Dino came up to him, still grinning. “Whatsamatter, dude? You look scared.”

Al stepped between them. “Knock it off, Dino. Get movin’. You’re supposed t’ be leadin’ th’ main force, not makin’ chatter.”

“Go hump yourself,” Dino muttered. But he turned away and headed for the stairs.

Al shook his head. “He’s gettin’ too lousy for his own good. Gonna hafta stop him one of these days.”

Ron said nothing.

“Okay, kid,” Al said. “You come with me.”

Ron hesitated for just a bare second. Then he followed Al to the stairs. No use arguing, he told himself. You either go with them or they throw you to the wolves. You’re either part of the gang or you’re dead.

Still, Ron knew that there was going to be fighting—killing—because of him.

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.