for just a second before reaching into the pouch for a clip of ammunition.
The ammo slid in slowly, sensuously, and locked into place. Snake Plissken stood up full and primed the bolt. He tucked the weapon under his arm and strode resolutely down the steps. If he had to survive here as an animal, let it be as a lion.
He moved into the street and turned around full. In the distance a wide avenue was filled completely with smoke. The plane. He moved toward it, eye wary, always watching.
Junked cars filled the street. He moved past each one carefully, checking for surprises. When he reached the smoke, he put on the ruby goggles and his field of vision became ghostlike; negative images drifted dreamlike before him. He felt removed from his body, like a spirit observing an unreal landscape.
Reaching into the pouch, he removed the tiny homer that was keyed to the President’s bracelet. Nothing. He wasn’t close enough to the source yet.
He kept moving through the smoke until he caught sight of the diffusing light from a dying fire. He moved toward the place. First he came to chunks of burned, twisted metal and scattered wreckage. Then a wheel. Then a seat—it was sitting upright, pretty as you please, right in the middle of the street. Something was strapped to it: it was a glob, an oozing broken glob. He had to assume that it had once been a human being, since he couldn’t imagine what else could have been strapped to a seat like that.
He moved on.
Most of the plane was in one spot. It had smashed into the building and then slid down its side, taking huge chunks of steel and concrete down with it. It had exploded at least once, and what had been a tail section was nothing more than a blackened hole. Part of the cabin remained intact, and the white fire came from in there.
He looked through one of the port windows. The whole inside of the cabin was charred black, fire apparently having flashed through the heavily oxygenated atmosphere to scald everyone in a matter of seconds. The bodies were black things, stiff and twiglike. The fire that still burned within the cabin was electrical, as wiring from reading lamps continued burning and shorting.
Plissken turned from the window and took off the goggles. His good eye caught movement and he turned toward it. A hunched figure, dressed in rags like a scarecrow, hobbled out from behind a section of the tail and scurried quickly into the blessed shadows. Plissken watched the human vulture gimp away, knowing that he would probably come back later to feed on the remains in the cabin.
Sitting on the twisted bulk of a wing, he got the radio back out again and turned it on. “I’m at the plane,” he said softly, eye still wandering. “Nobody made it”
He was startled by a beeping sound. “Wait a minute,” he said, looking down at the homing compass. It was flashing a tiny red light, northeast on its dial.
He slid off the wing. Looking down at the dial once again, he let his eye drift in the direction indicated. He was looking down a narrow, smoke-filled alley. He began to follow, moving slowly at first, then faster.
As he walked, he brought the radio up to his mouth. “I’ve got his pulse,” he said. “Right up ahead. It’s moving, to the . . . northwest.”
Hauk’s voice, loud, deafening. “YOU HAVE TO GET GOING, PLISSKEN . . .”
“Damn!” He shut off the noise and looked around. If there was any attention to attract, he did it. He picked up the pace and looked at the lifeclock strapped to his arm. It read 18:30:23, then changed to 18:30:22.
XII
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
18:17:34. :33, :32 . . .
It was the only building with any light on the whole block: an old theater, its jutting marquee blank and shattered, reflecting the state of the art.
Plissken came up on it slowly, using the line of gutted, rusting cars as cover. The front was all boarded up, glass long gone, as a defense against the elements. Hard yellow light peeked through the cracks between the
The ammo slid in slowly, sensuously, and locked into place. Snake Plissken stood up full and primed the bolt. He tucked the weapon under his arm and strode resolutely down the steps. If he had to survive here as an animal, let it be as a lion.
He moved into the street and turned around full. In the distance a wide avenue was filled completely with smoke. The plane. He moved toward it, eye wary, always watching.
Junked cars filled the street. He moved past each one carefully, checking for surprises. When he reached the smoke, he put on the ruby goggles and his field of vision became ghostlike; negative images drifted dreamlike before him. He felt removed from his body, like a spirit observing an unreal landscape.
Reaching into the pouch, he removed the tiny homer that was keyed to the President’s bracelet. Nothing. He wasn’t close enough to the source yet.
He kept moving through the smoke until he caught sight of the diffusing light from a dying fire. He moved toward the place. First he came to chunks of burned, twisted metal and scattered wreckage. Then a wheel. Then a seat—it was sitting upright, pretty as you please, right in the middle of the street. Something was strapped to it: it was a glob, an oozing broken glob. He had to assume that it had once been a human being, since he couldn’t imagine what else could have been strapped to a seat like that.
He moved on.
Most of the plane was in one spot. It had smashed into the building and then slid down its side, taking huge chunks of steel and concrete down with it. It had exploded at least once, and what had been a tail section was nothing more than a blackened hole. Part of the cabin remained intact, and the white fire came from in there.
He looked through one of the port windows. The whole inside of the cabin was charred black, fire apparently having flashed through the heavily oxygenated atmosphere to scald everyone in a matter of seconds. The bodies were black things, stiff and twiglike. The fire that still burned within the cabin was electrical, as wiring from reading lamps continued burning and shorting.
Plissken turned from the window and took off the goggles. His good eye caught movement and he turned toward it. A hunched figure, dressed in rags like a scarecrow, hobbled out from behind a section of the tail and scurried quickly into the blessed shadows. Plissken watched the human vulture gimp away, knowing that he would probably come back later to feed on the remains in the cabin.
Sitting on the twisted bulk of a wing, he got the radio back out again and turned it on. “I’m at the plane,” he said softly, eye still wandering. “Nobody made it”
He was startled by a beeping sound. “Wait a minute,” he said, looking down at the homing compass. It was flashing a tiny red light, northeast on its dial.
He slid off the wing. Looking down at the dial once again, he let his eye drift in the direction indicated. He was looking down a narrow, smoke-filled alley. He began to follow, moving slowly at first, then faster.
As he walked, he brought the radio up to his mouth. “I’ve got his pulse,” he said. “Right up ahead. It’s moving, to the . . . northwest.”
Hauk’s voice, loud, deafening. “YOU HAVE TO GET GOING, PLISSKEN . . .”
“Damn!” He shut off the noise and looked around. If there was any attention to attract, he did it. He picked up the pace and looked at the lifeclock strapped to his arm. It read 18:30:23, then changed to 18:30:22.
XII
A NIGHT AT THE OPERA
18:17:34. :33, :32 . . .
It was the only building with any light on the whole block: an old theater, its jutting marquee blank and shattered, reflecting the state of the art.
Plissken came up on it slowly, using the line of gutted, rusting cars as cover. The front was all boarded up, glass long gone, as a defense against the elements. Hard yellow light peeked through the cracks between the
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