In the torrid heat of summer, nothing is sacred and no one is safe in Amy Nickerson’s neighborhood in Bangor.

The guerrillas usually attack after dark. In blacked-out faces, camouflage, or even civilian trenchcoats, they lurk behind shadowy bushes and porches and await the headlights of Nickerson’s car as she makes her way home.

They know her comings and goings precisely. They have good maps of the territory.

When the moment arrives, the neighborhood guerrillas give their state-of-the-art weapons a final few pumps, to achieve maximum power. As the car door opens in the driveway, they spring from their positions and blast away.

Nickerson is greatly outnumbered in these skirmishes. Although she keeps a fully loaded weapon in her car at all times, it is no match for the enemy forces and their deft use of surprise. The 23-year-old has been ambushed at home many times, and has even been blasted in front of the Broadway Shop `N’ Save store, where she works. There is no place to hide.

Nickerson brought this upon herself, however. Before she introduced her neighbors — the Douglasses and the Buckleys — to the phenomenon of the Super Soaker, they were a feebly armed band with the standard arsenal of small squirt guns, garden hoses and unwieldy water balloons. When Nickerson brought four of the big guns into the neighborhood and launched the first drenching offensive, gangster-style, from her moving automobile, she unwittingly began a fun-filled war that has continued throughout the summer.

“I just squirted a neighbor with a Super Soaker and got right into the middle of the war,” Nickerson said. “These guys are serious. One of them gave me a map of the neighborhood for an offensive strike.”

The emergence of the Super Soaker, one of most advanced squirt guns on the market and the summer’s hottest toy, has rapidly been changing the face of watery engagements across America. Suddenly, squirt guns are not just for children anymore.

Unlike the run-of-the-mill squirt guns, which shoot a few feet and have to be refilled often, the Buck Rogers-style, neon-colored Super Soaker shoots a fine stream of water up to 55 feet. The guns come in three models: 30, 50 and 100, numbers which do not necessarily correspond to the firing distance.

Because of the large reservoirs mounted at the top of the guns — the largest holds a pint of water or more — and the air-pump mechanism, the stream of water runs continuously for several minutes.

The toy, which was invented by an engineer with the Jet Propulsion Lab in Pasadena, Calif., sells for about $20 for the largest model.

By all accounts, the nationwide popularity of the Super Soaker has catapulted it into toy-selling nirvana. Since the spring, more than 2 million have been sold in the United States and thousands more abroad. After an advertising blitz in June and a wet spot on the Johnny Carson show, the Larami Corp. has been running its four factories 24 hours a day, six days a week, to keep up with the demand.

“It’s a phenomenal seller, no doubt about it,” said Stephen Marshall-Holmes, one of the managers of the Toys “R” Us store at the Bangor Mall. “We’re getting calls all the way down from Canada from people who want them and can’t get them. We have a few in stock, but four or five cases (120 or so) usually sell out in about three days.”

Although the Super Soaker fad has not reached the “maniacal” level of the Cabbage Patch craze, Marshall-Holmes said, it is one of the few popular toys bought by adults and children alike.

The water guns have been “red-hot” sellers from the K-Mart in Madawaska to Rich’s department store in Bangor, where the first batch sold out in less than a half hour.

“We had to put a sign out that limited them one to a customer,” said Lauri Thayer, Rich’s toy-department manager. “Now we can’t even get them any more.”

Despite the high-pressure of the Super Soaker, users report that the stream of water doesn’t sting, even up close. And if the toy is capable of damaging the eyes, Bangor doctors have yet to notice any emergencies as a result of the new phenomenon.

“I suppose it could create a blunt trauma to the eye, akin to getting socked with a fist, but I’d say it’s remote,” said Dr. C.J. Seekings, a Bangor opthamologist. “I’ve been all over trying to find one of the toys for my kid.”

In the water wars around Grove and Palm streets, some of the participants wear goggles to eliminate the risks of close encounters. Harvey Douglass, a heating contractor in his 50s, has been known to go into battle wearing a charcoal-blackened face and camouflaged rubber waders. His wife, Joyce, has become known as “Geneva Joyce” because of her fondness for making up new rules of engagement.

Against such tactical odds, Nickerson is forced to ambush her opponents when they are at sitting on their decks, at peace.

“I come from behind their house and hose them,” she said. “I had a friend knock on the Douglasses door once while I stood off to the side. When Harvey came out, I gave it to him.”

Not everyone in the neighborhood enjoys the ruckus of the evening soaking parties. The police have responded twice to complaints, and once put the spotlight on Nickerson as she stood drenched in the driveway. Holding up her Super Soaker, she yelled, “It’s a water gun, it’s a water gun,” as the officer fell to pieces in the car.

“I think this gives adults a chance to be children again,” said Douglass, who leaned toward water-balloon games when his children were growing up. “The heat drove us all to find a way to cool off, and I’m not one to stand on a lawn and have someone spray me with a hose. This gives us a diversion, and allows us to vent our frustrations and cool off at the same time. We have no need for a swimming pool. We can swim standing up.”