Escape From New York Read Free Page B

really listening. He was feeling the hairs on the back of his neck bristling. It felt bad. It felt all wrong. He began craning his head around as the moving stairs neared the upper lobby, trying to reassure himself.
    “What’s wrong?” Taylor asked.
    Plissken shook his head, lips tight “Something . . .” he started, then trailed off.
    They got off the escalator. The lobby was totally deserted, not anything like the main lobby in the Atlanta terminal. There wasn’t even any Security here. They started walking across it, Plissken still glancing around.
    Taylor slapped him on the shoulder. “Take it easy, Snake,” he said. “It’s four in the morning, man. Stop worrying. We made it.”
    Plissken had about a second to appreciate the wisdom of that remark before the air exploded around them. There were sounds of automatic rifle fire, then Taylor spun off screaming, going for the floor which was coming apart in chunks around them.
    Plissken went down with him, holding him. The man’s left arm had been chewed to pieces. He lay there, cursing through clenched teeth, his fatigue jacket already dyed red, blood-soaked, dripping in an evergrowing pool on the cement floor.
    “God, Snake,” he rasped. “God . . . DAMN!”
    Plissken tried to pull him to his feet. “Come on!” He looked across to the far side escalators. Blackbellies were spread across the escalator bank one floor up and were coming down. Kevlarred killers, crazies with badges. They carried AR-15s, up and ready. Black riot helmets with darkened visors covered their heads. The devil in black times six.
    “Come on!”
    He got the man onto his feet, but Taylor was already in bad shape. When he looked at Plissken, there was resignation in his face, resignation that hadn’t been there even in Leningrad.
    They ran back the way they had come, and the guns started chattering again behind them. Taylor fell behind, blood loss and the bum leg taking their toll.
    Plissken bounded down the escalator, and started eating up the platform in great leaping strides. He turned once to make sure that Taylor was all right. The little man was nowhere to be seen.
    He slowed, then stopped. He looked back for Taylor, then turned to stare down the long platform that could mean escape.
    He turned back. “Taylor!” he called. “Taylor!”
    Taylor wasn’t coming, he knew that. He also knew that there was nothing he could do about it. Turning, he looked once more down the length of the platform. His instincts told him to run. But Taylor was all he had left. They were all gone, everyone else who knew Snake Plissken as a real human being. All dead.
    He sighed once, then trotted back to the escalators and up. He reached the top. Taylor was on his belly on the floor, crawling, leaving a bloody trail behind him like a snail’s. The blackbellies, rifles ready, moved slowly in on him. They were drawing it out, teasing, giving him that last look at daylight.
    Plissken felt his stomach muscles tighten. He hated blackbellies, hated the stench of death that rolled off them like fog off the marshes. He dropped his satchel on the floor and raised his hands.
    Rifles came up to cover him. “Drop the bag, Taylor,” he said.
    The man looked up, tore into him with pleading eyes. He clutched the now bloody satchel tighter and kept moving, sliding through his own gore. “Go on, Lieutenant,” he rasped, and his voice was like an old man’s. “Go on.”
    Plissken’s eyes jumped back and forth between Taylor and the blackbellies. He could see them vibrating, smelling the blood and wanting more. He spoke slowly, nonthreatening, emphasizing each word. “Drop the bag, Taylor.”
    The man opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came. One of the gunmen opened fire on the little man, and the others started in right after. Taylor’s body jumped and twitched the death dance as the troopers, one by one, emptied their rifles into him. It was quite a show. They were all very pleased.
    Plissken just