Mike McQuay - Escape From New York

Hauk stood there, hearing the man’s voice, but not really listening. The Vice President was simply saying all the same things that Prather had said earlier.

“We can’t,” Hauk said at the proper time. “If we go down there with choppers, they’ll kill him. We’re lucky now if he’s still alive.”

“What do they want?” the voice said, and it sounded tired, too.

“They don’t want anything, yet, and by the time they figure out what they want, it’ll be too late.”

Prather was tugging on his sleeve. “Tell him we have to go with your plan now!”

On the phone, the Vice President was saying something about tomorrow. He didn’t want to make a decision either.

“We can’t wait until tomorrow. If we have to move in and take the island, it’s a last resort. It’s nine oh five. I want permission to try the rescue.”

There was dead air on the line for a time, then, “All right. Try your rescue. But, I’m warning you…”

“I know,” Hauk interrupted. “It’s my responsibility.”

He hung up the phone and looked at Prather. The tension was draining somewhat out of the man’s face. There was a sharp knock on the door.

“Come,” Hauk said, and Cronenberg walked in. He was tall and slightly stooped, his posture and long white lab coat making him look somewhat like a whooping crane. He was old-looking, but it was a healthy old. His features were rugged and likable.

“Is it ready?” Hauk asked.

The man fixed him with a cold stare. “Yes, but I can’t guarantee..”

“How long will it take?”

“A few seconds. But I’m against using it.”

Hauk slapped a hand on the tabletop. “I have a directive from Washington.”

Cronenberg moved over to him, and it was obvious that the man was angry inside, that he was just barely keeping that anger under control. “This is an experimental unit, Hauk,” he said. “I’ve never tried it on a man. This isn’t like you.”

Hauk didn’t have time to be diplomatic. “You can test it out,” he said.

A black-suited, overweight sergeant stuck his head in the door. His eyes bypassed Hauk and stopped on Cronenberg. “They just took him in to quarantine,” he said.

“Bring him to my office,” Hauk returned. The man left. He looked at Cronenberg. “Warm up your machine, Doctor.”

The doctor’s eyes flared, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he turned sharply on his heels and marched out of the room. There was silence for a few seconds, then Prather spoke:

“There’s something that needs to be said, Hauk,” he began. “The President is, of course, very important to us… but the briefcase-that’s more important right now.”

“Yeah,” Hauk replied. “I kind of figured that one out for myself.”

9:00 P.M.

They sat Plissken in the steri-chamber, so he could think about it for awhile. There was nothing fancy or scientific about the steri-chamber. It was a small, white room where they strapped you naked on a stainless steel table, then put a box about the size of a typewriter over your hips. The machine then, quite quickly and smartly, would cut your balls off.

They had a blackbelly named Duggan in there to watch him. Duggan was the craziest son of a bitch that Plissken had ever seen. If anyone belonged in the steri-chamber getting his balls cut off, it was Duggan.

The blackbelly was hopping around the room on all fours, imitating a rabbit he had seen once that had gotten a dose of gas. Plissken had a pretty good loop of chain to work with while he was sitting down. If he could only get Duggan close enough to him, he could try to get it around the man’s neck. Then, with any luck, he could use his gun to shoot off the chains.

“And then… and then…” Duggan was out of breath, eyes wide, unable to stop laughing. “And then, he’d kindly go on off to the side.”

The man flung himself wildly off at an angle, banging into a small table full of instruments and gauze. The table fell down, skittering the instruments loudly across the shiny floor.

Duggan jumped to his feet and his head darted around. His gummy monkey face suddenly solidified into something rock hard and perverted. He pulled a. 45 out of his belt and leveled it at the Snake. His hand was shaking with rage,

“So, that’s the way it’s going to be, is it,” he said, his voice quaking. He was breathing loudly through his nose. “Just look what you did, you gutless bastard.” He nodded his head toward the mess on the floor.

Plissken tightened his hands on the chain, waiting for his opportunity.

“You know what you’re gonna do?” Duggan asked rhetorically. “You’re gonna get down there right now and pick that stuff up, that’s what.”

“Go to hell,” Plissken said.

Duggan began vibrating physically. He primed the bolt on the gun. His arm was shaking, weaving around. When he tried to speak, the words got all balled up in his throat.

“Down… on the… floor. NOW!”

Plissken moved off the bench, his length of chain stretching full as he stood up. He set the table upright, then squatted down and began picking up the scattered metal clamps and hemostats. Duggan stayed just out of arm’s reach, always out of arm’s reach.

Plissken looked up at him from the floor. The man had a monstrous grin plastered on his face. He turned back to the work. All at once, Duggan was right there. Plissken had turned his head just enough to see the steel-toed boot curling toward his exposed side.

The kick was well-intentioned; it had authority. It caught him just below the rib cage, and his whole side exploded. He jerked up with it, crashing back into the instrument table, all his work gone, clattering back to the floor. He hit the wall hard, then slid and doubled over to the floor.

Duggan was on top of him, gasping putrid breath, his automatic buried deep in the flesh of Plissken’s neck, cutting off his air.

“Ohhh, Snakey,” he rasped. “What we’re gonna do to you.”

He was jostling his hips against Plissken’s side. “We’re gonna fix you so that there won’t be no more little snakes slithering around. Yesss.”

Somewhere between the pain and the nausea, Plissken found the length of chain and got hold of it. He looped it once around his hands, and itched for Duggan’s neck.

Then, a voice. “What the hell…”

Duggan jumped to his feet, still shaking, trying to get himself under control. Plissken looked up from his sideways view on the floor. The fat duty sergeant from in-processing had come into the room.

“He was… trying to escape,” Duggan said, while smoothing his disheveled hair. “That’s it. I subdued the prisoner during an escape attempt.”

The Sergeant looked at Duggan, then let his eyes drift down to the Snake. He never changed expression. “Something may be up,” he said. “Cronenberg said to stop his processing until further notice.”

“What for?”

Plissken got himself into a sitting position, leaning his back against the wall. His side was badly bruised, but he didn’t think there was any permanent damage.

“I just do what I’m told,” the Sergeant answered, and looked at Plissken again. “You okay?”

“Never better,” he answered, and got slowly to his feet.

The Sergeant walked up to Duggan. “Just leave him right here, understand? Don’t hit him, don’t hurt him, don’t shoot him. Just leave him alone until you hear from me. Got it?”

“Sure, Sarge,” Duggan said, holstering his gun. “You know you can count on me.”

The Sergeant looked at him, sighed deeply, then stalked from the room.

Duggan flared around to Plissken, the fire in his eyes again. “Look what you did to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Try to treat you assholes with a little kindness and you throw it back in my face. Well, no more Mister Nice Guy. You get back in your seat and don’t move.”