Mike McQuay - Escape From New York

The blackbelly was out from under the plane and standing beside him. Another head popped up on the other side of the fuselage. Plissken fixed the man with his good eye. All of the hatred came through, and probably more than a little of the pain.

The hard creases in the man’s face softened. Turning his head, he spoke to his partner. “Let’s get this thing outside,” he said.

They rolled it toward the big doors. Plissken walked with them, a hand on the sleek side, trying to get the feel back. He didn’t worry too much. He figured that it was like sex: once you got the rhythm, you never forgot it.

The blackbellies got the glider out of the hangar, and went to look for the truck and tow line. He waited until they were a distance away before jumping up on the wing and easing back the canopy.

He climbed in and immediately slid the covering closed. There was a second of total darkness, then the life-support and preflight lights came up. He could hear the air hiss as he looked over all the green and red lights that blinked the board before him, and after a few seconds the bottled air made it cold in there. Cold like the grave.

He sat, letting the sterile cold seep into his body, letting it become a part of him. It was like the grave, like the best part of the grave-the peace. He envied Bill Taylor just a little.

Reaching out, he began playing with toggles. Screens lit up in a panorama around him, filling the cabin with an eerie blue glow that was tinged with green around the soft edges. More toggles, and the geometric outline of the runway and surrounding area lined out on the screens.

He watched the outline of the tow truck pulling onto the runway, then saw the unreal stick figures of the blackbellies jumping out to hook on the tow line. He could feel the vibrations through the hull as they scraped the clamp against the glider to hook him up. Then they were waving their little stick arms obliquely at the canopy.

Okay, he thought. Fine and dandy.

He toggled the mike. “I’m ready,” he said.

Hauk’s voice came back to him immediately. “Twenty-one hours,” it chided.

“You don’t have to remind me,” he snapped back. Then, “Suppose he’s dead? If I come back without him do you burn these things out?”

There was a pause, a shot of static. When Hauk’s voice came back up, it sounded odd. “If you bring me the briefcase.”

The words hit him like a wrecking ball on a brick building. “The man means a lot to you, doesn’t he?”

“Get them both back, Plissken.”

“Yeah,” he answered. “I’m on my way.”

The truck’s radio was tuned to their communication. When Plissken got through, it started up immediately and began dragging the Gulffire down the runway.

He watched the speed build up on the dial, and his own spirit began to gear up with the acceleration. He took hold of the stick, felt the vibrations as the glider strained against the gravity that wanted to keep it chained to the ground. When he and the glider were ready, Plissken eased back on the stick and watched the outlines on the screens drop off the bottom and disappear as if they never existed at all.

He was up; he was free.

The urge was there to kick in the jet packs and put as much distance between himself and Hauk as he possibly could. It was almost as if getting away from the source of the madness would somehow kill the madness. It wouldn’t, though. He eased around forty degrees and headed for Manhattan Island.

Almost at once, the outline of the city appeared on the screens-distant, but not that distant. He found a thermal and bought himself some height. He was just seeing the tops of the buildings, and was closing in on them. A red blip appeared on the top of one of the outlines, flashing quickly, urgently.

Hauk’s voice on the radio, breaking the beautiful silence. “Are you picking up the target blip?”

“Right on course.”

He slid silently up on the cold empty towers, closed in on the City of Death. He lit a cigarette and dragged on it without pleasure. The buildings were right on him. He dipped down to their height and began aiming himself between them, testing his reflexes.

“How’s your altitude?” Hauk’s squeaky voice asked.

Plissken made a handsign at the radio.

“If you need to get higher,” Hauk said, “use your jet engine.”

Plissken sighed. The man wasn’t going to leave him alone. “Too much noise,” he replied.

His good eye drifted to the screen, went wide. It was filled with the outline of a huge building. It was there, right there.

“Damn!” He jerked the stick hard, tilting, nearly rolling. The building filled the screens, then listed crazily, finally sliding off the screen.

He moaned and sat back, removing the cigarette that he had bitten nearly in two. “Been a while,” he mumbled.

“What-what’s that?” came Hauk’s voice.

“Nothing,” Plissken returned.

He checked his instrument heading, made a small correction and once again, the target blip was on the screen. He evened the altitude and aimed for it.

The updraft from the buildings was creating turbulence. The stick began vibrating in his grasp, wanting to jerk to one side or the other. He got a tight grip on it with his right hand, then with both hands. The plane began rattling, the instrument panels jiggling out of focus. He could feel it in his legs right through the floor, then his whole body.

Then the whole plane was buffeting, shaking madly like it wanted to come apart. His insides were jangling and the pain shot through his head like orange fire.

The blip was coming closer, growing large on the vibrating screens.

Hauk’s voice. “Plissken…”

The glider was creaking loudly, banging, threatening to come apart all around him. And still the blip grew.

“Plissken…”

He was one with the vibrations. He was the beating heart of the living glider. The blip was filling the screens, overfilling, spilling blue lined light onto his body.

“Plissken, what are you doing?”

He could barely talk through his chattering teeth. “Playing with myself, you bastard. I’m going in!”

A buzzer sounded his proximity to the target. He pushed the stick violently forward, nosing down fast. He hit, bouncing, bashing the immutability of the building. The wide roof spread out before him on the screens.

He was moving fast, much too fast. He jammed his feet to the floor, locking the wheels, hearing the whining screech as they tried to grab hold of the pavement. He punched the flap button and they sprang up, more resistance.

He lost control with the flaps. He was spinning. Whirling through the vortex. The stick was useless. He let it go and punched up the anchor.

It wasn’t much, but it was the only shot he had left. The glider shuddered as a section came out of the tail. He braced himself, clamping his teeth tightly closed.

The anchor grabbed the cement and held. Then the violent jerk as its line pulled taut on the careening machine. The plane screamed all around Plissken and he was thrown forward, despite his preparations. His mind keyed to a crash. It never came.

There was deadly quiet all around him. He didn’t move. He just listened to the pounding of his own heart.

“Plissken…”

Something was wrong, though. He was resting at an angle, nose pointed up. Every time he moved, the glider wobbled. He decided to move very carefully.

“Plissken…”

Reaching out gingerly, he flipped off the switches one by one. The screens went black. Then slowly, oh so slowly, he unbuckled.

“Plissken?”

He unlatched the canopy and slid it slowly back. He was looking up into the rain/gas clouds. He stood and looked out The whole tail section and one wing were overhanging the edge of the building. The only thing keeping the glider where it was, was the nylon rope attached to the anchor.