“Up on th’ roof!” Al shouted. “Quick!”

They all boiled upstairs, heading for the roof. Ron still heard shouts down below as warriors pounded past him on the stairs. There was shouting out on the street. Flames were licking up the stairs now, as Ron stood frozen watching them. He heard the shouts of excited, victory-crazed guys mixed with the shrieks of those who were burning to death.

Ron could feel the heat singering his face, curling the hair on his hands and arms. All at once he turned and ran upstairs. Not for the roof. For Sylvia’s room. He pushed her door open. The rest of the guys kept on swarming toward the roof.

By the flickering light of the flames he could see her sitting huddled in the farthest corner of the room, covering Davey with her arms.

“Shh . . . shhh . . . don’t cry. Davey, please don’t cry.”

The boy was rigid with fright. His eyes were squeezed shut and he clung to Sylvia so hard that Ron knew he must be hurting her.

“Sylvia!” he called.

She looked up. “Oh, Ron, what’re we gonna do?”

“Come on. They’re all going up to the roof.”

He helped Sylvia to her feet. “Give Davey to me,” he said.

She shook her head. “Naw, I’ll hold him.”

Ron stroked Davey’s hair as they headed for the doorway. “It’s okay, Davey. It’s me, Ron. We’ll be okay. Don’t be scared.”

The fire was roaring two flights below them and licking up the stairwell. Ron could feel its searing heat on his back as they started up the steps. They passed his own floor and were heading up the last flight of stairs that led to the roof when the shooting started again.

This time the shots came from the roof. The screaming and swearing was almost as loud as the gunfire. Ron heard heavy machine guns blasting the night air. They were waiting up on the roof for us! It’s a trap!

The door burst open and two warriors staggered down the steps, bleeding, limping, hands empty and eyes glazed with pain and shock. Then a girl stumbled through the doorway, covered with blood. She collapsed and tumbled halfway down the stairs. Sylvia buried her face in Davey’s dark hair. Two warriors pushed past Ron and headed down the steps in panic.

“My room, quick!” Ron whispered to Sylvia. Numbly, she followed him. The fire was only one floor below them now. The stairway and landing were lit by its hungry red glow. More shots rang out from the roof.

The only window in Ron’s room opened onto an air shaft. There was a chance that they could get down to the bottom of it and sneak into the next building, then hide there until the battle was over.

In the flickering shadows, Ron slashed blankets and mattress coverings and knotted them together with shaking fingers into one long rope. Looping one end around Sylvia’s shoulders, he lowered her and Davey out the window and to the bottom of the air shaft.

The fire was licking at his doorway, evil and hungry. The smoke was making him cough, blurring his vision. Ron tied his end of the makeshift rope to an ancient steam radiator that hadn’t worked for twenty years. He hoped it wouldn’t fall apart under his weight. Then, coughing and teary-eyed, he crawled out the window and edged down the side of the building.

He almost made it all the way before the rope broke. He landed hard, but on his feet, then sank to all fours. Looking up, he saw flames spurt from his own window.

He turned and saw Sylvia kneeling a few feet away from him, still clutching Davey close to her. Without a word he grabbed her and led them across the grimy, garbage-slick shaftway to the next building. Ron kicked in a window and stepped through into a pitch-dark room. He helped Sylvia and Davey through.

They groped in the flame-lit dimness away from the fire. For the first time, Ron realized that the monstrous blaze was roaring; the sound had just not penetrated his consciousness until that moment. Over its hideous roar, he could hear more shots and screams.

They made their way down to the basement and hid behind an old, broken-down furnace. Things scuttled across the floor in the darkness. Ron wasn’t worried about roaches or mice, particularly. He saw the red glowing eyes of big rats, though, and knew that he wouldn’t be able to sleep.

Not that he could have, anyway. From outside he could hear more shots, then nothing for a long time except the gradually diminishing roar of the fire. Then came a huge crashing groan that Ron guessed was their building caving in from the gutting flames. He heard shouting and laughing.

In the darkness, Ron couldn’t see Sylvia’s face or Davey’s. But he heard the boy whimpering, a high-pitched thin crying sound of pure terror. Sylvia kept whispering, “Shhh . . . shhh” and tried to hold Davey close to her, so that his voice would be muffled. But Ron could still hear it.

As morning came, Ron saw that there were windows in the basement, set high up in the walls. He went to one of them and carefully peeked outside, standing on tiptoe.

The street outside was covered with bodies. Warriors mostly, but there were several girls among them. Some of them were blackened with burns. Others were torn by bullets. All of them were dead.

A group of warriors was slowly coming down the street, rifles in their hands. Ron recognized one of them as a member of the Chelsea gang, a kid who had stayed with him whenever he went through the Chelsea warehouses. Striding down the street beside him, grinning happily, was Dino.

Ron’s insides suddenly felt as if someone had lit a fire in him. He gripped the edge of the basement window ledge so hard that his fingernails bit into the dust-caked cement.

If only I had a gun . . . Then Ron thought of Sylvia and Davey, still huddled behind the furnace. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but watch.

The Chelsea warriors stopped at one of the bodies. It was lying face-down on the sidewalk. Dino nudged the body with the toe of his boot. My boot! Ron thought furiously.

Dino pushed the body over onto its back. It was Al. Ron sagged against the gritty basement wall.

“That’s him,” he heard Dino say. “Good.”

Sick with anger and sadness, Ron made his way back to the furnace. Sylvia was sitting against its sooty black metal side, half-asleep. Davey was still in her arms, his eyes still squeezed shut, still whimpering.

Sylvia opened her eyes as Ron sat on the floor beside her. She looked completely exhausted.

“It was the Chelsea gang,” Ron said quietly. “Dino’s with them.”

She didn’t move, didn’t say anything.

“They got Al. He’s dead.”

Sylvia looked at him. “Yer sure?”

“I saw his body.”

She nodded. Nothing else. No tears, no words. Only a nod.

They sat there for a long, long time. Ron didn’t know what to do. The only sound was Davey’s muffled crying.

Slowly Ron realized that the boy was saying a word, one single word over and over again:

“Mommy . . . Mommy . . . Mommy.”

Ron stared at the boy, then at Sylvia. She was rocking Davey now, bending her head low over his and whispering into his ear: “It’s all right, Davey . . . it’s all right . . . I’m here, honey . . . Mommy’s here . . .”

“You’re . . . you’re his mother?” Ron’s voice went high with shock.

She looked up at him. “Didn’t you know? Al was his father.”

And now there were tears in her eyes.

The day was cold. Hiding down in the unheated basement, huddling in the dust and dirt, Ron could feel the cold seeping into his bones. Sylvia was dozing. Davey was asleep at last, still in her lap, clinging to her.

Ron went to the window a dozen times an hour. The bodies were still there. The day looked gray and felt damp, as if snow were coming. Of course, inside the Dome no snow ever fell. But it felt like a snowy winter day.