The Doctor is Out.

On the night of the Wisconsin primary, about 20 hardcore Howard Dean activists shuffle into a windowless back room at the Teamsters office in Hell's Kitchen. It's a temporary Dean crisis bunker, one of many across the country tonight, with CNN updates from Wisconsin shaking the walls like artillery shells rooting out the last pockets of a tattered resistance army. All day the two leading candidates have been closing in on Dean's meagerly armed opposition: Kerry's sex scandal died in the crib and early results show Edwards placing a strong second.

But the comrades of hellskitchen4dean have no plans to abandon the movement in its greatest hour of need. As members speak of sister cells across town?"Has anyone been in contact with Brooklyn about Saturday?"?the scene smacks of nothing so much as a defiant underground guerilla group entering its final hour.

Forget the millions of disappointed bandwagon Democrats who abandoned Dean after Iowa. The soldiers of hellskitchen4dean?a subsection of nyc4dean?are, now as then, the true Deaniacs. With their money, time and energy, they sparked and helped sustain the Dean explosion of 2003. And tonight the loyal troops are vowing to continue the fight, if not for the nomination, then for convention delegates; if not for convention delegates, then for the future of the Democratic Party.

Until Dean throws in the towel?still an unspeakable thought?they will fight. Hard. Like the sewer rats of the Polish Underground, hellskitchen4dean is low on ammo?the group has only four bumper stickers left?but is determined to engage the enemy until each has died an honorable death against the "Kerry machine." (The Edwards campaign is viewed slightly more favorably. "They've always been much nicer to us," says one member.)

Though the end is imminent, the group begins proceedings on a defiant note, with the announcement that the Dean Broadway Show Crew will be distributing flyers outside theaters after the meeting. Manhattan theatergoers are discussed as if they are a vital Dean constituency.

"Remember," says one young woman, "Dean's mother is a big supporter of the performing arts. This is a good thing to mention, especially to women." Tracey Denton, the high-energy leader of the cell, agrees that this is a good point.

More than 12 hours ago, at six that morning, many of these same people were handing out Dean leaflets at corners and subway stops around the city. They plan to do it again the next morning, no matter what happens in Wisconsin. Later in the week, some of them intend to literally give blood for Howard Dean, when members of the elite "Dean Corps" congregate at the New York Blood Center to address the national blood shortage and create "visibility" for the campaign. Participants are told to wear their Dean Gear.

The critical condition of Howard Dean's presidential campaign has both toughened the group's resolve and loosened its grip on reality. When early results from Wisconsin are mentioned at the start of the meeting, the subject is quickly dropped and the floor opened to "positive flyering" experiences. When one of these stories involves a street antagonist who exclaimed, "Dean is dead in the water," a nervous twitch ripples through the meeting. The silence is broken by cheerier tales.

"I still get stopped on the street because of my button," one woman pipes up. "Let's not forget how important the buttons are. It shows that the campaign is still alive. You forget you're wearing it until someone starts talking to you about Dean."

"This morning when I was out flyering," says another, "people were saying 'Thank you, thank you for being out here.' People still support Dean. We aren't alone."

The testimonies soon slide into rationalization mixed with bitterness.

"People just don't understand how the delegate system works. They only think in terms of winning 'states' because that's all the media talks about. We need to explain this to people. Dean has delegates."

"Always mention that Bill Clinton didn't win a state until March."

"We're still just hearing Dean's ideas come out of Kerry's mouth."

"The DNC used the words 'meet-up' yesterday for the first time!"

"People don't understand that [Steve] Grossman was Dean's finance guy?the real campaign manager didn't quit. [Roy] Neel is still there. We've got to get the word out."

Against all hope, future plans abound. There are discussions about emergency Dean fundraising parties, the implementation of Building Captain programs (in which people target fellow building residents with hand-written letters about Dean) and a tentatively scheduled meeting with a pro-Dean painters' union. When Wisconsin enters its final two minutes of polling, attention turns to a television set in the corner of the room. The volume is turned up just as Wolf Blitzer is announcing Howard Dean's death certificate.

"Where are the numbers?" someone shouts. "I haven't seen any final numbers!"

When Blitzer officially declares Dean a "distant third" at 18 percent, with Edwards close behind Kerry, there is only silence. It is as if Dean's heart monitor has just registered a flatline after a heroic, nine-month emergency operation. Heads drop. Some walk away from the television and sit down.

Tracey Denton begins her long grapple with denial. "Wait?this could be good," she says, turning frantically from face to face. "An Edwards victory could slow down the Kerry machine!"

If anybody agrees, nobody says so. Nor does anyone walk over and grab her by the shoulders, shake her and scream, "Godammit woman! Get a grip! It's over! It's fucking over!!"

Nobody can bring themselves to say that it's all over for Howard Dean. So nobody says much of anything. The members of the Dean Broadway Show Crew just put on their coats and head out into the cold, flyers in hand. Howard Dean's mother, some of them must be thinking, would have made a great ambassador for the performing arts.