day.
The streets were crazy. People and cars, moving, hurrying; they were directionless, scattered, mindlessly charging around. It was a futile search, a doomed mission. Plissken smiled. He knew exactly how they felt.
He zipped his jacket halfway and turned up the collar. “You’re not going to do it to me again, Harold. No way.”
He moved casually along the sidewalk. He came upon a tiny car painted rust red. A Gypsy was just opening the door to get in. Plissken jumped at the man. Grabbing him by his long hair, he jerked him away from the car and flung him to the ground.
“There’ll be a bus along in a few minutes,” he told the man. Jumping into the car, he crossed the starter wires and roared away immediately. He had a date with a glider.
Hauk sat in his chair and watched the Secretary of State pace the room like he was on guard duty. The man was angry, finally cracking. Good.
“You blew it, Hauk,” Prather said. “We’ve got to go in. Now!”
Hauk smiled up at him. “A little late to be taking charge now, isn’t it, Mister Secretary?”
The man tried to stare him down, but Hauk was in a class by himself when it came to staring contests. “Go in now, Hauk!” the man screamed.
Hauk stood and stretched. “We hold,” he said.
The man got right up in his face. “You’re countermanding my orders!”
Hauk jabbed him with an index finger, pushing him back. “This is my prison,” he said calmly. “I give the orders.”
“I override all that.”
Hauk put his hands on his hips, his right, by design, resting on his gun butt. “Just try,” he said.
“You sent for me?” came a voice from the doorway. They both turned to watch Dr. Cronenberg come ambling into the bunker, hands stuffed down in the pockets of his lab coat.
Hauk pushed past Prather. “Where’s your machine?” he asked.
“At the airstrip,” the old man said, smiling just a touch at the confrontation he had just witnessed, but smart enough to keep his mouth shut about it
“How long would it take to get it back over here?”
Cronenberg moved all the way into the room, nodding hello at the Secretary. “Twenty minutes, give or take,” he said. “But he’ll use the glider, won’t he?”
“If he can,” Hauk answered.
Hauk walked over to the instrument panel and picked up a mobile two-way. He handed it to Cronenberg. “Stay on this radio,” he said. “Talk to me when you get there.”
The doctor stuck the black box into a coat pocket. He looked at Hauk and smiled curiously. “Somehow, I think you’ve grown fond of Mister Plissken.”
“I love him,” Hauk grimaced. “When I see him, I’m gonna give him a big, wet kiss on the lips.”
XXII
2:05:34, 33, 32…
The car died about a block from the World Trade Center. Plissken jumped out and hobbled the rest of the way on foot. He was in bad shape, but he kept moving, not dwelling on it, letting his simple momentum carry him forward.
He hurried across the broken streets and ran into the building without precautions. There was no time. He headed right for the stairs, but stopped long enough to take notice of a beat-up steam car that was sitting directly in the center of the lobby. It hadn’t been there the last time he had.
The climb was awful, never-ending. It turned his bad leg into a mirror reflection of his eye, pain coursing through the electrical connections of his body with every step.
He wound up the endless stairs in total darkness, gasping for breath, sucking in chunks of fetid air, tripping over the decomposing bodies, mindless of the pervasive stench. He was beyond all that. The horror had congealed itself in his mind and had become the norm.
He would get to the top-somehow. He was rapidly losing motor control of his body and his breath came up shallowly, in short gasps. The blow on the head kept him forever dizzy.
He got through the stairwell door and into the long hallway. Trying to move down the hall, his legs wouldn’t do what he wanted them to. Dark dripping walls seemed to sag inward to bounce him off them. He fell. More than once.
From the ground, he looked up that listing hallway. It seemed to be rocking like the deck of a ship in high seas. He wanted to sleep some more, just a little rest. The harpy on his arm told him to get moving. He got to his feet and started walking again, fighting to keep his balance. He fell again. Got up.
Using the wall for support, he’d push off and make It to the other wall, push off and go back. It got him to the end of that hallway. The final stairway. The easy one to the roof.
Opening the door, he skirted the one that he had kicked down from upstairs, and started up. He moved slowly, using the bannister for support. Then he heard the gunshots.
Stopping, he took a deep breath, trying to bring the reserve up once more. It wasn’t over yet. His hands felt rubbery as he wiped them across his face. His face didn’t feel like anything at all.
He made the top of the stairs and looked out. Maggie, Hellman and the President were pinned down in the heliport shack. They were surrounded by Indians in full war paint. The sun had gone nearly all the way down, the only light a streak of cherry pink that formed a horizontal band across the sky.
Maggie kept them back with the pistol, using it sparingly, only when they threatened to move in. The Indians ran around the shack, yelling and throwing things.
He watched them for a second, but his attention was diverted by the glider. Several of the inmates had climbed up on the wing and were jumping up and down on it like a see-saw, tottering the machine over the edge. One of them was working on the anchor rope, hacking on it with an ax.
Plissken, without thought, came out of the doorway and started walking resolutely toward them. The maniacs wanted to dump the thing. He kept moving. The ax hacked through the rope. He started running.
“No,” he called. “No!”
With a triumphant yell, they tipped the balance and the plane slid quietly off the building to begin its incredible plunge to the pavement so very far below. It had so far to fall that they wouldn’t even hear the sound of its crash.
He stopped walking, everything stopped. The glider was done for. Snake Plissken was done for-almost.
The Indians surrounding the heliport all stood and watched him. He smiled and began limping toward them. He must have been a horrible sight, even to them.
They edged forward, clubs and rocks at the ready.
He shrugged at them, turning an index finger into his cheek. Then-he bolted! Right past them he ran, right through the blown-away door of the shack.
The attack resumed immediately, chunks of cement and debris bouncing through the glassless viewport window. Maggie fired while Brain screamed at them at the top of his voice, shaking his fist.
“Goddamn redskins,” he yelled. “Savages!”
Maggie’s eyes drifted up to Plissken’s. They shared a look. She smiled. “I believe this is yours,” she said, and handed him the pistol.
Crouching down, he took it from her. “You people ready?” he asked.
Brain looked over at him, his face composed. “Yeah,” he said.
He looked at the President. The man was flattened against a wall, tears streaming down his face.
“Mister President?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man answered, eyes closed tight. “Yes, yes. Anything.”
