Read Online Escape From New York by Mike McQuay - Free Book Online

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.”

VIII
    THE STERI-CHAMBER
    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