on the horizon. Shit, shit, shit... They must be falling out of the sky... she thought with a horrible twist of her stomach. Some might belly flop in the Columbia or the Willamette, but... Oh, shit, the eastern air corridors are over NE Portland... She shuddered, seeing a flaming holocaust in the populous north east sector. Images of twisted steel and fiberglass shards mixed with hapless human bodies gripped her.

      Damn! This time the world is coming to an end! she thought, horror overwhelming her. She shook off the vision, tears leaking out of her eyes, leaning on the car door. It didn’t help, more came in and she scrubbed her face roughly. She focused on the highway, on the people being taken out of wrecked cars and lined up on the road. Several miles up-slope was “Pill Hill;” the biggest hospital complex in the state. For these people it was on the moon. No cars meant no ambulances, no fire trucks... Could it be possible that the thing had only happened on this stretch of I-5? No, the planes came down. A man walked up to her. “You OK?”

      “Dunno, my head hurts. I must have bumped it. We should open up the center lane by pushing the cars out of the way.”

      “It’s against the law to abandon vehicles on the highway...”

      “Think, man! It’s going to take a fleet of tow trucks working round the clock to clear this out; opening up a lane will help.” Calm, zen, calm, zen... she thought. You can’t lose your temper, just because you are shocky; because you can see ‘The End of the World is Here’ and they can’t.

      “Oh,” he said and walked away, waving his hands, calling for help. She watched as others moved over to him and soon they were pushing the cars to the edge. The action spread. It left room to lay down the injured and dead. There weren’t many dead. We must have been moving slowly enough that the semis didn’t kill everybody when they jackknifed. She wondered why their brakes had locked.

      “Got a blanket?” BD looked down into the tear filled eyes of a woman, bruised, battered, and bleeding.

      “Yeah.” She pushed the back hatch button. It was electrical, not mechanical. With a sigh BD pulled the keys out of the ignition and popped the hatch manually. She pulled out two quilts and a thermal blanket and gave them to the woman. She was reaching for the rip stop nylon bags stuffed with spare clothing when she was roughly shouldered aside by a man reaching for the serape her mother had given her. Her hand clamped down on his wrist. “Let go,” she growled, a red tide rising over her eyes.

       “You let go. There are injured people!” he screamed. BD slapped him.

      “Now,” she said, injecting all the command at her disposal into her voice, “I’ve given up my blankets. This I value. Here,” she hauled out the rip stop bags, “Clothing, or pillows if you want. Take.” He grabbed the bags and walked away.

      BD rolled up the serape and tied it, got her flip knife, threaded it on her belt and bundled up her maps. She turned with her first aid kit in hand and it was taken before she could open her mouth. Her emergency water and food kits vanished equally quickly. She took her maps and the serape, slung her purse over her shoulder and looked at the mayhem as night fell and shook her head minutely. There were more than enough hands to do rescue work and she couldn’t make a difference to any of them; but she could make a difference to herself. She walked to the Terwilleger exit, a list growing in her mind.

       More than an hour later she waved her credit card at Avery. Now her indecisiveness over which bike to buy and haunting this shop for weeks was paying off in an unexpected way. Avery was willing to take the card for the bike she’d decided on, a wide-tired touring bike, lady step-through, upright with a little trailer hooked on behind. “Going to take that bike Myrtle wanted?” he asked.

       “Wish I could; can’t get it home without my car.”

       “Sure you can.” Avery laughed and set up the second bike and fiddled with some odd looking pieces of metal and a vice grip for a while. He attached them to the two bikes. They stood in a line, a tandem that one person could peddle in front and pull a “triple” of one little “u-haul” trailer and another bike and another little “u-haul” trailer. It doubled the weight she had to pedal or push and her carrying power.

       As Avery handed her the receipt, he asked, “What do you reckon it is?”

       Mute, BD shook her head.

       “How far do you think it goes?”

       She looked out the dark street; the people trudging home, the cars; either in neat rows waiting for the light to change, or in a tangled sprawl. “How far?” Everywhere, her mind whispered.

       “I mean, do you know how far EMP radiates?”

       “I don’t.” She considered. “If it was EMP it might have blown over Seattle. If you head towards Medford or Idaho you might find the edge.” If it was EMP, I should have seen an explosion - a bright flash; heard a concussion. That pain and headache were something else. On the other hand, if it was a dirty bomb I’m dead anyway. Might as well go get supplies and see if I can con CostCo into accepting my credit card, too.

       She stood on the pedals and maneuvered the awkward rig around stalled cars coasting south on 99W. There were a few people still limping through the dark night. The moon was rising, a crescent waxing toward full, symbol of hope to her people... it glimmered over a city she feared was doomed.

       Bicycling was hard. The tandem wasn’t very maneuverable around the mess of wrecks and cars. The moonlight was soft and dim, hiding and twinkling behind growing cloud banks. Moonlight was better than dark and she knew this part of town like the back of her hand. She dug in, occasionally dismounting and pushing the rig uphill. She did do a lot of walking, but not biking and her legs weren’t in shape.

       A list in her head grew, building itself around her apocalyptic fears. Her thoughts jumbled and shot off in all directions. Go talk with Rick and Ronnie. Go to CostCo and grab as much food as possible. Harvest is six to eight months away; seed stores? Tomorrow scavenge for food. Drumming circle tomorrow night. What would people be thinking? Get them to cut and run to the countryside. Where can I go? Hood River, that horse farm Kendall and Mirriam bought. They aren't there. I think they’re in Phoenix this week. HoneyApple has crops, sheep, horses, orchards. I can survive there; the caretakers have their own farm, they won’t want this one. It’s fifteen miles down the road; too much time to get there a-foot or a-horse. Go to PDX and pick up Myrtle on Saturday night...

       Her brain slammed to an abrupt stop and her howl vanished into the deep silence of the dark, deserted street. Blinded by a sudden wash of tears she squeezed the brakes violently. Myrtle was in California with Jordan, not due back for four more days. Her mourning howl ripped from her throat again and again as she fought her anguish under control. Her daughter, her precious daughter, lost. BD’s chin trembled and her teeth chattered.

       Her constant fear that the world would collapse and die; inching towards vindication this dark night, was assaulted by her need to protect her daughter from the coming disaster. Irrationally her plans shot off into the needs a bike trip down I-5 to Vallejo would call for. But her practicality slammed that to a halt also. 600 miles and I can bike maybe 80 miles a day. That’s at least 8 days just to get there; assuming I don’t get assaulted, robbed, killed... Myrtle, Myrtle! she moaned silently. You have got to come home! Acceptance wouldn’t come. Grimly she forced herself to stand on the pedals and get the two bikes moving, grimly she forced her mind away from the idea of her daughter, lost in Vallejo. Grimly she squinted through the tears pouring down her cheeks and kept on pedaling.

       Her whole family gone! Vanished like dewdrops in the sun, and she was pedaling a ridiculous jury rigged tandem bike thru a dark night down 99W to con some rice from CostCo with a credit card that was probably no more than a piece of plastic. BD forced herself to focus on the task at hand. There was rice and oats waiting for her at CostCo.

      I feel like Chicken Little screaming that the sky is falling, she thought morbidly, leaving Ronnie and Rick’s the next morning. After conceding her points they had reluctantly agreed to pick and pack, and prepare to head out. But they hadn’t been completely convinced. Hanging over their back fence, they had chatted with neighbors. Everyone treated the powerless day as a gift from one of the gods. BD shoved off for Raven’s Hold householding. People wandered down the streets, gangs of children went screeching about on their bikes. They’re all acting like the city is shut down by a natural disaster. A gift holiday from some god. But this isn't going to get better. She pushed on, disheartened. Playing Cassandra wasn’t her favorite role in life.

       Flashes of memories from her early years in Mexico, came to her mind through the day. The propane camp stove reminded her of the huge propane tanks delivered to each household. When she flushed the toilet, she blessed Portland’s gravity fed water system. She’d lived with latrines and earth trenches. In a few days, she would be back to that, out on the farm.

       There weren’t enough hours in the day. With cars not working only bikes and shank’s mare were left. She avoided the city center when bicycling “heralds” from the mayor and the police chief urged people to stay home. Volunteer crews were recruited. Fire crews worked in Northeast and Southeast, trying to contain fires by ax and water. Police, their ranks depleted by no-shows, had their hands full with crowd control.

       By evening BD was ready for the drumming circle. As she wheeled her bike out, she saw one of her neighbors lighting a fire made with broken chairs on his driveway. She watched the old man grab a chair and whack it against the ground. It took many whacks to make small pieces of wood. They were coated with polyurethane. He fed his fire and BD grimaced at the stench.

       He wasn’t alone. She saw many people trying to cook on their driveways as she biked along. Barbecues, hibachis, ordinary fires, candles. It took knowledge and practice to use an open fire to boil water. Modern cookware wasn’t designed for that use. Many people were burned and exhausted. Food, she thought as she pedaled on, there is food, but can we prepare it so it is edible and nutritious? The ride west took more than an hour, tired as she was. The silence, a silence she could only remember from very rural Mexico and remote camping sites in the US, lay over the city like a pall. Subconsciously she wanted to twist around, seeking the noisy machines.

       Bikes littered Danielle and Justin’s front lawn. The drums pounded as she placed her potluck dolmas on the table. Some people danced frenziedly, others talked intently on the edges of the dance area. Oracles came out after a while and the drums slowed and stilled. Knowledgeable, worried, puzzled people tried to explain the cars and electricity and batteries all dying in one swoop. There were people lost to fires, accidents; one couple to a plane plowing down their street, scattering flaming fuel as it broke.

       Here her Chicken Little routine was heard. They were hesitant to accept her conclusions.

       “You’re jumping at shadows.”

       “You always assume the worst.”

       “Give it a few days and everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

       “I’ll see what? This isn’t a localized phenomena.”

       “How? How can you tell? No phones, no radios, no TV. Are you hooked into the psychic network?”

       “Oh, nuts! Listen, if this were localized, why isn’t the National Guard parachuting down to find out what happened when we went off the grid? Where are the jets doing fly-overs; dropping fresh radios with parachutes? Where are the cars and trucks and trains coming in with relief? It’s more than 24 hours now.

       “No, this has to be world wide.” BD frowned at her friends. “And it’s the ones who react fastest who might survive. We pagans are used to breaking with conventional thinking. We might survive if we think outside the box, now.” She saw caution on many faces. “What, you think the universal control-alt-delete will just happen? Or maybe you expect Kernunos to push the reset on this?” She throttled back her impatience.

       “Crap!” snapped Josh, “You... alarmist; you... Cassandra! It’s just Uncle Sam overstepping himself with a new weapons test! And we’re paying the price. And all that data lost! We’ll be years making good the destroyed drives, the lost hours, the...”

       “Shut up, Josh,” BD told him, quietly. Other pagans were shaking their heads. “I haven’t time for conspiracy theories and your funny farm ideas. A technology like that wouldn’t have developed out of nowhere. We would have seen experimental models, heard about small tests, read speculation on how the suppression field worked for decades before something this big was perfected. Think about law enforcement applications using a ‘suppression field’ to stop high speed chases, drug boats, planes... No, if this is a weapon, we’d have seen studies and applications developing for the past ten years.

       “Hmmm, here’s a thought. Has anybody tried to use a gun?” she asked suddenly. Wolf Rider reached into his loose shirt and pulled an authoritative gun out. He strode to his bike and unlocked a zipped saddle pack, pulled out ammunition and loaded a clip. BD kept her face straight. She’d known he was “unarmed.” But he was discrete about it. Most pagans had a real problem with guns. “This is a 1911,” said Wolf Rider in his slow deep voice. “I keep it on hand, always. Clear away from there.” He pointed to a patch of recently turned earth by the garage. The silence was grim as he pulled the trigger. “Click,” He frowned and shook the gun and then hit it carefully with the heel of his hand. BD could see his lips move as he counted under his breath to twenty and then ejected the bullet.

       Ruben took the bullet from him, holding one of the camp lamps close to it. “The firing pin struck, and it is hot,” Wolf Rider repeated the sequence, seven more times and safed the gun.

       “Imagine,” said BD, “how law enforcement and the army would have been all over a device that could generate a no-explosives field.”

       BD suddenly found herself wearing a wry grin. About 90% of the people who looked at the scattered shells were seriously anti-gun and anti-violence. Their unhappy faces spoke of a re-evaluation of priorities.

       “Cities live on supply lines, and civilized behavior needs the support of a police force.” Justin reached for the damaged shells. “Let’s pull these apart and see if the powder burns.”

       The powder burned, sullenly, not a bright little flare. A very thoughtful quiet followed.

       Better than twenty people stayed to evacuate to sacred lands west. Others would leave in the next days. Sacred lands were held in the Coastal Ranges, Jefferson, Hag Lake, Forest Grove, three groups in Hood River and a few more groups in Washington State.

       Her group would share the farm in Hood River. They’d agreed on a rendezvous and a time. “I don’t have a good feeling about staying. Let’s get going fast. Ten o’clock and go. No waiting. Anyone can’t make the time, just head out to the farm. Somebody will be there, or you’ll be the first and can prepare for the rest.”

       She arrived home late and was up before the dawn, her nerves stretched to breaking point. The hour long ride to make the rendezvous loomed before her. Three times she found herself grabbing car keys and purse, thinking she had to pick Myrtle up at PDX. Unable to concentrate enough to pack her tandem, she finally wrote a long note to Myrtle and put it by the door. It’s a long shot. I know I’ll never see her again, but I have to try...

       Now she could dress and prepare. She pulled on jeans and a tee-shirt, a turtleneck shirt, and a sweatshirt; the house was cold without electric heat. She wandered into the living room, drinking her tea. It was littered with boxes and books; she’d moved three weeks before. A sharp pang sliced her. She was losing her books, her treasures, her past, her family... a howl fought her; she fought grimly back. Her life was gone in an instant of head tearing pain and light. I’m not gone and I’m going to rebuild; I’ve done it before, I can do it again. She set her jaw and concentrated. What will do me for a weapon? There was her athame, which she would use in good heart for defense, mundane as well as magical. She had a “sword” that might scare somebody off; a small camp ax that had never been sharpened. She had a cross wrench and her staff and a thyrsi, the one a dogwood pole, the other solid laurel wood.

       A flash from the window startled her. She moved carefully over to the door as somebody knocked. Peering out the side panes she frowned and opened the door. “Sandy... Norman? Come in. What can I do for you?” And how did you find me? Her gracious hostess manner clashed in her mind with the disaster she could see evolving. Norman and Sandra Arminger smiled and walked in, leaving a cadre of men standing in the street. Norman was wearing an elaborate surcoat she had made for him over chain mail. His face was shadowed by a helm. He removed the helm and lifted the sword from the hangers on his belt. Data cascaded as she waved them to the couch “Water, tea?” she asked; still the gracious hostess. They shook their heads and sat. She straddled a chair and looked at them. Her hair tried to stand on end and her alarms shrieked, “Danger, danger!”

       She had not felt so threatened for years. Living in Mexico, she had projected a fierce wolf in the face of danger. Now that cold mask slipped over her face and soul and the wolf was back. “So,” she said, resting her arms along the chair back. “So, are things bad enough on the street to need full armor and live steel?”

       Norman leaned back, elaborately relaxed. In spite of her tension BD found herself suppressing a snicker. Chain mail was not a relaxing garment, and full formal 1300’s garb was not meant to be “lounged” around in. It looked most peculiar, even to a SCAdian.

       “Things are bad,” he agreed. “Sandra and I think the present government is not going to survive very long.”

       “And you are going to...?”

       Sandra asked, “What do you think will happen by this time next Tuesday?”

       BD cocked an eyebrow, “Food will be in very short supply. The local government will have no answers... and no feasible plans. I think that the world over is exactly like this and we’re screwed.”

       Norman’s posed poise fled. He came abruptly upright. “So, you figure that?” BD met his intent eyes with a shrug. Courting Norman’s attention was a short cut for a really unwelcome sexual invitation; had been, she corrected herself. All bets are off, now. She’d avoided catching his attention for years. Her age and her relationship with Sandra had also protected her. Now her alarms went off the scale. She didn’t think a bed invitation was in the offering. There was a danger here she didn’t understand. More than anything, she wanted to tape her letter to Myrtle to the door, load the tandem, and Git!

       Instead; project that lone wolf... convince him you are as dangerous as he and Sandra. “Oh, yeah. No trucks, no supplies, no fresh food, no refrigeration... Food riots – fear – panic; starvation in the midst of the richest land in the world.” She shook her head, waiting. Norman had a plan. Their arrival meant she was part of that plan. Instinct and experience both made her doubt her guest’s altruism.

       “You won’t starve.”

       She smiled; a cold wolf’s smile. “No, I won’t. I’ve been preparing since the night it hit. I’m off. I know a neat little farm whose owners are far, far away.” She watched her visitors, puzzled. Why had they come to her? “So, where are you going?”

       Norman shook his head. “Nowhere! Given this opportunity? No, we’re staying here and taking over this city.”

       BD’s laugh died stillborn. This is a sociopath. This is a sociopath who is going to take over your city. This is a sociopath seeking you . This is a sociopath you’d better figure out NOW.

       Abruptly Sandra asked, “Where’s Myrtle, BD? How’s she doing?”

       Data cascaded again. Sandra hadn’t seen Myrtle often, and Norman not at all. They weren’t kid friendly and she’d kept her shy little daughter away from the adult areas of the camps. Damn! Hostages! They came for a hostage to force my hand. She looked past Norman out the window at the cadre and the picture resolved into... Armed men holding frightened civilians hostage.

       “Myrtle was... is in California with Jordan. I guess I’ll never see her again. I finished howling about eleven pm.” Her voice was hard. They would not see her grief and pain.

       Norman nodded abruptly to his wife, grabbed helm and sword, and left. He joined the group outside. Hostages. BD looked at Sandy. Like my daughter would have been. Say something... “Even for Norm, that’s abrupt...”

       Sandy fidgeted. “Well you know, to take over the city, we’ll need people, people who can do things...”

       “So, he’s going to set himself up as king? Take over Portland? Kill the mayor and the chief of police soon?” she gybed.

       She laughed shortly at Sandra’s start. “Did you think I wouldn’t see? It’s obvious he’d have to. I’ve heard Vera and Moose are keeping a lid on things downtown.”

       Sandy nodded. “Katz and the Moose don’t understand the real magnitude of this. They do understand that food doesn’t truck itself in. Most people can’t even cook the food they have! Katz sent bike teams off to Salem and elsewhere, organizing things... they got it quicker than we thought. But they haven’t seen the real scope of the problem.”

       “So what’s your plan?” she asked, a faint interest coloring her voice.

       “Burn them out, there were fires last night and people on the road this morning.”

       “Wasteful,” said BD. “Encourage people to go to Salem and get involved directly in the government. Ten days from now or five, when the food riots start, start a rumor that food is being stockpiled in Salem.

       “Much neater and less dead bodies rotting and stinking up Portland proper.” And no people dying in agony and screaming terror, and horror in a holocaust of fire, either.

       The Armingers didn’t approached Ricki and Ronnie, or they would have said something yesterday, but... She looked out the window at Norman. Ricki and Ronnie were knights, pure and proud... and gay. They’d never give the time of day to a wolf like Norman Arminger whose name was a hissing and booing in the SCA. And they had no useful hostages. Does “gay” matter? Given Norm, maybe, or maybe he’s cold enough to use homophobia as a control mechanism.

       “So, yesterday you recruited fighters; convinced them this is permanent. You can’t take over yet. So you’re filling in time by recruiting lesser needs.” A crack of sardonic laughter broke free from her control. “So! What role do you have for me?”

       “It isn’t like that, BD. We’re going to need... people. A lot of people; special people who know the old skills. We got our core of fighters yesterday. Now we are taking the time to make sure support staff is in place. I want your skills, all those skills; modern and archaic, accounting, managerial, soap making, weaving, spinning, leather work, sewing, herbalism; all those things and you’ll be safe...”

       In the recesses of her soul she gagged. Serve the Lady Sandra? Be her tire-woman? I don’t think so. I have got to get these two out of here and my butt on the road. How can I shake them? She looked out the window again. There were more civilians than she’d thought; mostly female or children, sitting, looking confused and beaten.

       Norman must have fantasized for years about an apocalypse. He’s all set, and nobody else is. How many hostages has he grabbed? If he has this all figured out, then I am in deadly danger right now! ooops!

       Do I have a choice? Law is out the door and I’m in the middle.

       She hid her circling thoughts from Sandra. The cold wolf facade that had served her well growing up in the barrios of Mexico City leached back over her soul. Norman and Sandra had no idea of her interest in historical economics; husbandry, farming, logistics; what it took to maintain a noble in a land as mismanaged and rich as Mexico. Latifundíos; Norman would call them feudal estates. The economics of that system had been the subject of her thesis as well as a life long study.

       Arminger saw the fighting barons; statesmanship, ruling, treaties; not the trivia of running an estate, keeping the serfs happily tied to it. Sandra Arminger was a veterinarian, specializing in her beloved horses.

       She would not understand the needs of Norman’s peasants. Norman Arminger would be a warrior King like William of Normandy. Might made right and he was going to establish a feudal society in Portland – her Portland!

       He would expect things to “work.” People would pay with their lives when they didn’t “work.” All those gangsters he’d had been working with recently and unscrupulous SCAdians flocking to his banner would extort the tithes “somehow.” All the American guarantees of freedom and safety were down the drain. BD focused on the “knights” standing in her yard, nauseated. She didn’t need a lexicon to know what would happen if she didn’t position herself as a valued ally.

       She turned from the window. “So, War-Lady, you need support staff, eh?”

       “That’s what I said.”

       “Yah, but I can do so much more than craft work,” she said helpfully.

       “Really? What?”

       “Logistics. I guess Norman will create baronies round Portland, using the Norman England model...”

       “It was very successful,” stated Sandra.

       “Well, yeah, but it evolved. Making it out of whole cloth in the middle of a world wide disaster is a bird of another feather. We don’t know very much about non-mechanized farming, food preservation and the thousands of crafts needed to keep us going.”

       “I’ll bet you both expect to live off the riches of plunder for years and years.”

       A surprised look crossed Sandra’s face. “It’s a ticklish logistics problem. Just learning how to farm without machinery is going to be brutal. All our fertilization techniques are chemical. The transition from hoe to tractor is one I know from my work in Mexico. You are going to need that type of expertise rather desperately if you go ahead with your plans.”

       Sandra frowned. “What do you think we are planning?”

       “Beyond chasing people out of the city? To weaken the farmers and make them vulnerable. Then you can take over easily.”

       “So?” asked Sandra. BD shrugged. “Won’t it work?” asked Sandra, anger coloring her voice.

       Easy, thought BD, you’ve got her hooked, now. Reel her in. “Some, yeah, but there are a lot of mistakes to make. Truth to tell, being your craft-woman doesn’t sound very interesting. I’m trying to show you a weakness I can fix. Offer me something better; I’ll make a good seneschal. I’m interested in the piddling little details and I’m good at them.

       “Norman gets his barons; gang-members from that book of his, and SCAdians to back your coup, fighting them as your private army. You’ll ‘reward’ them with lands in Valley and set up baronies. The baronies produce food and goods and tithe to you.”

       Sandra nodded. “That’s right!”

       “How good do you think a Russian crime ‘Lord’ is at knowing planting schedules, crops, land, a good balance between herd animals and vegetables and keeping their peasantry in line?”

       “The farmers know that; all we need to do is tell them what we want.”

       BD shook her head. “Not when irrigation is gone; farm machinery doesn’t work; farm animals are needed and seed grain has to be kept back. Modern farmers can learn. But farms don’t have truck gardens, several crops, and three or four types of animals anymore. Most farms in the Willamette grow grass seed. They shop at the grocery store like everybody else.

       “They will need to read and experiment. It’s going to take years for the land yield well. Farmers need to learn old ways; use tenants and serfs.”

       She watched Sandra turn it over in her head.

       “If you and Norman researched land yields, you...”

       Sandra interrupted. “We did that right off. We can keep up to 10 or 20 thousand people fed just from around here like a 20 mile radius.”

       “You can’t,” stated BD, “Land yields will go down to less than half the first years.” The door opened behind her.

       “Can’t what?” asked Norman, his voice angry and raspy. “What’s the hold up, Sandra?” He leered at BD, “Say ‘Yes,’ little girl, or the big bad wolves will eat you...”

       BD projected her wolf. Norman hesitated and looked at Sandra. “What’s going on?” he growled. BD flipped her hand at Sandra and dug into the boxes of books, lining up titles as Sandra explained to Norman.

       “So show me logistics?” She presented the books to him. He raised a brow as he read the titles, a good many of them slowly, as they were in spanish. Her stomach was clenched badly enough she was afraid she’d have an attack of the cramps that plagued her. She kept her eyes steady and cold and her body relaxed.

       “You bought this for what class?”

       “I’m a history/sociology/economics buff, Norman. These,” she waved a hand, “are for my own interest. I try to keep them catholic.” Norman started a little and suddenly another alarm went off. I’m glad I haven't unpacked my temple, she thought. Quietly she bid goodbye to the friends who had taken off to Hood River an hour before.

       “It’s going to get ugly. Not many will survive and those that do may not have the skills we need... the support skills; tanner, soap boiler, candle maker, spinner, weaver, sheep herder. Thousands and thousands of skills and professions, just lost. And without order, so many resource will be wasted in senseless looting, the resources of one little city...”

       “Skills,” said Norman slowly. “I’ve been thinking of the people I need to take over and insure the survival of as many as possible.”

       “It’s logical you would. You are a warrior and you see a disaster. You focus on the next step. I’m a planner, a hoarder, a logistician; a scavenger. I look ahead, see what will be needed later. It’s easy to panic, and it leaves us vulnerable.”

       Norman tapped his fingers on his sword hilt. His eyes were blank. BD fought her tense muscles. Will he accept? Do I live? And at what cost have I bought my freedom? Then he nodded. “Right! Supplies are your area, Sandra. You want her, you got her.” BD nodded her head towards Sandra’s dark eyes in a gesture close to a bow.

       “Wait,” said BD as Norman turned to go. “You are taking hostages.”

       “Yes.”

       “Give them to me. I can explain the advantages, but trust me. If your involuntary recruits know that their nearest and dearest are not in ‘prison’ at the mercy of guards, but instead in ‘my craft village,’ and they can visit, they’ll still know they are hostages, but they can tell themselves they are safe and fool themselves into believing they have good reasons to support you.”

       Norman and Sandra nodded. Then Norman turned away. “I’ll use the ‘Go to Salem to protest’ gig to get people started out as soon as possible; we don’t have much time.” He walked out.

       “Well, m’lady Sandra, what’s on the agenda for me?” The words stuck in her throat and she forced them out. Beholden to the swinging Arminger's... oh, Goddess!

       “On my agenda, I’m getting on the whole horse thing. Guess what it will take to train Norman’s gang leaders and followers to be knights?”

       BD smiled. “I do ride. Not much recently, but enough.” She snorted sourly. “My sympathies.”

       Sandra shrugged. “I’m keeping the hostages in an abandoned warehouse by 217. You take charge of them. The ones we collected today are here. I’m taking two guards; you keep three. They’ll be on 8, off 16, but around.”

       “So I house in that abandoned building store up by 217 and 8?”

       “For now.”

       “Won’t there be trouble?”

       “What kind of trouble? There’s nothing there for anybody to go to. It’s deserted, warehouses, hardware... and the guards will be inside with the hostages.”

       “That won’t last.”

       “Well, the city won’t last. I’ll be organizing fires tomorrow to get people moving out.”

       “Don’t do fires... find the organizers and the crack pots... get them to start marches to Salem for explanations and demands for food... that will empty out Portland a lot faster without having people burned and in agony. People’s memories for atrocities are very long.”

       Sandra nodded. “That’s a good point; we certainly don’t lack a lunatic fringe that can be used.”

       “Good, now that warehouse isn’t going to be much good as a hostage center, long term. Where are you and Norman planning to base yourselves?”

       “Around the library. From 405 to the Willamette for now. Where do you think you should be? There are a lot of apartment houses nearby.”

       “True, but, no... most crafts are actually pretty stinky. For now, Multnomah village would do. It’s built in a nice centralized style and there is the old highway, 99W connecting it to downtown. Later we’ll have to decide where to concentrate ‘trades’ people.”

       “Right,” said Sandra crisply. “Give me a list of people you think we can use; people with useful skills.”

       “Ah!” There is no more law and the Armingers only gave lip service to the laws anyway. So I get to create a list of useful people to be kidnapped and hostaged. Urk!

       Her eyes were level and calm as she looked at the petite woman before her. “I’ll get the lists together. Want to leave a messenger with me? Will you have trouble with the Portland city government? I calculate Portland could live a few weeks more before starvation really hits.”

       Sandra shook her head. “The greater metro area will take time to empty out. But... I’ll start the rumor mills. The faster people head south - or north - or east, the better.”

       Sandra sighed. “I also have to figure out our caloric needs for the next...”

       “No, you just appointed me Seneschal. I have to figure out the calories. I know where the distribution warehouses are.” BD hastily scrawled names and addresses on a piece of paper. “Now, these are bicyclers I know. Actually, anybody with a bike will do. With bicycle driven carts I can start moving food into more secure quarters.”

       BD slung her jacket on and waved Sandra out the door. She split the guards leaving three with her. BD read the ‘pandilleros.’ She didn’t waste time being civilized. In succinct spanish she promised them castration if they touched any of the hostages. She projected her wolf who accepted no rules but her own at them. They glanced at Sandra who nodded and accepted her authority.

       “I’ll need a switchblade or three. I have a ‘sword;’ you know one of those things we hang on walls? I’m much better with street weapons.”

       “Norm can get you those. Get me what I need. I’ll get you those bike gangs.”

       BD looked at her watch. It was useless to think of her missed rendezvous; she had just committed to staying in range of one of the worst sociopaths she knew, hoping against hope that she wouldn’t die on Norman Arminger’s sword, or be forced into sexual slavery. And the hope of a free future she could fight to make happen.

       The watch wasn’t working. Ignoring her “honor” guard, she dug out an Edwardian nurse’s watch out of her garb box. With three ‘pandilleros’ slinking at her heels she took “her” hostages on the 8 mile hike to the abandoned store.

-*-

1815 hours 17 March, Toll House Hotel, Room 217, Los Gatos, California.

      Theo looked up from his laptop distracted from the e-mails chasing him from New Hampshire to Los Gatos by CNN. New England seemed very far away. He sighed; glad as he was to visit his grandparents, he hated living in a hotel room.

       The TV caught his attention, talking about a bizarre event in Nantucket. A dome of fire over Nantucket? I hope it doesn’t screw up my return tomorrow. Maybe I’ll see it from the air! Nah! Air traffic will reroute everybody.

       Sudden pain hit him; a migraine as powerful as anything he’d ever felt and he was blinded by white light. He gripped the laptop, panting. Then he could see again and the pain was gone. The lights were out, his laptop dark, and the TV screen fading.

       Frowning, Theo got up and stepped over the cables connecting his laptop to power and internet. His second story hotel room faced north and had a good view of Silicon Valley. It was quiet under the late evening sunset. A thick column of smoke climbed over downtown San Jose. Is it a power station fire? Something blew; did it cause that light flare?

       He turned left, his eyes caught by something “wrong.” Cold chills raced down his spine as a 737 came diving out of the sky, desperately fighting gravity’s pull. Gravity won and the plane smashed its way through Campbell. Theo shuddered gripping the bannister. Twenty years ago, in Tucson, he’d witnessed an A-7 jet fighter auger into a street near the University. Silence... there had been silence in the moments before the crash both times and a feeling of complete helplessness...

       Twenty years ago the pilot ejected and parachuted. But 737’s don’t have ejection seats. 100 people in the plane, more on the streets of Campbell; a sudden vision of the interior of the craft shook him. Faintly, on the evening breeze, sounds of metal screeching and bending, of walls collapsing and cars thrown drifted to him. Theo turned to rush downstairs, grab his car and offer his help, his hands... his blood.

       Even as he moved to the door he thought... Aw, shit... I hope they don’t close down the airport... my flight’s at 0600.” He flushed guiltily. A hundred dead and I’m worrying about getting home? He turned to shut the balcony door and paused. The smoke plume in Campbell looked like the one over downtown San Jose. He scanned the valley.

       There were more plumes, a lot. And there was no noise, or rather, not the noise he expected. There were no flashing lights, no rescue vehicles racing down the roads, no sirens. The cars on the street were stalled; scattered out of their lanes and crashed. People wandered from car to car or huddled under the hoods, or walked away, hands full of bags.

       Theo opened his door. The corridor was dark, the emergency lights weren’t on. Don’t try the elevator... he thought grimly. Not a good option. Lessee... the stairs were right next to my room, on the left; I can feel my way down. He walked forward, his left hand against the wall. The stairwell was as dark as the corridor. He made his way down and pushed open the heavy fireproof door onto the lobby. Light came in through the street windows. It was crowded with guests,the noise level rising steadily.

       One clerk stood by the desk clicking a flashlight “on.” Nothing happened yet he kept clicking like a robot stuck in a logic loop. The other clerk clicked at a walkie/talkie unit. A couple broke the cycle. “Our room phone doesn’t work.”

       The clerk pushed the house phone over. Theo looked around at the confused, jabbering crowd. The sound of smashing plastic jerked his attention back to the desk. “Dead, it’s dead! And so is our cell phone! What do we do now? We’re late and can’t even call!” The hysteria grated on Theo’s nerves. The raw fear frightened him.

       The woman shrilled at her partner. Theo winced and froze. Cars not working, power out, phones not working; not cell phones, not land lines... he shuddered; all that smoke, downed planes? All those planes in the air, all falling? If all the engines failed emergency workers can’t get to the injured; no way for them to be called from their homes, to their posts. How many people will die?

       What happened? EMP?

       EMP could blow away power lines, delicate electronics, my laptop, the walkie/talkies, but not the emergency lights; they use batteries. Fires! Fires are going to spread, and fast! Water’s power pumped around here! Shit, shit, shit, the Grands! I’ve got to get them to safety! Where is safe? He swallowed, suddenly realizing he was panicking, his head pounding.

       He glanced at his watch; it was a battery operated digital and as dead as the lights. Dodging people on the way out of the lobby he focused on putting his best foot forward. A childhood and teen years tramping around Mexico City made his best foot pretty good. In 10 minutes he walked into the Assisted Living center.

       The short walk disturbed him. People stood dazedly by dead cars, looking confused and helpless. Some pushed them to the side of the road. He only saw a few accidents.

       The Assisted living center was not quiet. 150 very senior citizens communicating their displeasure meant a lot of people yelling. Hearing aids must be affected by the battery problem.

       Theo pushed into the noisy dinning room. In the growing gloom of the evening he found Deb and Ted finishing their dinner. “I’m glad I found you. Panicking all over the place, aren’t they?” The habits of a lifetime made him speak calmly. Ted cupped his ear and shouted something.

       He shook his head and pointed to the patio doors. Gladly his grandparents stood up and followed him out. “Ted, I’ve got to get you out of here. A plane came down in Campbell and more out in the valley. Power is out and cars aren’t working.”

       “A plane! As in crashed? What is going on, Theo, dear?” asked his grandmother.

       “No idea, Deb. The power just went out all of a sudden. Did you see the flash?” They nodded and Deb pinched the bridge of her nose. “Then I saw the plane crash and smoke rising over San Jose, like the smoke from the plane.” Ted was a surgeon, Deb an RN; they winced. “Cars aren’t working, fire trucks, ambulances, patrol cars...”

       Deb looked worried. “Theo, what should we do?”

       “Well, you can’t get up and down three flights of stairs with your bad leg. I’d say we should go land on Cousin Charlie. He knows the valley and can help us.

       “The thing is, how to get you there, Deb? If you can’t climb three stories of stairs, you for sure can’t walk five miles to Cousin Charlie’s.”

       Ted shook his head, “Why? Who? Who would do something like this?”

       “A weapon?” asked Theo, distracted. “I hadn’t thought of that. But what a range it must have... I swear I could see all the way across the bay to smoke over Fremont.”

       “Fremont? Vallejo! Myrtle!”

       “Myrtle? What about her?”

       “She’s visiting Jordan this week. She’s going back to Oregon in a few days. We’ve been calling her every day because she has to stay alone during the day. Jordan just moved to Vallejo and he couldn’t find child care or a day camp for her. But; Ted, today was the day Jordan went to LA, isn’t it?”

       “Don’t know, Deb. You talk with her more than I do. But he was going to LA for a day this week.”

       Theo gasped. His sister had adopted a painfully shy child a few years back. Her marriage had broken apart within months of the adoption. The last year had been ugly for the girl as her parents fought for custody. Now his niece was at risk, terrible risk if he was right about the planes coming down. Had Jordan been flying back, or was he already back?

       “Do you know the address?”

       “Yes, Theo, it’s right on the pad by the phone. I told you, we call her every day.” Theo gnawed his lip, torn. Ted solved the dilemma for him. “Look, Theo, go up to our place and get a few things... our medications, our jackets, and the address. Bring down the sofa cushions. I’ll get the maps out of my car. Your aunt leaves it here so she can use it to run us around the valley. Deb,” he turned to his wife, “go talk to Luke, ask him if he’ll lend us his basket bike and Nancy’s bike.

       “I think he will; he hasn’t used them since Nancy died. I can use Nancy’s bike and hold onto the basket if Theo pedals and you sit in the basket.

       “Theo, look in my desk drawer...” Ted explained what he wanted. Cash, some medical supplies and instruments, and a few small bags.

       “Ted,” said Theo, hesitating as he read his grandfather’s intentions. The old man shook his head.

       “Be practical, grandson. Get us over to Deb’s cousin Charlie. He’s a firefighter. He’ll know what to do. If Jordan is in LA, then Myrtle is all alone. You’ve got to bring her back.”

       Ted was right; Theo surrendered to his stern practicality. Deb went to talk to a wizened dwarf of a man; Ted to his car, and Theo upstairs.

       The evening was now night. Theo found a box of matches in the kitchen and lit some candles. He found the address and phone number for Jordan; found his sister’s new address next to it and cursed himself. I forgot BD just moved, too. I’d better keep this. He got coats and meds and poked through Ted’s desk.

       The five miles to the 1950’s cul-de-sac where cousin Charlie lived took all his grandfather’s fading energy and determination. “Sure you can make it, Ted?” asked Theo, wondering if he could make it with his grandmother’s weight in the awkward basket tricycle.

       “Needs must.”

       Ted’s face was livid and his breath was whooping and sobbing as they coasted down the gentle slope to the bottom of the street. Cousin Jane’s distinctive tones rang over the people gathered in the front yard. “For heaven’s sake, Charlie! Charlie! It’s Deb and Ted! Charlie, and it’s Theo, too!” People spread out, grabbing the bikes, helping Deb out of the basket, catching Ted, racing for water. Theo gasped. I’m in decent physical condition, but Deb still weighs about 200 pounds and that trike is heavy, not to mention dragging Ted, too. He crouched and stood and crouched again, working the kinks out of his trembling legs. Damn! I’m glad Cousin Charlie lives this close and not in the hills.

       He stood to find Charlie offering a pitcher of water. “Go easy. You don’t want to hurt yourself. Why’d you bring them here?”

       Theo gulped a large mouthful of water and handed the pitcher back and cupped his hands. Charlie poured water in them and he sleeked it over his head and down the back of his neck. He splashed the next handful over his face and front. “Things are bad, Charlie.” He glanced up. Deb and Ted were being cared for by the neighbors; Jane fluttered around offering suggestions. Theo lowered his voice. “Planes fell out of the sky; stalled. No batteries, no power.”

       “I knew cars weren’t working, but planes, too? Explosions!”

       “Charlie, I think it’s going to get a lot worse. The residence where Deb and Ted live... three floors up, no light, no water, think what it will be like tomorrow.”

       Charlie thought. They listened as the neighbors traded theories. The big debate was whether it was an American secret weapon test gone wrong or a foreign power weapon gone right. The lesser debate was which foreign power might have pulled it off. Charlie shook his head decisively. “This suppression effect is not EMP, right?”

       “Unlikely; flashlights don’t work. I’ll bet that old jalopy you work on doesn’t go, either.”

       Charlie nodded. Ted finally stood up, listing to one side. “I’ll take care of them, sure. There’s that stream behind the back fence; we can still get water and flush the toilets. What about you?”

       Theo sighed. “Can you give me a map? We think BD’s kid, Myrtle, is alone in Vallejo; Jordan might be in LA. I’ve got to go get her. I hope you’ve got a good bike I can use to get to Vallejo. It’s a day long trip. So much for a four ack emma to the airport.”

       “Theo, if planes fell out of the sky, no plane will leave tomorrow. They’re all crashed.”

       “Oh.” Theo sighed; he’d lost track of that little detail.

       “I’ve got Rodney’s old bike. It’s a wide tired commuter.”

       Theo admired Charlie’s crowd control techniques. Expressing concern over Ted and Deb, he got them in the house, the neighbors to their houses, Jane setting up beds instead of fluttering about, and a planning discussion with maps going quickly. “I think a straight up the center ride to Vallejo will be best. When you find Myrtle and maybe Jordan, come back. I’ll expect you by the 20th; the 21st at the latest. If you don’t come, we’ll know you took her to Oregon, instead.”

       Theo studied the San Francisco Bay... he’d head towards the lower edge and bike around it and up to Vallejo, just south of Oakland. Myrtle’s address was only a few blocks from the marinas.

       “I’ll sleep in the hotel. If this crazy ‘suppression effect’ is still going tomorrow morning, I’ll go directly to Jordan’s and get Myrtle.” Theo kissed his grandmother goodbye and hugged his grandfather and tears fell.

       “What is it, Theo?” his grandmother asked.

       “It’s...” he hesitated. “I’m frightened, Deb. I don’t know what’s happening, if I’ll see you again, what I’ll meet tomorrow. Yesterday, I knew how the world worked. Today I don’t, and I’m scared.”

       He hugged her, sniffing. His grandfather saw him to the door and put a wallet in his hand. Startled, Theo opened it. It was stuffed with, he riffled through it quickly, almost a thousand dollars. He shook his head, but Charlie and Ted pushed him through the door. “I have another one, Theo. Deb and I always keep disaster money. You’ll need it. Get Myrtle. Come back or go to BD in Oregon. Sure, she’s a flaky hippie, but everybody knows her. She’s got a chance of surviving this. Your mother always says she lands on her feet like a cat.”

       Theo snorted, though it was more true than not. He wiped tears from his eyes and looked over the bike Charlie held. It was a sturdy older model with saddle bags; distended saddle bags. His fussy cousin Jane had fussed two 2-liter bottles of water into the bags, sandwiches, trail bars and trail mix.

       “I hate to ask, but would you have a crowbar? If things are as bad as I think,” he found a rictus of a smile on his face. “I want something pretty ugly looking. Pity all my guns are at home.”

       “They don’t work,” said Charlie briefly, turning and rummaging through a cabinet. “I can give you something better. Here!”

       Theo opened his mouth to ask about the guns and shut it; it was just one more weirdness. What his cousin held was another. “What is that?” he asked in disbelief.

       “It’s a Halligan bar. Firefighters use it for anything and everything. Basically it’s our breaking and entering tool.”

       It had a pronged end. The other looked like a cross between an ice pick and a mattock. It also had serious weight and the feeling of solid craftsmanship. It filled his need for an intimidating weapon. Theo hefted the odd instrument. “Well, I’ll go get some sleep and head out tomorrow morning.”

       He fought the impulse to turn and wave as he pedaled up the street. The crescent moon gave enough light to see his way. The quiet was eerie and the sky glowed from the fires.

       Only the clerks were in the lobby at the hotel. Escorted by one,Theo hefted his bike up the stairs by candlelight. The clerk opened his door, but took the candle away... “fire regulations, man!”

       Theo shrugged; with fire spreading through Campbell, he wasn’t interested in starting one in the hotel. There was light from the moon. Not much, but enough. He packed his laptop away, coiling up the cables and tucking everything into its carry-on bag. He decided to wear his digital watch, though he had no idea if it would ever work again. Next he found his little hoard of gold and platinum coins. He tucked them by the billfolds in his pockets. He shuddered and realized he was in shock. Damn! I thought that only happened in stories. Psychologically induced shock! He shuddered again and frowned. Blankets; get warm I think. I wonder if I should or shouldn’t go to sleep. Maybe not sleeping is for head injuries. After thinking, he shrugged. He couldn’t read in the dark; he was sleepy and he had done a lot of work in the past hours. He decided to sleep. He rolled himself into a huddle under the blankets and was out. He woke again and again through the night. As he’d grown older he’d slept less well, but this was sheer nerves. Finally he went to the balcony and studied the stars. It was close to five, he decided, not far from nautical dawn; he could just make out the horizon where the Campbell fires weren’t staining the sky orange. Suddenly, a practical application for a modern hobby of astronomy, he thought sourly.

       He pulled his luggage over to the balcony doors. Shorts and a t-shirt seemed good for an 80 mile bike ride even in March. Using bottled water he had a washcloth bath. Fresh clothes and fresh water helped dispel his gloomy thoughts. He sorted his clothes; long pants and a warm shirt went in the bottom of his backpack, spare t-shirts, shorts, underwear, socks, and his wind-breaker and two books on top. He munched on Cousin Jane’s thick sandwiches for breakfast and finished off the bottled water in the room.

       Reluctantly he packed his computer and papers from his work in his now partly empty suitcase. He couldn’t take them, but leaving them was hard. He counted his money; almost $700. Then there was his grandfather’s billfold... he fought the impulse to bike over to Cousin Charlie’s to check on them. Where can I put the money? I’d better split it up in case something happens. He improvised a traveling wallet around his waist and stuffed the precious metal coins into the long legged slacks. The empty water bottles went into his saddle bags. Fill them as soon as possible. The water wasn’t on in his room.

       A bike, two saddle bags, a backpack and a large suitcase created logistic problems. He arrived at the front desk sweating and frazzled. The hotel computer didn’t work, but they had his credit card on file. They gladly wrote a bill he signed. His luggage and computer were stored.

       Back in the lobby, Theo saw a forlorn attempt at setting out the customary “continental breakfast.” He thirstily drank several glasses of orange juice that hadn’t quite gone warm yet. Nobody said anything about the bicycle behind his chair. The faucet dribbled a trickle of water and Theo filled his empty bottles, took two slightly stale bagels and a box of oat-o’s and stuffed them in a saddle bag. He wheeled the bike out; passing reception he laid the Hertz keys on the desk. “Can you get these to Hertz at some point? The car is in the parking lot.”

       “Sure, man, sure. I hope you had a good stay. Is there anything more I can do?” Theo stared at the young man who suddenly gasped. “I’m sorry, it’s such a habit. They drill us. I can’t go home, my relief hasn’t come. He comes on the bus... do you think?” the clerk hesitated. Theo shook his head sadly.

       “I don’t know, I just don’t know what to do,” muttered the clerk. Theo quickly scrawled a note with his decision to go to Vallejo for Myrtle and bring her back to Cousin Charlie’s house. He put his name on the envelope the clerk gave him. “Anybody comes looking for me, give them this, ok?” The clerk nodded and Theo slid a twenty across the counter. He felt incomplete as he turned away. He’d never believed in God and he didn’t now, but he felt a need to say something in the realms of “God Bless” to the clerk.

       The sun was glowing below the horizon as he walked out of the hotel. He swung his leg over the bike, got his balance and pushed off. The few blocks to the on ramp at Lark stretched his muscles and made him aware that gym exercise never equaled good honest labor and he had exercised heavily only a few hours before. As he coasted down the on ramp of highway 17 he saw the perennial sign on all American highways, “No Bikes or Pedestrians.” I doubt the CHiPs will flag me down today. Dawn struggled to pierce the smoky overcast. The air was crisp and stank of chemical burns. Cars were piled haphazardly along the highway. Theo threaded his way between them, glad he wasn’t riding the heavy delivery bike.

       Faces appeared at the windows of some of the cars. I guess some people spent the night in their cars. Not having answers or wanting company, and wary of strangers, he pedaled hard, speeding enough to avoid being hailed.

       As he swung around a car he remembered the blizzard of ‘78 that had paralyzed the Boston area. People stayed with their cars then, too. he thought, swerving around a pile up. Until they started to freeze and walked to the nearest houses and asked for refuge. Weather’s milder here, about 50 or 60 degrees last night. I wonder what these people will do? They might be as much as 60 or 70 miles from their homes. That’s a two day walk.

       Biking past Campbell shook him. The highway soared and he saw the damaged buildings and streets, the wrecked plane and the sullen fires. He was thankful he couldn’t see details in the dawning light.

       The sun was up by the time he passed San Jose airport, merging onto 880. The cold early morning light was stark and pitiless. Theo stopped to take a breather and a sip of his precious water. Even burn marks, smoldering in a line. The planes were lined up, maintaining horizontal separation. Smoke wisps drifted over the field; each burnt smear, smoke plume and tangle of metal marking a charnel house. The port buildings were torn, twisted and burned, a cenotaph of centuries of human lives. All the planes came down, all of them. All over. I don’t think I’ll be returning to New Hampshire anytime soon. Not on a jet plane, at least. He shuddered, feeling sick. At the far end of the field four planes were lined up. The inflatable slides were out and the hatches, even the baggage bays were open. The living were long gone.

       I wonder if Jordan was in the air or in an airport when this thing hit.

       He pushed off again, figuring the distances in his head to bike home. Why do I want to get home so badly? I just do! Home! The sun was up in full earnest, the far away hills, still green from the winter rains were covered with the usual mist and smog. More people were on the highway. Some got out of cars where they had slept, others came from the on ramps. Theo felt a prickle of apprehension. He slung the Halligan bar over the handlebars on the front basket and “got busy.” Pushing himself he pedaled hard and kept his eyes focused forward, looking like he had places to go and things to do.

       As the wheels ate the miles he worried about what had happened. He saw no dead bodies; he was carefully “not-looking.” The big rigs, which appeared to have locked brakes and skidded, often had cars or pieces of cars caught under them. Twice clearer patches of highway centered around a CHiP car, but the officers were long gone.

       Biking up onto Hwy. 237 the road cleared up a bit; fewer cars, but more damage. The faster movement at the moment the... “change” happened showed in high speed collisions. Theo pedaled; it was tedious. He counted miles as they slowly went by. He clocked around 10 or 12 miles an hour. Riding through South San Jose he saw men on the highway, more together than he’d seen in a while. They’re smashing into the cars! Theo hesitated, coasting; they spread out to block him. Stopping seems like a really bad idea! He hefted the Halligan bar in his right hand, his left steering and pedaled hard.

       For a heart stopping moment he thought they would jump him; he upped his speed one more notch and they scattered. As he rode through knives flashed, then he was past. He didn’t look back. I nearly got mugged! he thought incredulously. Damn! I’m glad I didn’t notice the knives! I might not have had the guts to do that! I’d better stay alert! He took the Mission Blvd. exit and the wide city streets at a good clip towards the 680 on ramp through Fremont.

       He thought it was between eight and nine in the morning. Other bicyclists were on the road. Newly wary, Theo studied one laboring near him.

       “Hi,” he gasped. “Not used to commuting on my bike. It’s too far for a regular thing.”

       “Yup,” said Theo. “I’m heading towards Vallejo.”

       “I’m Jack. I’m going to Walnut Creek.”

       “Theo.” They began to keep station on each other.

       Shortly another bicyclist paralleled them. “I’m Arnie,” he said, introducing himself.

       “Theo.” Theo glanced askance at Arnie’s bike. It was loaded with packs and bags and so was Arnie. “You look like you’re going somewhere.”

       “Out of here, man! This is crazy, f*d!”

       “You a survivalist?” asked Jack.

       I’d never ask that question outright.

       Arnie shrugged. “Not really. But I know a thing or two, so I got everything I had. I’m going to get out past Napa and find a place to hole up until this goes away.”

       “I biked past a bunch of guys earlier, smashing car windows,” said Theo. “They tried to block the highway and wave me down. I freaked and pulled my Halligan bar and raced at them. The bar must have scared them, because they let me through. I didn’t see their knives until I went past.”

       “Might not have been the bar... you look pretty scary; big, bearded and upset.”

       “Huh!” Theo thought about it. A girlfriend once told him he intimidated people. He didn’t think of himself in terms of his 6’2” 230 pound frame, or his wild beard. They pedaled up the 680 on ramp together.

       “Scary, dude, scary,” groused Arnie. “I would’a brought my guns, but the powder’s f*d.”

       Theo shook his head. “My cousin said firearms don’t work. I haven’t had a chance to check.”

       “You got guns?”

       “Not here. I’m from the East Coast.”

       “Man!” said Jack. “You’re stranded here?”

       “Yeah. It’s not that bad. I’ve got family here; in Vallejo.”

       With small talk and hard pedaling they made good time. People faded back from them. What a difference one day makes in people’s reactions. The bad guys aren’t bothering us, but I can see them. Theo was curious why Arnie had tried to shoot. I really don’t want to know, he decided.

       By 10 or 11 in the morning, they were approaching Danville. Jack slowed. “Let’s stop. I’m thirsty and I know a store where we can get stuff. There might be real food, too.”

       Theo was hot and sticky; sweat crusted his shirt and was dried around his collar. “Good idea, I’m really tired. And I’m in pretty good shape.”

       “When’d you start?” asked Arnie.

       “Today? Before six, I think. I biked by San Jose Airport around sunup. That was ugly.”

       “Why?” asked Jack.

       They coasted off the highway as Theo described the 737 falling out of the sky in Campbell. Arnie whistled and Jack groaned. They pulled up in front of the store. As Jack predicted, it was open. The owner looked up from the deep freezer.

       “Ah, Jack, you are trying to get to work even if the world will not cooperate!” he said. “Good, help me! Eat some of this before it goes bad!”

       Theo picked up a pint of Cherry Garcia. “60 miles, give or take gives me an excuse.” He dug into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet.

       “Forget it,” growled the owner. “It will all spoil anyway. Eat, and take anything you can use.”

       Theo bit his lip. Well, yeah, but... I’ve got the money and he’ll need it to come back from this suppression effect. He picked up two large bags of potato chips, three sandwiches from the cooler, a few yogurts, cookies and some bottles of pop and as many bottles of drinking water as he could fit into his backpack. He insisted on paying, making the owner’s eyes pop as he ran the tab up in his head and added on the taxes.

       “Shucks, man,” laughed Jack. “Do that for me!” Theo ran the numbers and Arnie, after a small hesitation, also paid. Theo grimaced as he hefted his backpack. For all the extra weight he wanted the water. Easy clean water is something the twentieth century brought us. Today it isn’t everywhere. Theo felt a crawling ripple down his back as he thought of the water people had drunk in the poorer parts of Mexico; things he had seen growing up there.

       The others followed him out. He asked Jack, “Where are you going from here?”

       “To the Kaiser Foundation; I’m a nurse. I’m...” Jack tilted his head back and studied the sun, “probably about three hours late. The nurse I relieve can’t leave until I get there.”

       Theo found himself with nothing to say. Damn! He’s focused on responsibility!

       As they rode back to the highway Theo noticed people treating the day as a holiday. They didn’t seem to be worried. They set up their barbecues, gossiped over fences; the kids ran wild. On the highway headed north three more men joined them. Jack turned off at Walnut Creek.

       This section of the road was crowded with crashed vehicles. The small group needed to ride on the shoulder and dodge around wrecks. Theo kept a wary eye out for gangs. By noon, he could be properly said to be part of a gang; four more men had joined them.

       What would I have done? Would I have sat around at Cousin Charlie’s gossiping and waiting for Daddy government to fix things? He asked the question aloud.

       “Well,” asked Rich, one of the new bikers. “Would you have sat on your tush and jawed at your hotel?”

       “No, I’d have gone to get my grandparents, taken them to Cousin Charlie’s and stayed there.”

       “What if you hadn’t seen those planes come down?”

       Theo pondered. What would I have done if it seemed a simple black out? “I’d probably have gone to my grandparents, anyway. I wouldn’t have been able to do anything at the hotel, and I’d have worried about them.

       “What about you?”

       Speculation on what they would have done if they hadn’t seen enough failures to trigger alarms lasted them through Martinez to the bridge. Theo sighed as he saw it. The pile up was gruesome. He looked at the sun. “I’m tired,” he said. “It must be two-ish. I’ve biked something like 80 miles today. I’m not going to tackle that mess until I’ve had lunch and stretched.”

       Arnie agreed. “If there was a better way up 680, I’d take it. Look at that! You going up 680?”

       “Nope, I meet my party in Vallejo. What about the rest of you?”

       Theo pulled up as he spoke. He rummaged for the sandwiches he’d gotten in Danville. The others followed his lead and they munched in companionable silence.

       “I’ll go up 780 with you,” volunteered one of the others. “I was thinking of taking 29 to Napa; that way you won’t be alone.”

       Theo bit his tongue instead of blurting “No!” I don’t know this man, he thought with a frisson of concern. The sudden latching on to his tail set off his alarms. Before he could decide, Arnie took the matter out of his hands.

       “Theo, you should come with us, and you too, Mitch. Once these bozos get it through their heads that things are serious... this will be hell. Theo, if you go up 780, you’re going to pass houses for miles and miles along the coast. Come up 680 with us; we’ll take 123 and be in empty country.”

       Theo thought quickly. “There’s a lot in what you say, Arnie...”

       “Yeah, there is!” exclaimed Mitch, “OK, we’re with you, Arnie! Right, Theo?”

       “Ahhh,” Theo hesitated, looking at the bridge. “I’ll make up my mind on the other side. Just getting over this is going to take all of us.”

       It did. For the first time Theo saw dead bodies; bled out and wrung into pieces by metal stresses, smashed, smeared. I thought I had a good grip on reality; that I’m not squeamish, he reflected as he hauled a white and trembling Mitch up and over a twisted mess that included a semi with two trailers, two SUV’s and some sort of van. I wish I’d brought rope. I hope I can keep my lunch. The crows and seagulls feasting on the remains got to him more than the smell of death. I knew it was bad when I saw that plane take a nose dive, but the reality is worse.

       Focus on the next obstacle! Three times they wheeled their bikes on top of the barrier; a delicate operation that nearly cost two bikes. By the sun, Theo judged it was close to four when they got off the bridge and on to the exchange.

       Sure that Mitch would stick with Arnie and the others, Theo mounted up and waved goodbye. Weird, he reflected. I really don’t want Mitch with me. Something about that guy... but I miss Arnie and the others. I feel vulnerable. Humph, I’d’ve figured Arnie for being more dangerous than Mitch, but my gut doesn’t agree. Theo pulled the Halligan Bar out of the pack and rested it on the front basket, in easy reach.

       As the shadows lengthened less people were out. He rode past Benicia state park, concentrating on his tired legs; keeping a steady rhythm. To the south, filthy black smoke coated the sky. Must be the Union Oil Refinery. Humph, if Jordan was there, not in LA, he’d have had to come around by Hercules, down Hwy. 4 and then up the way I came through Martinez... He shook his head, A Herculean task, indeed, and Jordan’s no athlete. I’m glad I didn’t decide to come through Oakland.

       An hour later, 780 turned into Curtola. He stopped at a park with a pond. Stripping off his shirt and rinsing it in the dubious water was a relief. He scrubbed the stickiness off his chest and thighs, wishing he could dive in. But geese waddled about. Getting some bird-borne disease wasn’t on his agenda. Getting rid of the salt and sweat felt good. He combed his hair and changed his shirt. The wet shirt went over his saddlebags. He hoped he didn’t look too thuggish... he’d rather not scare Myrtle. It’s been a day since the suppression effect hit. I hope she holed up and played ‘possum all day.

       He took a few wrong turns before he found the dilapidated Victorian house in the gathering gloom. He’d seen the Edwardian house in Portland once; Jordan apparently had a thing about restoring old houses. According to BD, she’d done most of the heavy work. Theo wondered if BD exaggerated. Somebody was working on this house.

       He hauled the bike up to the porch and knocked. And knocked, and knocked very hard. “Myrtle... it’s your crusty Uncle Theo! ‘Member? Please open the door, I’m beat; I came biking up from Great-Gran’s today.”

       That got an answer. “Uncle Gruff?”

       He breathed a sigh of relief. “Yup, Little Tree, it’s Uncle Gruff.”

       Bolts shot, chains rattled and the door swung open. If Jordan needs that much security, how could he leave her alone all day? He bit his lip on the question. His niece’s face was smeared and dirty from tears. “Where’s Dad? Why are you here? Where’s anybody! What’s happened?” The overwrought girl began to cry.

       Theo reached out and sat on the threshold, holding his niece. Poor Little Tree, these must be the first tears of relief instead of terror today.

       “I don’t have answers for you, Myrtle,” he said when her tears stopped. “Let’s get my bike in and give me a chance to stretch out. I’ve biked all the way from los Gatos today. Will Jordan get mad if we bring the bike in?”

       “Hmmm? Oh, no! He keeps ours in here! How far is Los Gatos?”

       “Ahhh, about 80 miles,” said Theo, heaving himself up and peering across the dim living room. Two bikes rested against the far wall. He felt too wiped to do more.

       “Bring it in?” prompted his niece. With a start, Theo walked the bike in. He stood it with the others and looked around. The house was dirty, with the ingrained grime of years. One wall was scrubbed and being repainted. In the flickering light of an oil lamp on the table it was hard to see color; he had an impression of a nice, but neglected craftsman.

       He staggered over to the couch and fell into it. “Sorry, Little Tree,” he apologized. “I’m wiped. I didn’t realize how bad.”

       “It’s OK, Unca Gruff. I’d be tired if I’d ridden that much. Do you want water or something?”

       “Food, is there any food?”

       “I made jerky yesterday. It’s pretty good.”

       “Made jerky?”

       “Yeah; Mum, BD, taught me.”

       Theo looked closely at Myrtle. Tear traces were all over her face; but the need to do answer questions had given her a focus. He forced himself up. “Is there water? I am so filthy...”

       “Noooo... Mrs. Grantz told me to fill the tub when the lights went out yesterday, but there wasn’t enough in the pipes. I got a little...”

       Water is going to be a problem, thought Theo, stumbling over to his bike. He pulled out the 2-liter bottles cousin Jane had given him and showed them to Myrtle. She took the oil lamp and led the way to the basement. The kitchen, showing signs of remodeling, was there. The stove was an old fashioned gas range. “That works,” said Myrtle as she put the bottles on the kitchen table. “I finished up the jerky when Dad didn’t come home.”

       Her hands trembled as she reached for glasses, and she hunched her shoulders. “Is he going to come?” she asked, in a small voice.

       “I have no idea, Little Tree. Where does he work?” Myrtle found a business card on the corkboard and handed it to him.

       Theo filled two glasses with water, served a plate of jerky, dived into the huge refrigerator. The whiff of food spoiling caused him to prop the door open and pull out the vegetables. Carrots, cucumbers and a bag of salad made it on the plate, precariously balanced.

       He set the stuff on the table and lit another lamp, went upstairs to his back pack and grabbed all the maps. Studying the business card he leafed through the maps. “So, Jordan was probably in San Pedro or near when the lights went out...”

       “Not yesterday. Dad called me from LA yesterday afternoon. He said he was at ‘Edward's.’ They were testing the new landing algor... algo...”

       Horrified, Theo broke in, “Edward's Air Force Base?” An Air Force Base, testing controller software! I’ve no idea how hands-on Jordan is, but I’ll bet he’d be in the tower or on the landing field! On the landing field of an active Air Force Base with planes coming home for the night just when the suppression effect hit.

       Theo swallowed. If Jordan had been at Edward's, then he was lost. If he’d been traveling back; he was lost. If his plane landed in Oakland, he might still be alive. He questioned Myrtle. “I think he said he was coming back on the 9:10.”

       Theo groaned. It sounded like Jordan had been at Edward's when the effect had hit. Tears started to trickle down her cheeks as Myrtle understood what the questions meant. Theo patted her shoulder, feeling helpless. Somebody banged on the door and yelled, “Myrtle, Myrtle!!! Are you OK? Myrtle?”

       Myrtle dashed upstairs to the front door. She yanked it open and was snatched up. Theo walked up. “I’m Myrtle’s Uncle Theo. My sister is her mother. I just got in.”

       Myrtle wriggled herself free. “It’s OK, Mrs. Grantz, he is my uncle, and he came from los Gatos today.”

       “Hasn’t Jordan gotten in?”

       Myrtle shook her head, tears starting to her eyes.

       “Sorry,” Mrs. Grantz apologized to Theo. “I try to keep an eye on her, but she doesn’t get along with my kids and likes to stay here. And I get back pretty late each evening.”

       “I’m glad somebody does keep an eye on her,” answered Theo. “Do you have any news? I’ve been biking all day.”

       Mrs. Grantz shook her head. “My husband never came home. My car went kaput about ten blocks away, but Fredrick works in Livermore. It’s a long walk.

       “Jordan was supposed to get in around 10 and take the limo home.“

       Myrtle ran out of the room. They could hear her feet pounding up rickety stairs. Theo bit his lip. “I can’t think of any way Jordan can be alive. I hope your husband makes it home.”

       Mrs. Grantz shuddered. “Me, too. I’m sorry about Myrtle.”

       Theo shook his head.

       “I... I have to go. My Richie told me there was a strange guy in Myrtle’s house and I had to make sure she was ok. Poor pet, she spends so much time alone.”

       “Well, I’m glad you checked.” Theo closed the door behind Mrs. Grantz. With a sigh he climbed the stairs, placing his feet carefully in the dark. The four doors on the little landing were shut. He stared at the doors, then spoke loudly. “Little Tree, I’m going to eat and lock up. Where’s Jordan’s room? I can’t sleep on the couch.”

       The right hand door opened and a hand pointed to the left. “Thanks, niece. I’ll be there if you need me.”

       He ate and took care of his needs. Using the toilet led to uncomfortable thoughts about sewers and the bay, so close to the house. With a sigh, he used an oil lamp to get upstairs.

       Late that night he woke from an uneasy sleep to feel Myrtle settling on top of the blankets at his back. He reached around. She was trembling under an afghan. He let her be and drifted back into troubled sleep.

       Daybreak brought pain. The bed was hard enough to make his joints protest. The small warm spot on his back was the gentle breathing of his niece. He’d never had a child curl up close to him in trust and the feeling left him shaken. He eased away from her, but she was instantly awake.

       “Unca Gruff, what are we going to do? Was Mrs. Grantz right? I hate her! She shouldn’t have said that!”

       “Truth hurts,” Theo managed to croak. His throat was raw and the smell of burning fuels, wood and paint was very strong. He ran his tongue over his teeth and winced. His mouth tasted of day old jerky. “I need to brush my teeth, scrub my body and then we need to sit and talk strategy. I don’t know what to do, other than bringing in water to flush the toilets.”

       “Oh, yeah, chores.”

       “Always chores,” said Theo, bracingly. “Now scoot and get dressed.”

       The day passed both slowly and fast. I want to get Myrtle back to Los Gatos. But, how? It was a long day’s bike ride for me; I don’t think Myrtle could do it in a day. And taking more time means sleeping on the road, which makes us vulnerable. What else can I do? The small hope that Jordan had made his way back to Oakland hadn’t survived Mrs. Grantz’ visit.

       They hauled water from the marina, using a small hand truck, got the tub filled with fresh, flushed all the toilets with brack, and worried about the suppression effect.

       The marina had a water tower for the boats at dock. The guard was garrulous and worried; he knew Myrtle and allowed them to take fresh water. He fidgeted around them as they filled the six 5 gallon buckets that fit on the hand truck. They went back to the marina three times, sweating in the light winter’s sun.

       With a working gas range, food was a non issue. Jordan hoarded food like a Mormon. Theo found sacks of rice and oats, cases of Mac’n’cheese, dried soups, dried milk; dried fruit, cans of fruits and vegetables, spices and bottled water and soda. After lunch, he and Myrtle walked up the street and he scanned the sky. I’ve been waiting since the “change” to hear Air Force fighter jets fly over. I’ve been expecting tanks, scouting airplanes, but there’s nothing. The stillness of the air; the lack of machinery sounds creeped his skin.

       “What are you looking for, Unca?” asked Myrtle.

       “Well, it’s been two days since we lost power. I’m wondering where the Coast Guard, the Army, the National Reserve, the government are! I keep expecting planes to rocket overhead; drop radios, transmitters, whatever. But it isn’t happening. I wonder how wide a radius this thing affected. More than 100 miles for sure, but how much more?” Theo looked south; south where a dark cloud loured over the South Bay from hours of fires. North more clouds of smoke hung over the mega-metropolis. His nose was stuffed up from all the ash and particles.

       Myrtle jostled him. “Unca, what’s with the clouds? You’re frowning.”

       Theo shook his head and turned back down the street. “I don’t know, Myrtle. The clouds are smoke from buildings burning. Water pumps don’t work. I think the Bay Area is going up in smoke. I don’t know what to do.

       “Do I take you to Los Gatos and The Grands? Or figure out how to get you to Oregon?”

       “Home?” asked Myrtle. The sad yearning in her voice reminded Theo of his impulse to bike back to New Hampshire. The clouds of smoke hovering over the South Bay looked just as black on a second and third sighting as the first. I wonder what’s happening at Cousin Charlie’s? That smoke doesn’t look good. Whatever has to be done, Charlie will do it. And Deb and Ted.

       “OK,” he said. “We’ll go to Oregon. We better bike up 101 instead of I-5. I think there is water up I-5, but it’s exposed and deserted and climbs through the mountains.”

       “Let’s write a note telling Jordan where we are going and prep the bikes. We can leave at dawn tomorrow.”

       It was late before he finished loading the bikes as he liked. They were awkward, but Myrtle proved she could handle her load. He couldn’t figure out how to turn the hand truck into a trailer. It meant leaving behind more food than he was happy giving up. It’s six hundred miles give or take to Oregon... say 20 days for us, 2 people eat 5 pounds a day? I don’t know, but that means carrying 40 or 50 pounds apiece... Just pack as much as I can...

       Take to the roads now, or sleep in a protected place and start at dawn? His aching muscles and a look at his niece’s tired, soot-streaked face convinced him to wait until dawn.

       Dawn was a pallid glow when the fire stench jerked Theo awake. He could hear crackles in the distance. He levitated yelling, “Myrtle, Myrtle, shake a leg! We’re in trouble,” jumping to the window. He couldn’t see much. Billows of acrid smoke stung his eyes. “Let’s go, Little Tree. We should have gone last night, but the fire looked stable and we were so tired.”

       Myrtle was white and shaking, Theo helped her get her bike with it’s load of food down the steps and then carried his down. They wheeled the bikes quickly down the street. The cross street was full of people staring at the wall of fire coming up from Carquinez. Why are they just standing there? he wondered. They’ve got to get out!

       He turned towards the west and north and stopped. There was a wall of fire cutting them off.

       A shocked scream jerked him around. A man was running, clutching a backpack with money spilling out of it, and behind him another man was sinking to the ground; a knife in his gut. Theo shrugged off his backpack and pulled out the first aid kit. He leaned the bike against a lamppost. The crowd flowed around the man, but nobody helped him.

       Theo shoved through and pushed the man down and ripped his shirt open. The size of the hilt and the swelling around it told it’s tale. The knife had sliced a major blood vessel. Damn! He’s done for... nothing I can do! He heard the crowd; people asking shocked questions as he lay the man down.

       He stood and turned, tripping and grabbing Myrtle, pushed against him. Her thumb was in her mouth and her eyes fixed on the unconscious man. “Unca Gruff...” she asked in a wobbly voice.

       “Nothing to do, Little Tree. Even with an ambulance he wouldn’t make it.”

       A woman came over with a blanket and a pillow. Theo opened his mouth and then shrugged. We have more urgent things to do! He looked at the fires, pulling a glassy eyed Myrtle with him to their bikes. Theo knelt and looked her in the eyes. She rolled them away.

       “Myrtle, you can have a breakdown later. I’ll let you scream and howl and stare and evade then. Right now we have to save our lives and get to BD. BD, remember? Mom? We’ve got to go, right now!”

       He stood and looked around, “But where?” he asked himself.

       “The Marina?” asked Myrtle in a whisper. “Can we hide in the water tower? Will that protect us?”

       “No, but marina... boats, boats! I’ve got over a thousand dollars...” even as he said that Theo made sure nobody over heard. “But there is nobody to rent a boat from....” Hesitant, worried, he looked at the fire. “They’ll burn, they’ll burn if they aren’t taken out.”

       “He’s dead! He’s dead! Why didn’t anybody do something?”

       Theo and Myrtle flinched. “Come on!” said Theo, standing and holding Myrtle’s bike. “We’ve got to get out of here. To the Marina.” He swung himself onto his own heavily laden bike and followed his niece’s wobbly path down the street.

       The gate at the marina was closed, locked, and chained. With an absent pat on the shoulder for his white-faced niece, he pulled out the halligan bar. He looked at it and felt cold move in his gut. This is a felony; breaking and entering with intent to steal.

       Maybe there is nobody left.

       A cold ripple traveled up his spine. Incongruously, he thought of his laptop, maybe burning in a hotel 80 miles away; of his world burning and clenched his teeth. It was time to step outside the box, the box of civilization... he moved the halligan bar, aiming, not at the heavy lock enclosed in a 3/8” steel box, but at the hinges.

       Wow! What a tool! This works! It took all his strength to break the hinges and shoulder the gate aside. Myrtle pushed her bike through. Theo turned to get his and saw why she was moving so fast... people were pelting up the street, just ahead of the fire. “Where are you going?” he yelled after Myrtle.

       “Come, see! This is the boat Dad and Aunt Beans want to buy!” The girl threaded her way expertly down the gangways to a sweet little 24 ft sailboat. Theo approved of Jordan’s taste, and the unknown “Aunt Beans.” It was oceangoing. They would be able to boat down the bay to Sonoma County or Marin.

       It was the “Firefly.” He smiled. “It’s just a little light in the dark.” His niece gave him a quizzical look. Behind them, the small crowd fought over rowing boats and a couple tried to start up powerboats.

       He swung Myrtle aboard and handed her bags and sacks and packs and the awkward 5 gallon stock pot he’d packed with sugar, salt and spices, and the various spoons and such that wouldn’t fit anywhere neatly. She laid them on the pilot’s deck; the cabin was locked. Theo swung aboard and pulled up the bikes. The halligan bar opened the cabin door. Theo cast off as Myrtle shifted the food. A long pole helped him shove the boat free and turn it to the Napa River. Myrtle made short work of her task.

       “I need you to steer, Myrtle,” said Theo. “We’re going that-a-way.”

       Myrtle took the wheel, wiggled it and got the hang of it. Theo poled the boat. It was hard work. Behind Myrtle’s back he could see the fire roar down the crowded marina. Some boats were away, but most burned. A bend hid them from view and he looked forward, hiding the last minute’s sights and sounds deep in his memory.

       Myrtle concentrated on steering. On his next pass by the wheel he said, “It’s hard work without a motor or tow.”

       “You know, Roger would want the ‘little donkey’ out and working,” she answered. For several seconds he was nonplussed, then he realized that BD had shared their favorite childhood books with her daughter. He answered “Swallows and Amazons” style.

       “Well, able-seaman Myrtle, the ‘little donkey’ is being a donkey, so we do it Cap’n John and Cap’n Nancy’s way.” She smiled and turned her attention to the bay. Soon the wind that drove the fire down on them caught them. He shipped the pole. “Let’s set sail Little Tree, it’ll be easier.”

       Theo was grateful his niece knew her way around boats. “Dad and Aunt Beans rent a boat just like this one. It’s nice!” It was. Set up so one or two could sail it easily; every sheet could be controlled from the cockpit and a number of pulleys and winches allowed weaker people to handle it. Theo dropped into the cockpit, barking his shin on a bike pedal, and twisted to avoid a handle bar. “I’ll see about inside and getting the bikes stowed.” He ducked into the cabin.

       Two bunks, neither big enough for him, a curtained head and a minuscule galley greeted his gaze. The cupboards were locked... but an unlocked drawer held all the keys; including the key to the busted cabin door. Theo decided he’d see if he could fix it. He stowed the sacks of rice and oatmeal on one of the bunks, using tie downs from the drawers. The dried food went into cupboards that were already well stocked with canned stuff. The 5 gallon stock pot he guyed down on the counter. It barely fit.

       There was a water tank; 20 gallons; the water was fresh. Maybe the owners were coming to use it and asked the guy to fill ‘er up. theorized Theo. The stove worked. “How are we doing, Myrtle?”

       “Ogay, but I’ll need you soon. Daddy didn’t let me steer in the bay, just the marina.”

       “OK!” He opened drawers quickly. Silverware, cooking gear, some towels... No ship’s papers, no charts, no log book. He pulled his map of California out of his backpack; it would have to do.

       There was no space for the two bikes. Under the bunks, drawers held sheets, blankets and folded sleeping bags. Two lockers outside the door had sails, lines, a boat cover, an anchor and a sea anchor. Behind the wheel he found three 5 gallon cans of fuel.

       He leaned the bikes one on each side of the cockpit and swung Myrtle up to the roof over the cabin door. The wind freshened and the boat heeled. He controlled it firmly and laughed for the wind in his face and the salt spray, the sudden freedom, breaking like a salt wave over the last two days of angst and fear.

       “Unca Gruff?”

       “Yes, Little Tree?”

       “Shouldn’t we be wearing life jackets?”

       Theo laughed again. “Of course we should! Can you hop down? They’re probably stowed in the side lockers behind the bikes.”

       His niece clambered down and poked her hands under the bike chains and through the wheels. The third locker had five life vests. One was small enough to be tightened onto Myrtle. None were big enough for Theo. He did his best, strapping two on, one front and one back.

       Theo looked at the bay shore and winced. Fires were burning; too many fires. The dirty smoke climbed to hang in the sky like a grim pall over the dying multi-metropolis. Focus, Theo scolded himself. “Myrtle, please get the California map out of the cabin?” He spread it over the chart holder. “We’ve got to go under the bridge on 80; have you been that way?

       “Duh! When we go to sea, we go to 80, under to San Pablo Bay; keep NW and then dead south to go under the Richmond/San Rafael Bridge; bear south past Tiburon and then SW so that we can pass under the Golden Gate... then things get rough!”

       “It’s a long way and I don’t know it.”

       “Daddy made me take tests. I navy-gator for him and Aunt Beans!” Myrtle sounded proud. Theo gladly gave her the job.

       “You’ll need to be look out, and point out my landmarks so I don’t run us aground.”

       Myrtle nodded, then hesitated. “Unca Gruff!”

       “Yeah?”

       “Aunt Beans guyed me to the mast!”

       Theo considered. On an ordinary day, guying the child to the boat with a sufficiently long cable was a good idea; he had seen guy lines down below and her life jacket had a D ring for that. But today.... there was nobody on the water he’d want to help them if they turned turtle.

       “I think I’ll guy us together instead, but we have to be careful to not tangle! Take the helm for a minute.”

       He got a 50-foot line hooked up and then ran up the foresail as well. There was a manual stuck to the chart desk. He was impressed by the engineering of the little ship’s operations.

       Myrtle sat by the mast, the wind whipping her hair about as she called out directions. Salt spray hit them both frequently as Theo struggled to master the little boat’s idiosyncrasies.

       Around 8 am they sailed into the San Pablo Bay. The smoke obscured the sun’s face and only a pale disk was visible. Theo sailed west, following directions. Suddenly Myrtle sobbed. “It hurts, Unca Gruff! I forgot to ask you to braid it like Aunt Beans does for me.”

       Theo looked at the snarled mass of hair and winced. “That’s bad, niece, and I know I can’t comb it. There’s not enough on my head for me to have learned.

       “I don’t think we’re going to find fresh water showers, shampoo or rinse soon. If we go to Oregon, we’ll be washing in rivers and the sea for a while. You know what salt water does to hair?”

       “Yes,” she sniffed. “It takes a bottle of rinse to fix it!”

       “Honey, you have gorgeous hair; it will grow back. We need to give you a page boy bob for the trip home.” His niece cried silently as she slipped down, avoided the bikes and turned her back to him. He slipped the loop over the wheel and pulled out his pocket knife. He made heavy weather of cutting the girl’s snarled mane with the small scissors. The snarls were horrid enough he was glad he hadn’t tried to comb it first.

       As he tossed the hair overboard, he watched Myrtle’s thumb go back into her mouth. He had a vague memory of BD telling him she hadn’t tried to break the child of the habit; that it meant extreme distress. Hell! I’m distressed! For a kid this must be the most terrifying thing in the world. “Honey, we’ve got a long run down the San Pablo Bay. I see two sailboats heading that way.” He pointed. “Why don’t you take a nap? You’ll need to be alert for the Richmond Bridge part.”

       She sniffed and mumbled “ogay,” around her thumb. In a few minutes she was curled up sobbing in the sleeping bag, clutching a small, very ugly baby doll. So she did bring her special toy out of disaster. She must have packed it last night.

       Theo concentrated on the boats ahead, the sails, and the wind. He breathed, grateful as his sinuses recovered from the burning pollutants. He felt much better about their chances on the water.

       17th it happened, 18th biking to Vallejo, 19th trying to decide what to do and hauling water... Today is the 20th. I can’t lose track of the days. Carefully he wrote the dates on an edge of a map, and what had happened on each day.

       Odd, no ship’s papers aboard, no log, no charts, no paper at all. For several hours he sailed, glad that Myrtle was sleeping off the shocks of the past hours. All around the bay could see smoke clouds rising. He thought he could trace them over major air corridors, refineries; the rest, might be arson or broken gas lines.

       What to do? I want to get back to Cousin Charlie and the Grands; but I promised Myrtle we’d go to Oregon. I think highways are going to be more dangerous than I thought, but we can sail, can’t we?

       Theo wished he had a cell phone and could call Charlie... Charlie? All hell broke loose, get everybody down to Half-Moon Bay and we’ll go sailing off into the sunset! Not likely! Four more people might fit, barely, on the Firefly. But... how many people would be looking for boats to escape?

       Sail up the coast? Make it to Oregon, sail the Columbia River to Portland? He looked at the shore and remembered the stabbed man. It might be safer to risk the seas in this dinky little boat than walking or biking.

       Parallax error and perspective finally to make him wake Myrtle around midday as they approached the San Rafael Bridge. Theo was nervous about shallows. He didn’t know the tides. No tide books or charts were aboard; only a simple compass built into the chart desk. He supposed the owners stored their boat box off ship.

       Myrtle though tear stained, was a competent lookout/navigator. Jordan’s lessons and tests got them safely under the bridge “en-route” for Tiburon. Now, the decision... open sea or the shallow San Francisco Bay. It’s too shallow, and won’t put me anywhere near the Grands, he decided. I’ll have to head out to sea, choose between Half Moon Bay or Oregon... Damn! I need charts!

       “Look, look!” Myrtle screamed and pointed. “Those are the Lady Washington and the, the... Daddy told me about them! We were going to go see them yesterday! They came from Hawai’i and Gray’s Harbor!”

       The masts of the tall ships quickened his heart. He’d read about their arrival and had planned on seeing them. Maybe the salt water tars could help him.

       “The Hawaiian Chieftain, I think.”

       A tricky time later he luffed up along side the Hawaiian Chieftain, three times as long and twice as tall as his little Firefly, neatly painted white and black. The blue and yellow “Lady Washington” was anchored some yards off. “Ahoy, Hawaiian Chieftain. Ahoy!” he yelled.

       A man looked over the railings; waved and went away. Soon another man looked over the side. Theo shivered. The man was wearing clothing suited to Captain Pellew or Horatio Hornblower. With all the changes over the past few days he wondered if he was trapped in a time shift.

       “Ahoy! I’m Captain Ian MacIntire! Don’t mind the clothes, matey! We wear them for these recreation things! What ship, where from?”

       “Firefly, out of Vallejo! What’s happened?”

       “Your guess is as good as ours! Nothing works! Well, nothing but the compass and our old sextants, and the sails!”

       “Small favors!” laughed Theo, realizing how badly he’d wanted to talk to another adult.

       “Where to?”

       He hasn’t asked me if it is my boat. I wonder if he knows or guesses. “I don’t know. I’ve got family in San Jose and Los Gatos and a sister up in Oregon. I don’t know if I could make Oregon in this boat, and there aren’t any charts aboard.”

       “Don’t go to San Fran or San Jose!” said the captain. “We bugged out of SF when things got really bad, rioting on the waterfront. And we can see from the crow’s nest! It’s a mess; fires everywhere, chaos, people running... If your people were smart they hightailed it. Unless you’ve got a rendezvous, you’ll never find them. It’s a madhouse.”

       Theo winced; they hadn’t thought of that and the rendezvous was the house in Los Gatos. Tears flooded his eyes. He bit his lip; there would be nights when he could cry privately. “What about sailing out? I’ve got a sister in Oregon; Portland.”

       “Maybe, if you are careful. Nice little boat there; she can make it. And you got your cabin boy to help. I think you could.”

       Theo nodded and hefted Myrtle’s bike. Jettisoning the two awkward burdens into the cold sea water would feel good. He had bruises around his waist from the handle bars and scabs on his shins. Trying to boat on open seas with the bikes was impossible. He couldn’t think of a way to tow them or strap them down.

       “Wait, wait! What are you doing?”

       Theo paused, shifting his grip. “Tossing them overboard! It should be deep enough.”

       “Hey! I’ll take them. Cars don’t work; we might need them if this stuff goes all the way up the coast! I’ll give you charts for them! Charts for the coast, for Astoria, the Columbia! Astoria’s a Coast Guard town. There’s a hazard where the Columbia comes out by Astoria. It’s called ‘The Bar.’ You’ll need a “Bar Pilot” to get into