hand-fashioned bows and quivers of arrows made from the shafts of fishing rods with ten-penny nails stuck in the ends. A long pole lay beside them, leaning against the shadow-jumping wall. At first Plissken thought that the things hanging from it were the pelts of small animals. Then he realized what they really were—human scalps.
He was backing away from the desk when he heard the snap of wood. He flared around and one of the shadows had pulled away from the room of shadows and was hurtling through the air toward him.
There was no reaction time—an Indian, screaming, was on top of him. His screams charged the atmosphere, icy and inhuman, and his eyes were wild and glazed.
Plissken went back with the man, but didn’t fall. The Indian held his hands up taut, holding piano wire stretched between them. The throat was what he wanted. In flashes, Plissken watched the humming wire vibrate toward him. He got his hand up at the last second to protect himself.
The wire twanged on his hand—F# above middle C. It tightened the hand against his own neck, strangulating, cutting deeply into the side of his palm. The arms tightening the noose were impossibly strong, the strength of madness.
They pulled him backward. He went with it, forcing the flow, not fighting. When he connected with the man’s body, he jammed back with his free elbow, plunging hard into soft belly flesh.
The Indian’s scream turned to a gurgled choke and the man doubled over, releasing his hold on the wire. Plissken was around on him instinctively, his arm way above his head. He came down hard, like thunder on the exposed Indian neck. And even the choking stopped as the madman went to the demolished floor like someone had cut his string.
Plissken was off and running down the first corridor he saw. The shouts of the other Indians filled the hollow hall to cacophony all around him. They were too close.
Without turning or looking, his hand went to the survival pack, closing on the wide mouth barrel of a flare pistol. Still running, he got it out and cocked the less than precision hammer; he wheeled, skidded to a stop and fired.
His assailants were less than twenty feet behind him. The phosphorous ball whooshed from the barrel, exploding the hallway in brilliant light. It hit the floor, popping loudly, streamers of white-hot burning light squirting everywhere like a fountain, or like the Fourth of July. The Indians, in bold relief, lit to washed-out white, dove for cover. And Snake Plissken was off and running again.
The corridor ended in a metal door that looked like it had never been opened. He charged toward it, cocking the pistol again. Then, on a dead run, he fired. The door went up, blasting right out of its frame. On its other side, black night.
Plissken was through the door, in an alley. He just picked a direction and ran—free—at least for the moment.
Reaching the end of the alley, he skittered into the tangle of concrete jungle that was the city. He ran another block, two blocks, until he was sure that he wasn’t being followed.
Then he climbed the cracked, broken steps of a dead brownstone and squatted down in the shadows of its entryway. The building was intact for a floor above him. The rest of it was a pile of bricks and pretzel-twisted steel girders. Much of the block was bombed-out in the same way. It looked like the place where all the old buildings came to die.
He took his breath in measured doses, his eye roaming the deserted streets for enemies. It was a jungle, and he was both predator and prey in the chain of survival. There were no rational systems to apply here, no codes, no ethics. There was only life and death.
He wiped a hand across his sweat-streaming face and reached into the bulky holster. His rifle was in two parts. He took them out and snapped them together without looking; his eye was busy with the crumbling streets. The pieces locked together with a solid click, and he let his hands linger on the gun’s contours
He was backing away from the desk when he heard the snap of wood. He flared around and one of the shadows had pulled away from the room of shadows and was hurtling through the air toward him.
There was no reaction time—an Indian, screaming, was on top of him. His screams charged the atmosphere, icy and inhuman, and his eyes were wild and glazed.
Plissken went back with the man, but didn’t fall. The Indian held his hands up taut, holding piano wire stretched between them. The throat was what he wanted. In flashes, Plissken watched the humming wire vibrate toward him. He got his hand up at the last second to protect himself.
The wire twanged on his hand—F# above middle C. It tightened the hand against his own neck, strangulating, cutting deeply into the side of his palm. The arms tightening the noose were impossibly strong, the strength of madness.
They pulled him backward. He went with it, forcing the flow, not fighting. When he connected with the man’s body, he jammed back with his free elbow, plunging hard into soft belly flesh.
The Indian’s scream turned to a gurgled choke and the man doubled over, releasing his hold on the wire. Plissken was around on him instinctively, his arm way above his head. He came down hard, like thunder on the exposed Indian neck. And even the choking stopped as the madman went to the demolished floor like someone had cut his string.
Plissken was off and running down the first corridor he saw. The shouts of the other Indians filled the hollow hall to cacophony all around him. They were too close.
Without turning or looking, his hand went to the survival pack, closing on the wide mouth barrel of a flare pistol. Still running, he got it out and cocked the less than precision hammer; he wheeled, skidded to a stop and fired.
His assailants were less than twenty feet behind him. The phosphorous ball whooshed from the barrel, exploding the hallway in brilliant light. It hit the floor, popping loudly, streamers of white-hot burning light squirting everywhere like a fountain, or like the Fourth of July. The Indians, in bold relief, lit to washed-out white, dove for cover. And Snake Plissken was off and running again.
The corridor ended in a metal door that looked like it had never been opened. He charged toward it, cocking the pistol again. Then, on a dead run, he fired. The door went up, blasting right out of its frame. On its other side, black night.
Plissken was through the door, in an alley. He just picked a direction and ran—free—at least for the moment.
Reaching the end of the alley, he skittered into the tangle of concrete jungle that was the city. He ran another block, two blocks, until he was sure that he wasn’t being followed.
Then he climbed the cracked, broken steps of a dead brownstone and squatted down in the shadows of its entryway. The building was intact for a floor above him. The rest of it was a pile of bricks and pretzel-twisted steel girders. Much of the block was bombed-out in the same way. It looked like the place where all the old buildings came to die.
He took his breath in measured doses, his eye roaming the deserted streets for enemies. It was a jungle, and he was both predator and prey in the chain of survival. There were no rational systems to apply here, no codes, no ethics. There was only life and death.
He wiped a hand across his sweat-streaming face and reached into the bulky holster. His rifle was in two parts. He took them out and snapped them together without looking; his eye was busy with the crumbling streets. The pieces locked together with a solid click, and he let his hands linger on the gun’s contours
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