Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling

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.
    They talked on into the night, in the fine old tradition. At last Chuck held up a hand; sitting around hashing things out until consensus was wonderful, not to mention customary, but they had to act now or not at all.
    I wish Juney was here. She was always better than anyone else at getting this herd of cats moving in the same direction; she could jolly them along and get them singing, or something.
    â€œLook, I really hope things will be normal tomorrow. Even though that means I’ll be fired and maybe arrested, because I flashed my Parks and Recreation credentials and took all that Living History stuff from that poor custodian—he was the only one who hadn’t bugged out in a panic. But if it isn’t normal tomorrow, Judy and Tamsin”—he nodded towards the room where the children were sleeping—“and me, and Andy and Diana and their Greg are heading out. I’d love for you all to come with me. You mean a lot to us.”
    â€œOut where?” someone asked. “Why?”
    â€œWhy? I told you; there are a quarter of a million people in the Eugene metro area. If this goes on, in about a month, maybe less, this city’s going to be eating rats—do you want your kids in that? The ones who survive are going to be the ones who don’t sit around waiting for someone to come and make things better—unless they do get back to normal, but I’m not going to bet my daughter’s life on it. As to where . . .”
    He leaned forward. “One thing’s for sure. Juniper isn’t driving in tonight from Corvallis for an Esbat. I’ll bet you anything you want to name she’s going to get the same idea as me: head for her place in the hills.”
    â€œOh, Goddess,” Diana Trethar said. “She won’t know about Rudy!”
    Chuck’s voice was grim. “She’ll be able to guess, I think.”
    He pointed northeast. “We can wait things out there—live there a long time, if we have to. We’ll leave a message for the people who didn’t show; a hint at where we’re going and what we think is happening. Look, these wagons can haul something like six tons each. . . .”
    INTERLUDE I: THE CHANGE
    Portland, Oregon
March 31st, 1998
    Emiliano knew the way to the Central Library on Tenth Street, although he wouldn’t have wanted his pandilleros to know about it—bookworm wasn’t a title a man in his position could afford. He’d still come here now and then to find out things he needed to know, though never before with his crew swaggering at his back.
    Ruddy light blinked back from the spearheads of the men standing along the roadway. There was plenty—not only from the huge fires consuming the city eastward across the river and smaller ones nearby, but from wood burning in iron baskets hung from the streetlamps; the air was heavy with the acrid throat-hurting smell of both, enough to make him cough occasionally, and the flames reflected back from the heavy pall of smoke and cloud overhead.
    The fighting men directing foot traffic and clumped before the library entrance got his pandilleros ’ respectful attention; his Lords were equipped with what they’d been able to cobble together since the Change, but these were a different story altogether. Half the guards had a uniform outfit of seven-foot spears, big kite-shaped shields painted black with a cat-pupiled eye in red, helmets and knee-length canvas tunics sewn with metal scales. The other half carried missile weapons, crossbows and hunting bows from sporting goods stores.
    And hanging from the two big trees in front of the entrance were—
    â€œHoly shit, man,” someone said behind