"Mister, it's not for sale," Chuck said shortly. "I need it to get back to my wife and daughter. And the airport's a giant barbeque, anyway."
"I'm prepared to give you a check for a thousand, right now," the man said.
"I said, not for sale," Chuck said, preparing to get going again. "Not at any price."
"Two thousand."
Chuck shook his head wordlessly and got ready to step on the pedal. Judy would be worried, and Tamsin could sense moods like a cat-the girl was psychic, even at three years old.
Powerful God, Goddess strong and gentle, they should have been at the store long before six fifteen. They'll all be there and safe. Please!
The fist came from nowhere, and he toppled backward and hit the pavement with an ooff! Pain shot through him as the bicycle collapsed on top of him.
Someone tried to pull it away from him, and he clung to it in reflex. He also blinked his eyes open, forcing himself to see. Andy was pulling the heavyset man back by the neck of his jacket; the man turned and punched again, knocking Chuck's slightly built friend backward.
Some of Chuck Barstow's coreligionists were pacifists. He wasn't; in fact, he'd been a bouncer for a while, a couple of years ago when he was working his way through school. He was also a knight in the SCA, an organization that staged mock medieval combats as realistic as you could get without killing people. His daytime job as a gardener for Eugene Parks and Recreation demanded a lot of muscle too.
His hand snaked out and got a grip on the ankle of the man in the suit. One sharp yank brought him down yelling, and Chuck lashed out with a foot. That connected with the back of the man's head, and his yells died away to a mumble.
Sweating, aching, Chuck hauled himself to his feet; they pushed their bicycles back into motion and hopped on, feet pumping. The brief violence seemed to have cleared his head, though: He could watch the ghastly scenes that passed by without either blocking them out or going into a fugue.
In fact…
"Stop!" he said, as they reached Jefferson from Sixth.
"What for?" Andy said, looking around, but he followed his friend's lead.
"Andy, we've got to think a bit. This isn't going to get better unless… whatever changed changes back. And I've got this awful feeling it won't."
They were in among tall buildings now, and it was dark-a blacker dark than either of them had ever known outdoors. Occasional candle-gleams showed from windows, or the ruddier hue of open flame where someone had lit a fire in a Dumpster or trash barrel. The sounds of the city were utterly different-no underlying thrum of motors, but plenty of human voices, a distant growling brabble, and the crackle of fire. The smell of smoke was getting stronger by the minute.
"Why shouldn't it change back?".
"Why should it? Apart from us wanting it to."
Andy swallowed; even in the darkness, his face looked paler. "Goddess, Chuck, if it doesn't change back… "
Andy and Diana Trethar owned a restaurant that doubled as an organic food store and bakery.
"We get a delivery once a week-today, Wednesday. With no trucks-"
"- or trains, or airplanes, or motorbikes, even."
"What will happen when everything's used up?"
"We die," Chuck said. "If the food can't get to us, we die-unless we go to the food."
"Just wander out of town?" Andy said skeptically. "Chuck, most farmers need modern machinery just as much-"
"I know. But at least there would be some chance. As long as we could take enough stuff with us." Chuck nodded to himself and went on: "Which is why we're going to swing by the museum."
"What?"
"Look," he said. "Cars aren't working, right?" A nod. "Well, what's at the museum right now?"
Andy stared at him for a moment; then, for the first time since six fifteen, he began to smile.
"Blessed be. 'Oregon's Pioneer Heritage: A Living Exhibit.' "
The restaurant's window had the Closed sign in it, but the door opened at the clatter of hooves and the two men's shouts. Chuck smiled and felt his scabs pull as Judy came to the door, a candle in her hand-one thing you were certainly going to find at a coven gathering was plenty of candles. She gaped at the two big Conestoga wagons, but only for a moment: That was one of the things he loved about her, the way she always seemed to land on her mental feet.
"We need help," he said. "We've got to get these things out back."
His wife was short and Mediterranean-dark and full-figured to his medium-tall lankiness and sandy-blond coloring; she flung herself up onto the box of the wagon and kissed him. He winced, and she gave a sharp intake of breath as she turned his face to what light the moon gave.
"I'll get my bag," she said; her daytime occupation was registered nurse and midwife.
"Looks worse than it is," he said. "Just some superficial cuts-and a guy slugged me, which is why the lips are sore. Patch me later. How's Tamsin?"
"She's fine, just worried. Asleep, right now."
Things had already changed; yesterday his injuries would have meant a doctor. Now everyone ignored them, as they helped him get the horses down the laneway. Putting down feed and pouring water into buckets took a few moments more. The horses were massive Suffolk Punch roans that weighed a ton each; placid and docile by nature, but the noises and scents they'd endured had them nervous, eyes rolling, sweating and tossing their heads. He was glad there was a big open lot behind the loading dock; the wagons took up a lot of room, and eight of the huge draught beasts took even more.
Andy and Diana had bought this place cheap, converting a disused warehouse into MoonDance, the latest of Eugene's innumerable organic food store cum cafй places. The extra space in the rear of the building meant that the Coven of the Singing Moon also had a convenient location for Esbats. At least when they couldn't take the time to go up to Juniper's place; it was beautiful there, but remote, which was why they generally only went for the Sabbats- the eight great festivals of the Year's Wheel.
The familiarity was almost painful as he ducked under one of the partially raised loading doors. The back section was still all bare concrete and structural members, unlike the homey-funky decor of the cafe area at the front; it was even candlelit, as it usually was for the rites. The carpet covering the Circle and the Quarter Signs was down, though. Shadows flickered on the high ceiling, over crates and cartons and shrink-wrapped flats with big stacks of bagged goods on them. The air was full of a mealy, dusty, appetizing smell-flour and dried fruit and the ghost of a box of jars of scented oil someone had let crash on the floor last year, all under the morning's baking.
He counted faces. Eight adults. Children mostly asleep, off in the office room they usually occupied during the ceremonies.
"Jack? Carmen? Muriel?" he said, naming the other members.
"They didn't show up," Judy said. She was the coven's Maiden, and kept track of things. "We thought we shouldn't split up, the way things are out there."
He nodded emphatically. The adults all gathered around. Chuck took a deep breath: "Rudy's dead."
More shocked exclamations, murmured blessed be's, and gestures. He'd been well liked, as well as High Priest.
"All of you, it… His plane was only a hundred feet up. It just… fell. There were a dozen jets in the air, and all of them just… the engines quit. The whole airport went up in flames in about fifteen minutes. I was in the control tower, Wally lets me, you know? And I barely made it out. I did get a good view north-it's not just the city's blacked out, everything is out. As far as I could see, and you can see a good long way from there. Everything stopped at exactly the same moment."
Everyone contributed their story; Dorothy Rose had seen a man trying to use a shotgun to stop looters. That sent Diana scurrying for the Trethar household-protection revolver, and then for the separately stored ammunition, which took a while because she'd forgotten where she put it. Everyone stared in stupefaction at the results when she fired it at a bank of boxed granola.