Mike McQuay - Escape From New York

Doctor Cronenberg pursed his weathered lips. “It may be just an impact on the mechanism itself,” he said, but he didn’t sound as if he believed it.

Then the radio crackled with Plissken’s voice. “Hauk!” it said angrily.

Hauk flipped the switch on the transmitter. “I’m here, Plissken.”

“I don’t know who you assholes are looking at,” the voice returned, “but it’s not the President.”

He looked at the blank speaker grill, then turned to look at the blank faces that surrounded him. Then a voice, another voice, came through the speaker. It was singing:

“Oh boo-tiful, for spasses skies.

For amber waves ’a grain.”

Turning down the radio noise, Hauk looked over at Prather. The man, no matter how upset he got, always looked just right, like he had stepped out of an ad for a men’s store somewhere. “Now what?” Hauk asked.

The Secretary didn’t even blink. “Your man’s still got some time left,” he returned. “Have him keep looking.”

“It’s a big city, Mister Secretary.”

The Snake’s voice replaced the singer’s on the radio. “All right, get your machine ready. I’m coming home!”

Hauk took a deep breath. He looked at Prather. The man nodded sternly at him. He toggled the switch, “Eighteen hours, Plissken.”

“Listen to me, Hauk,” the voice said. “The President is dead. Somebody’s had him for dinner. It’s all over.”

Hauk set his jaw and said what he had to say. “If you get back in that glider, I’ll shoot you down. If you climb out, I’ll burn you off the wall.” He stared at the unanswering speaker. “Do you understand me, Plissken?”

The voice came back low, almost pleading. “A little human compassion,” it said.

The coffee felt like it was trying to burn a hole right through Hauk’s stomach. His heart was on fire, sizzling, crackling. “Plissken,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Get moving.”

Plissken, very slowly, very carefully, slid the antenna back into the radio. The pain was coursing through his eye, but he ignored it. He carefully placed the radio back into his holster. The man with the President’s coat wobbled to his feet. The Snake didn’t try to stop him, so he took that as a good sign and began to move off.

“Thank you,” he mumbled. “Thank you very much.”

Then he was gone, leaving Plissken alone with the hollow non-op boiler. So, that was how it was. The lay of the land. The hoot in the hollow. The way the wind blew. He had less than eighteen hours to find a man in the largest city in America with only three million maniacs to get in his way. Child’s play.

He rapped his knuckles on the side of the boiler. It came back, a deep, tinny echo. The way his insides felt right now, he could most probably take just a little of his own internal fire and stick it in the boiler to heat the entire building.

They had sent him home, but there wasn’t a home to go to. Some crazies had taken his home and held his parents hostage. The USPF didn’t care a whole lot about that; they just went in with their flamethrowers and took out everybody. They buried his parents together in a paupers’ grave, then the state took away all their savings. They tied them all together with the criminals and said that their money would be used for “restitution.”

The day that Snake Plissken came home, he blew up a state vehicle with a Molotov cocktail. It was the only thing that made him feel any better. He had done something of the like every day since then.

He wandered around the basement until he found an exit. There wasn’t any quit in him; he just didn’t know how. Maybe that was the beginning of insanity.

The night was getting colder. The speed was flapping his body like a marionette. He reached into the holster and ate another chunk, then another. There was no reality to adjust to here. Perhaps a chemical infusion could make it all seem logical, kind of like drinking yourself sober.

It seemed that square one would be the best place to start. So he retraced his steps from the theater and went back to the plane. The smoke had dissipated to a fine powdery spray and the jet, covered as it was by pieces of fallen building, was beginning to look like a part of the landscape. Someone had taken away the seat with the body strapped to it. He didn’t much want to think about that.

He saw the emergency pod imbedded in the building. He left the plane and went over to it. It had already been stripped bare. The chute was gone, the inside totally gutted, leaving nothing but a metal shell.

Standing away from the sphere, Snake Plissken drank in his surroundings. Streets branched off in several different directions, all blowing trash, whistling the fall wind, the air colder as it blew across the rain puddles. The streets were jammed with dead cars, wheel-less wonders. He picked a direction at random and started walking.

The streets were silent and deserted. No vultures now. No one. He didn’t like it. Every jungle had its nocturnal predators. He tucked his rifle more securely under his arm.

Then there was a sound, the clank of metal on metal. He stopped walking and listened, trying to decide whether the sound was real or just a product of the massive doses of methamphetamine that was bolting his body like chain lightning.

It came again.

He turned slowly around, tensed, ready. Not ten feet from him, a manhole cover was inching slowly upward. Plissken primed the rifle and sank into the shadows.

The cover eased up slowly, then fell back again. There was deathly silence for several seconds, then all at once the lid literally flew off the hole, like the stopper on a bottle full of expanding gases.

A head appeared, or rather, the caricature of a head. The face was dark, brooding; it was incapable of flexibility, like a mask made of human skin. It was a filthy, smeared head, hair plastered with the wet gook that encased it so that it was impossible to tell where the hair ended and dirt began. The eyes were wide and staring, unblinking.

Mist rose with the head, and noxious gases-like potato rot. Plissken felt revulsion climb up his spine as the head became a whole body that slithered out of the underground, crawling along the cracked and broken streets. The body was naked, covered with slime. The stench was odious, nearly overpowering, and Plissken had to fight to keep from gagging.

Another ghoul followed the first, then another. Some naked, others in rags, all covered with putrid slime and open, running sores. The crazies. Glassy-eyed demons from the vaporous pits of hell, up to make a mockery of the word human.

They moved down the center of the street, open gasping mouths breathing shallow, pleuritic rasps. Growls. They were the borderline, the netherworld between life and-what? Death? Surely death would be the long lost brother to them all. They were hungry, foraging for fresh meat.

He tried to move, to put distance between himself and the obscene devil dance that lined out down the street. But they kept coming, more all the time.

His legs didn’t want to work. He forced all his concentration on them, trying to squeeze the waking nightmare from his charging brain. Still they came, an army of them. The smell rose in quivering waves from the streets to laugh at the rumbling heavens.

Finally he moved. Slow steps at first, faltering, like a child learning to walk; then faster, more sure. He finally turned his head completely from the spectacle and raced through the long shadows, toward the dubious safety of the buildings.

They were everywhere then, filling the streets with inhuman gurgles. He came to a coffee shop, still relatively intact amidst a block of destruction. No door, glass gone from the windows. As he raced inside, he

caught sight of the name above the door: CHOCK FULL O’ NUTS.