Free Escape From New York by Mike McQuay Page B

a growing boy and he’s hungry.”
    Rehme went back into the cage, this time remembering which key was which.
    “I’ll need extra ammo clips,” Plissken said, unable to get his eyes off those guns.
    Hauk noticed his interest. “Know how to use them?”
    “Do rabbits have a sex life?”
    Rehme came back in and threw some greenish brown tins on the counter. “Extra rations,” he said.
    “And a few more ammo clips,” Plissken added, tabbing open a can of pound cake.
    Rehme winked and reached into his jacket pocket. He dropped several loaded clips onto the counter.
    Plissken nodded and stuffed the whole piece of cake into his mouth.
    “It’s a whole different world in there,” Rehme said. “It’s very tribal, very survival oriented.” He leaned against the counter and looked at Plissken, deadly serious. The Snake smiled at him through his mouthful of cake.
    “They split along race and ethnic lines. White, Black, Chicano, Indian, Oriental, European.” He took a breath. “It even breaks down farther: women, homosexuals, religious, old people . . . and the crazies. Some of them have cars. They took junkers left behind and converted them to steam. We think that they may also have a gasoline source in there. And power. They have it selectively, although God knows how they do it.”
    “He does?” Plissken asked, swallowing the dry lump of cake.
    “Who?”
    “God.”
    Rehme made a face and started talking again. Plissken listened with half an ear as he got into a tin of peaches. They thought they were telling him something. Plissken had been down so many roads that most of them were named after him.
    “They have greenhouses, and rigged-up generators. Some areas even have street lights. The crazies live in the subways. They have full control of the underground.” He stopped because Plissken was slurping loudly on peach juice. The Snake stopped, looking at the man over the rim of the can. “The crazies,” Rehme continued. “They’re night raiders.”
    Plissken set the tin back on the counter, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He sifted through the equipment laying in front of him. He held up a strange, round object with a push-button inset. “What’s this?”
    “Tracer,” Hauk said. “Sends a radio signal for fifteen minutes. If you push it we can track you on radar.”
    Plissken held it between thumb and index finger, examining. “Had these in the Army.”
    “This one’s different,” Hauk said, taking it from him. He twisted the thing hard against itself. Half the barrel turned. “Safety catch,” he said.
    “Nice toy,” Plissken returned and, picking up the peach can, he finished the rest of the juice.
    “We could brief you for days . . .” Rehme began.
    The Snake looked at him like a gambler looking at the tax man. “Let’s just get it over with, huh?”
    “Now just a . . .”
    “The man wants to get it over with,” Hauk said, his face hard. “By God, I’ll vote for that. Pack up your gear, soldier, and well get underway.”
    Plissken started stuffing the equipment back into the holster. “Yeah, I could use some fresh air,” he said.
    He got the bulky pack filled and strapped it around his waist. Hauk was already walking out the door. He sauntered, at his own pace, behind the man. Hauk was finally forced to stop in the middle of the hall and wait.
    “You mentioned the Gulffire,” Plissken said. “Where in the hell am I supposed to land it?”
    “Top of the World Trade Center,” Hauk returned, and he didn’t even flinch.
    “Just like that,” Plissken said.
    “You’re Snake Plissken, aren’t you?” Hauk shot back. “Besides, it’s the only place you can land.” He started walking again. “They won’t see you up there, and when you come back, you can take off from free fall.”
    Plissken chuckled softly. “You really expect me to make it back?”
    Hauk ignored him and kept talking. “You can locate the President from his vital signs bracelet. It gives off a