Escape From New York (16 page)

His eyes were glittering, and he kept moving up close to Plissken, bumping him slightly.

“How far we got to go?” Plissken asked Hellman.

The man turned from his padlocking, and as usual, his face was poker steady, blank and wiped clean. “Nothing’s far away in this town,” he said. “Haven’t you heard, we’re on an island.”

Maggie was standing by Hellman at the top of the stairs. She watched the streets constantly, the survival instinct. Occasionally, she’d turn to look at Brain as he wound the chains through the ornate brass handles on the door. There was an admiration in her eyes that could almost be interpreted as love. The Snake couldn’t figure that one. Maybe the woman wasn’t as sane as he thought. Whatever else Brain Hellman ever was, though, he was apparently kind to his women.

“Did the fine tuning with jeweler’s instruments,” Cabbie said, twisting his fingers as if he were using a tiny screwdriver.

“Got it,” Hellman said, snapping the last of the big padlocks into place.

“Let’s go,” Plissken said, and waited while the others started down, so he could follow behind them just to be on the safe side.

“You work for this Duke?” he asked the Brain.

The man answered without turning to him. “Make gas for him,” he said, and every sentence came out sounding like it had been rehearsed. Hellman was still hedging his bets. “Figure out things for him.”

“Like what?”

This time the man did turn around. Plissken smiled. He wasn’t going to let the son of a bitch off that easily.

“Like how to get across the Fifty Ninth Street Bridge,” he returned finally, and he acted as if the words were being forced from his mouth with a crowbar. “It’s mined, but I think I know where they’re planted.”

Maggie spoke up, willing to talk as long as Hellman was. “We got a diagram from a guy who got all the way across before they shot the poor bastard.”

Hellman gave her a dirty look at first, but then just sighed, giving in. “They’re working up there now,” he said. “Clearing away the first barricade.”

“What a sight, Snake!” Cabbie yelled, coming out of his car fantasy. He started moving his arms out in front of him, rolling them like the ocean waves. “The whole place rolling right across the bridge. Mister President right up front.” He let his arms drop to his sides. “It would have been so fine.”

“Would have been?” Maggie said.

Cabbie shot her a fierce look, then said indignantly. “We’re goin’ with Snake now.”

“Wait a minute,” Plissken said, cocking his head. “Listen.”

They all stopped, and the sound was discernible to everyone. Engines. Closing in.

“It’s the Duke!” Cabbie yelled. “I know the sound of his machines.”

“The alley,” Plissken ordered, and they hurried down the remaining steps and around the corner of the building. They got quickly around, hugging the wall with their backs. Plissken turned his head. The cab sat about fifty paces farther down.

He turned back, and risked a look around the corner of the building. A convoy was coming up on them, consisting of ancient cars and trucks, sputtering and fuming through snorting clouds of gray and black smoke. The machines shuddered, backfiring white sparks, wobbling from side to side. There were between ten and twenty in all, and every one of them looked as if it was on its way to the automobile graveyard. None of them had mufflers, and their ripping sounds tore the night.

The lead car passed the mouth of the alley, an old Cadillac with the top cut off. A man sat in the passenger side of the front seat. He was large and bald-headed, with three scars, like claw marks, running down the side of his cheek.

“The Duke,” Maggie whispered.

He had a cigar in his mouth and a pair of sunglasses to cover his eyes. The glasses were taped together at the hinges with white surgical tape. A lavender, almost purple, snap-brim fedora sat stiffly on his cue-ball head. He had it turned down stylishly over one eye.

The others in the car were obviously bodyguards. They were dark, like the Duke, and had droopy moustaches. Brightly colored bandannas wound around their heads, and their earrings were large and gold. They wore dark suits with dark shirts. Their faces were lined with cruelty. Gypsies.

The lead car passed and others went by, filled with Gypsies. Their exhaust smoke stuffed the alley with dirty fog and Plissken, by habit, covered his mouth and nose with his hand.

They grumbled along slowly, like a funeral procession,

“Don’t cross the Duke,” the cabbie kept saying, shaking his head. “Everybody knows that”

“Button it,” Plissken rasped. He grabbed Hellman by the shoulder, forcing the man to get eye to eye with him. “Is the President with them?” he asked.

“No,” the man answered, and the Snake couldn’t read through the granite of his eyes. “He’s stashed away at the Duke’s place.”

The caravan stopped in front of the library, but didn’t shut down their engines, probably with good reason. Plissken watched as a man with a deathshead face and chiseled teeth jumped out of the Duke’s car and took the steps up to the library two at a time.

“He’s looking for you, Brain,” Maggie said, as the man began pounding on the door the same way Cabbie had done.

“What does he want?” Plissken asked,

“My diagram to the bridge,” Hellman answered. “When he finds out I’m with you, he’ll kill me. Shit, Snake, I knew I shouldn’t have . . .”

“We gotta get the President now,” Plissken snapped, “while the Duke’s busy.”

Hellman shook his head with resignation. “Forget it,” he returned. “He’s on the other side of town and we got no wheels.”

“Sure we do,” Maggie said. “Cabbie,”

They turned to the cabbie, but he was gone, his cab, too distant for them to catch, was backing down the alley, its sounds muffled by the incredible timbre of the convoy. The cab reached the other end of the alley and backed quickly onto the main street, a tiny squealing sound drifting back to Plissken’s ears.

“Slime,” the woman muttered, and for the second time that night Plissken got to see the range of extreme emotions that could mold her face.

“That’s it,” Hellman said, and breathed deeply. “Deal’s off. Snake.”

“Just calm down,” Plissken told him, and held up the rifle just to let Hellman know that this wasn’t going to be a replay of Kansas City.

The last car in the caravan stopped right in front of the alley. It was an old station wagon, with bars welded on the window like the cab’s. It sat there, quivering like it had caught a chill. One of its headlights had come out of its socket and was dangling, waving at the ground. The man in the passenger side got out, cursed and moved to the front to fix it.

“Wait here,” Plissken said, and his tone told them that he really meant it.

He walked up the alley, staying in the shadows. Getting close to the car, he casually sauntered up to the driver’s window. The man turned to look at him, but all he really got to see was a close look at the tempered steel, combat-gouged butt of the Snake’s automatic. And he didn’t get to see that except for a second.

The butt of Plissken’s gun connected solidly, cracking, across the man’s nose and cheekbone. He went over on the seat without a sound, as if he had just decided to take a little nap.

Plissken opened the door, shoved the unconscious man over and got behind the wheel. The other Gypsy was squatting down in front of the car, still fiddling with the headlight. Plissken slammed the door and hunched down in the seat.

He heard sounds from the front of the car, heard the other man calling a name. Then he saw the man’s shadow drift lazily across the windshield.

The man was at the door, bending down to look through the bars. The Snake came up sideways with the gun butt, slipping it vertically through the bars. He caught the man’s mouth and chin.

The Gypsy gurgled, hands to face, backpeddling toward the alley. Maggie ran out from the darkness, shoved the man back even more and cracked his head on the side of the building. He fell, splashing into a puddle. Maggie and Brain dragged him into the alley.

Laying his gun on top of the unconscious man, Plissken jammed the car into reverse and backed up enough to nose the thing into the alley.

He jerked to a stop in front of Hellman and Maggie. The Brain opened up the door and pulled the Gypsy onto the ground beside his buddy. Plissken grabbed his gun away just as the man was sliding out. Hellman climbed in front, Maggie in back and Snake Plissken screeched away down the alley.

“Oh shit,” Hellman said.

“What?”

“I just sat in something . . . wet.” He was raising himself up to look at his pants. The seat was soaked in blood. “Shit,” he said again. And then again, just for effect, “Shit”

“Where’re we going?” Plissken asked, pulling out of the alley and heading down a wide avenue.

“Well, ah . . . it’s a ways from here,” Hellman stammered.

“You’re in this,” Plissken said through clenched teeth. “All the way, Harold.” He stared intently at the man, reminding him of the fire that burned out of control within. “We’re like Siamese twins.”

“Grand Central Station,” Hellman said quietly. “They’ve got him at the station.”

“Which way?”

Hellman pointed straight on. “This is okay for now . . . no, wait” He was wiggling his hand. “Turn left here.”

Plissken squealed the brakes and took the quick turn. It was a big street, a huge street.

“Wait a minute, Brain,” Maggie said. “This is Broadway.”

“I know,” Hellman answered grimly. “The Duke’ll take Seventh Avenue. Broadway’s got five minutes on him.”

Plissken turned to the woman. Fear was molded on her face. He had never seen that emotion from her. “Brain, come on,” she said.

Hellman set his face. “Keep driving,” he said. “If we’re going to do this thing, we may as well do it.”

“What’s wrong with Broadway?” Plissken asked.

“Just go.”

He turned to the woman again. “What’s wrong with Broadway?”

“Hoodoo,” she answered, slumping back in her seat. And she wouldn’t say anything more.

Plissken kept moving his eye, watching. It was all right at first, but then they began seeing the fires, small fires, single fires burning here and there. They heard the drums, then the chanting, the deathly moan of the chanting.

“What the hell . . .”

The fires became more frequent and had been somehow treated with chemicals to make their smoke rise different colors: yellows and pinks and fine powdery blues, filling the street with drifting multicolored clouds. The stench of burning rubber drifted with the clouds.

Figures darted wraithlike through puffs of smoke—flitting, ethereal, always in motion, impossible to discern. The drums were loud, throbbing Plissken’s eye, making him rock physically in the seat. And the chanting was a siren song, indefinable, magnetic. The parking meters lined the smoky streets in long rows, metal display poles topped—with heads. Human heads with open screaming mouths. Then the people were everywhere, smoke people, moaning. They moved slowly toward the car.

Plissken felt his stomach muscles tighten. “Come on, Sweetheart,” he said and gave it as much gas as he possibly could on the smoke-filled street. They picked up speed, moving through the ever-growing street throngs.

Bang!

A rock hit the roof, then another.

“Oh God,” Hellman said softly.

Then a barrage of rocks pelted the car from all sides, like a hailstorm. One made it through the bars on Plissken’s window and hit him on the face. The car swerved as he fought for control. Glass broke out of the back window. Screams came from Maggie. More rocks, bigger. Fire came at the car. A torch flew up to hit the windshield, then rolled onto the hood. Plissken jerked some more, knocking it off.

The street in front of them was filled with people shaking rocks and clubs, black people with painted faces, wailing softly, not speaking. Plissken grabbed the pistol from his holster.

“Here,” he said, handing it over to Hellman.

He was slowing into the crowd. The rocks stopped coming.

Brain Hellman just stared at the weapon in his hands, lips working.

“You got the wrong man for the job,” Maggie said.

Plissken grabbed the gun away from Hellman and handed it back to her. “Here we go,” he said.

He plowed into the mob, moving through it. They were all over the car, grabbing, hanging on, pressing blank silent faces through the window slats. They were banging, banging, hands and clubs. They were squirming up the hood, the roof, dancing on the roof, rocking the car, tearing it up.

Plissken couldn’t see out of the windshield. Grabbing up the rifle, he aimed it out the front. He fired quickly, blasting off the lip-snarling head of a wildly painted man who lay on the windshield. The body jumped and rolled off the car. More people scrambled on the hood. Plissken squeezed them off, blasting spider web holes through the windshield. Exploding bullets flared the night clearing bodies off the car.

Maggie yelled from behind. One of them had jumped on the back of the wagon, reaching for her through the shattered back window. Bringing up the automatic, she fired point blank, and the explosion hurled the man back to the street.

They were getting through the mob, clearing it.

“Not bad, baby,” Plissken called back to her.

“Nothing to it,” she returned.

“Snake!” Hellman yelled, pointing back out the bullet-cracked windshield. Plissken turned. The headlight was catching something, something massive just ahead. They closed on it. A barricade, five feet high, blocked the entire street ahead. A congealed mass of cars, mailboxes, telephone booths and street lights. Plissken slammed on the brakes, gauging the thing.

“They’re coming!” Maggie called from the back seat, and he didn’t have to look to appreciate her words. There was only one way to go—over the top, just like in the army.

“Hold on!” he yelled and hit the gas.

He had thoughts of smashing through the mess, but it was too strong. They slammed the wall, full speed; the car cried with rending metal on the tooth-jarring impact. Plissken was back full in the seat, bracing the wheel stiff-armed. And they were airborne, their speed careening them over the wall.