Free Escape From New York by Mike McQuay Page A

blackbelly. Oh, the man wore a suit and talked about prerogatives, but he was still the head killer in a society of killers—Witchfinder General. He couldn’t forgive the man that. Forgiveness was nowhere to be found within the countless reflecting shards of the broken mirror that was Plissken’s spirit.
    “In here,” Rehme said.
    They turned into a door marked MATERIAL DISBURSEMENT. The room was painted battleship gray. It had a counter that slashed its width. On the other side of the counter, a cage, floor to ceiling. Within the cage were neatly stacked shelves of supplies that stretched far back into darkness.
    Hauk flicked a switch beside the door, and several banks of neon lit sequentially down the length of the storeroom. It went way back.
    Rehme dug down into his pocket and pulled out a chain of keys. He moved around the counter and started trying them in the cage lock. He’d try one, shake the lock until it rattled the whole cage, curse softly, then try another.
    “You know I haven’t had anything to eat,” Plissken said.
    “For how long?” Hauk asked. Then to Rehme: “We haven’t got all night.”
    “The motherfuckers aren’t marked,” Rehme said, his voice edged with frustration.
    “Just take it easy.”
    “Since yesterday,” Plissken said.
    “Goddamn son of a bitch,” Rehme muttered.
    “You look well-fed to me,” Hauk said.
    “It’s your game,” the Snake shrugged. “But if it was me, I’d want every advantage I could get. I sure wouldn’t send some half-starved . . .”
    “You made your point,” Hauk interrupted. “We’ll take care of it.”
    “Ha!” Rehme yelled. “Wouldn’t you know it’d be the last goddamn one.”
    He creaked open the cage door, and hurried back down the rows of equipment. He got a leather survival holster, and started sticking various items into it.
    Hauk looked at Plissken, then stared down the aisle to see where Rehme was. “Look,” he said, voice low, “I know I’m not in any position to ask you for favors . . . but I’ve got a . . . relative inside.” His voice was hoarse. “You’ve got priorities here, I know, but if you could just . . . keep an eye out for him.”
    “What the hell am I supposed to do, Hauk. Ask three million crazy people for their names and addresses?”
    The man waved it off. “No, damnit. I don’t need to know anything except if he’s there.” He held up a clenched fist. “He’s got a tattoo.” He pointed to his four fingers just below the knuckles. “The letters H-A-U-K, one on each finger.”
    Plissken frowned. It’d be a cold day in Miami Beach before he did a favor for Hauk, “Well, if I see him, I’ll tell him to drop you a line.”
    Hauk’s eyes flashed for a second, but he didn’t say anything.
    “Here we go,” Rehme’s voice said. He came back through the cage and locked the door. Standing on the business end of the counter, he dumped the contents of the holster onto its top. It was a large, wraparound holster, compartmentalized, like an electrician’s. It could hold a lot.
    The guns were the first thing that caught the Snake’s attention. There were two automatics, a handgun and a break-down rifle. Plissken hadn’t held a gun since Leningrad. He reached out and gingerly ran a palm over each weapon. They were smooth and cold. Deadly. Snake Plissken with a gun was like Samson with shoulder length hair.
    “The bullets carry a charge,” Hauk said, thrusting his hands away from each other. “Explodes on impact. You don’t have to be a crack shot, just hit what you’re aiming at.”
    “I will,” Plissken answered.
    He glanced at the other items: a flare pistol, K-rations, a big crystal chunk that he assumed was amphetamine, infrared goggles and a small two-way radio. There was also a large, four-pointed metal spur that looked sharp and lethal at close range. His eyes skipped over the tactical gear, always returning to gaze at the guns.
    “Double his rations, would you?” Hauk said. “He’s