Al led him down into the street and around the corner. A battered old Army truck was sitting at curbside, waiting for them. Al went around to the tailgate and swung himself up. Then he reached a hand out and helped Ron up into the truck. There were eight other guys already in the truck, sitting on the floor. The plastic roof and sides made it dark and cool inside. Al sat down nearest the open tailgate. Ron sat next to him.

“One other thing we got goin’ for us,” Al said as the truck started up with a roar and a rattle, “is we got gas to run with. Stashed a lot of it all summer long. Better’n goin’ in on foot.”

Shaking and lurching, the truck groaned away from the curb and started down the street. Ron couldn’t see much out of the open tailgate. Just empty streets. Totally empty. Nobody on the sidewalks at all. No other cars driving by. Not even any cars parked at the curbs. The city was really empty.

Except for the gangs.

After many blocks, the truck stopped. But the driver kept the engine running. Ron felt its low, fast vibration in his bones. He tried to figure out where they were. There was a strange smell in the air; a foul smell, like the stink bomb one of his friends had made once in chemistry class.

Al sniffed it too. “Humpin’ sewers backin’ up already,” he muttered.

“Soon’s they close down th’ garbage plants,” said one of the guys deeper in the truck.

“Them Chelsea clowns must like th’ smell,” somebody said.

“They think it’s perfoom!”

They laughed.

“Keep it quiet,” Al snapped. “Lissen for th’ signal.”

They stilled down. For several minutes there was nothing to hear except the ticking of the truck’s engine. Ron mentally diagnosed a sticky valve. The engine would need an overhaul soon, or at least a tune-up.

An explosion! The sudden blasting noise made Ron jump.

“That’s it!” Al shouted. “Let’s go!”

The driver heard him and put the truck in gear, with a horrible grinding noise. The truck lurched forward, engine roaring. Down the streets they raced, buildings whizzing by, windows blank and staring.

Al stood up. Bracing himself and holding tight to the metal framework that supported the plastic roof, he leaned out and looked around the end of the truck to see where they were. The wind tore at his curly hair and made him squint.

He pulled himself back inside and hunched down again. “Hang on tight!” he yelled.

Everybody pulled his knees up to his chest and grabbed his ankles. Ron did the same.

The truck hit something with an ear-splitting crash and a jar that rattled Ron’s teeth. Then they drove inside a huge building, the truck’s engine suddenly sounding hollow and even noisier than before.

They stopped with a lurch that slid everybody into a jumbled heap. Al jumped out of the truck before the last echo of the engine’s roar had died away.

“C’mon, c’mon, let’s go!” he yelled.

Ron jumped down to the floor of the warehouse and the other guys piled out behind him. They all had guns in their hands. Two guys had automatic rifles, the rest had pistols.

The eight armed men sprinted to the doors that the truck had just crashed through. Ron looked around and saw row after row of packing crates, stacked up as high as the ceiling, which must have been at least six stories up.

“Okay,” Al snapped. “Find whatcha need and let’s get it packed in th’ truck. Quick! We ain’t got all day.”

“I can’t go running through a strange warehouse and pick out everything we need in a few minutes,” Ron complained. “This is no way to—”

Al cut him short. “This’s the only way yer gonna get whatcha need. Now get busy and stop yappin’!”

With a shrug, Ron turned toward the stacks of equipment. Al and the truck driver and another guy, who must have been up in the cab with the driver, went with Ron.

At least the crates were clearly marked with stenciled lettering. And further back there were smaller pieces of equipment wrapped in clear plastic, so Ron could see what they were.

He spent nearly an hour pacing up and down the rows of equipment, picking out as much as he could find. The driver and his helper carried most of the stuff back to the truck. Al stayed with Ron. He had a gun tucked into his waistband. Is he protecting me or making sure I won’t try to run away? Ron wondered.

“Time’s getting’ short,” Al muttered.

“Okay. I think I’ve got most of what I need,” Ron said.

A shot echoed through the warehouse.

“They found us!” somebody shouted.

“C’mon, let’s go,” Al said.

He and Ron started sprinting back to the truck. The driver and his helper were already there, loading some of the equipment Ron had picked out.

But as they ran, Ron’s eye caught a glimpse of the lettering on one of the big crates: CHARLESTON TURBOGENERATOR MARK VIII.

Ron skidded to a halt. “Wow! Can we get that into the truck?”

Al had to scuttle back a dozen steps. “It’s big—”

“And it’s heavy,” Ron said. “We’ll need at least six guys to carry it. But it’ll be worth it.”

Al glanced over his shoulder toward the truck and the smashed front gate where his eight fighters were crouched tensely, waiting for an enemy attack. Then he looked back at the big plastic crate.

“Dimmy, Lou, Patsy, Ed—come over here, quick!”

Al got the driver to back the truck up to the end of the row where the generators were stacked. Then the six of them heaved and lifted and strained to get one of the big crates onto the back of the truck. Ron and Al helped, too. Ron felt its weight against his shoulders, felt sweat breaking out on him as they struggled to get the crate high enough to slide into the truck. He wished for a powered forklift.

More shots! Guys shouting, cursing. Somebody screamed with pain.

They got the crate into the truck. Ron’s arms seemed to float away from him once the load of the turbogenerator was taken away.

They scrambled up into the truck. The driver edged it out toward the gate and the other warriors who had been defending the gate against the Chelsea fighters clambered in. One of them was badly hurt. He had to be pulled in. His face and chest were covered with blood, and he moaned sickeningly.

Ron stared at him as they dumped him on the floor of the truck, next to the generator crate. The truck roared out into the daylight, and into a hail of enemy fire. Bullets whizzed by and clanged off metal. The guys flattened themselves on the track floor. All except Al, who knelt at the tailgate and fired back with an automatic rifle. The shattering noise of the gun’s blasting shut everything else off from Ron’s brain.

Only when the gun stopped firing could Ron open his tight-squeezed eyes. He smelled sharp, bitter, slightly oily fumes from the gun. He felt the wind ripping through the track from a hundred bullet holes in the plastic sides.

Then he saw that he was lying next to the wounded boy. Ron backed away, his hands and knees sliding on the blood-slippery truck floor. Ron found that his clothes, his hands, even his face were sticky with the kid’s blood.

“How’s he?” Al asked.

“Dead,” somebody answered.