EFNY 1.5 is a no holds barred fan fiction account of what really happened inside the New York Maximum Security prison in 1997.

 

For the Fan…

Let just start by writing that Escape from New York in my view is one if not the greatest films ever made for the "Big Screen" When I first saw Escape from New York, I was caught completely off guard. I walked into this room and the first thing that I saw was Snake and Cabbie walking up the stairs to the library. I had to "Check this out" So I sat down and I watched Kurt Russell. At the time I could not stand Kurt Russell. But when I watched him play Snake Plissken I was blown away!

 I could not believe what I was looking at, and after the film was over it stuck in my head, I had just watched a film character that was to be with me for years. I could not get enough of this "Snake Plissken" I started to collect books, posters, photos and the film itself in every conceivable variation. Over the years I have amassed, probably one of largest Escape from New York collection's around, but it’s hard to really say if it's the largest anywhere.

Over the years, collecting memorabilia from the film where on and off, so I became "settled in” with what I had. After I finally found the "Internet" The first thing I looked up was "Escape from New York" The world really opened up then, I was getting more of what I wanted…PHOTOS! God was I happy, More Escape from New York and Snake Plissken!!!! After a while of searching the "web" I found websites to my favorite Character and film, and the first one I found was The Escape from New York page which was published by my friend Andreas Johansson. I looked through his website, and decided to write him. And this was to be the start of many hours of writing and sending information back and forth, and helping Andreas out as well, as he was also "collecting".

So after a few years of compiling information about Escape from New York, the next logical step was to combine the two Escape Film's. The site had evolved into "The Escape from New York L.A Page, a tribute to Snake Plissken. Andreas’s site is now the most informative website about both Escape movies in the entire world. I like to refer to it as the Escape from New York "Encyclopedia" Very cool. Then there came another site. "Snake Plissken.net" The "definitive" site forum.

After reading many postings and posting thoughts myself, the owner Matt Huston ask me to become one of the moderator’s. This was a very great honor! And many years later I'm still the moderator, it’s like a second job. Then I came across the site created by my friend Gayle Bykowics "Snake Plissken vs. Solid Snake" This site combined the movie Snake, and the Snake from the video game Metal Gear Solid, which was clearly created in Snake Plissken’s image. And the story continued, I began to help Gayle with her site, which is very cool!Then on one day something changed…

I was reading the postings on the Snake Plissken.net forum and one of the member's just stuck out. I would read his postings and really could see that this guy was 'Different" So I wrote him. The Man was none other than the site's own "WARHERO" We started talking on the phone... I found out that he has his own website 'thenamesplissken.webs.com" Here was yet another Snake Site! YES!!! GOLD!! I could not believe this. And after many months and weeks and days and hours he has become my "Best friend" "Hector De La Rosa" Nothing about Snake is left "unturned". One has to get down to the meat of this film and the characters, and this guy doe's. The man's deep love and knowledge of this film is just AWESOME! He has been a fan for as many years as I have. His attention to detail is like standing in the middle of the streets of New York Max! The excitement is always growing, and keeping things as real as possible. The idea to write a story based on the film arose while having one of the many conversations’s that we have had, to do Escape from New York right was now on the table. The film is a MASTERPIECE no doubt, but there was something that was just....missing. The question came up. "What happened to Snake when one did not see him in the film?"

This was the process of fleshing out the rest of the story, and writing became the job of my bro Hector,"WARHERO", as he is called on the forum. He became very excited, and put in a lot of hours into researching every possible detail, and angle. The countless hours of awesome conversation that we’ve had was the basis and the backbone of this project, and has produced what I can say is with no doubt, the true way that Escape from New York should have been done. The true telling and the complete story of Snake’s 22 hour adventure inside the prison, was about to be unfolded.  When a fan reads this story, they will see and say "This is how it should really have been filmed"

Hectors love for this character and film has lead up to his fan admiration. He has recreated the Snake Plissken outfit!! All the way down to smallest detail! No other fan has recreated the "Suit" in such detail. With all this in mind, it's really hard to place into words just how much has gone into this. The makers of Escape from New York have turned there back's on this film and character, and with the talk of a remake looming closer every day, Snake Plissken is in jeopardy. The information that I have read about the remake will destroy Escape from New York completely, nothing about the original Snake will be included. Just like "The Travesty of L.A".So the fan will have to keep this alive. Hector De La Rosa is, in my “PROFESSIONAL FAN OPINION” AS OF NOW IS THE NEW SNAKE PLISSKEN.

Congratulation’s my friend. And to show this, Hector along with Blinky Productions are working on a short film series. These fan films take place after Snake's Escape from New York City. It is entitled “ESCAPE from NEW JERSEY” And the 50 second teaser trailer can seen on "Youtube.com" This preview BLEW ME AWAY! And just 50 seconds of it! The first episode will lead the way to a set of film's that can later be joined to create a feature presentation! I can only Thank Hector and Blinky production's for doing this. Since no other can stand in Snake's boots, Hector will. He is the man…

 

By: Joe Thornton  snakeplissken.net 5/29/2010

                                     

In the spirit of the original of the novel written by Mike McQuay which was based on the screen play that was written by: John Carpenter and Nick Castle, I bring you Escape from New York 1.5 in a super high definition account about what really happened inside that god forsaken prison. After you read this, watch the movie and see if the little hairs on the back of your neck don't stand up. You will have a newly found appreciation of what Snake Plissken had to endure just to stay alive, and at the same time get out with a pulse with America's first man in tow.  

Hector De La Rosa

This is a totally an original work that has nothing to do with any proposed remake of the film, and was written months before anything was available that even resembled a script. This is a fact, and I dare anyone to challenge the work of art that is presented here.

John Carpenter was the brain child of the original awesome story, and Kurt Russell brought Snake Plissken to life in the original film.But I am responsible for fleshing out the story that should have been, and I dedicate it to my friend Joe Thornton,who spent countless hours talking on the phone, and who is an ultimate Snake Plissken fan himself. You were my wingman and my backup throughout this entire process, which just kept getting better with everything that we talked about. And you never stopped believing in what I was capable of doing, between you and me bro, Snake Plissken will never die.        

                    

 

                      Escape from New York: Written by: Hector De La Rosa

 

Project started  4/2009 and was born from awesome conversations with my bro Joe Thornton. We had us a time talking about Snake and that awesome movie. Eight chapters submitted on 5/30/2010 and it aint done yet!

                                                                

 

 

                                                                        Chapter 1

                                   THE WORLD TRADE CENTER

 

 

Plissken angled the throttle toward the target blip on the Gulf Fires computer simulator as he headed toward the twin towers of the World Trade Center. As he adjusted his trajectory he noticed the heavy damage that was sustained by the south tower on the gliders vector graphic monitors. There were large gaping holes entrenched in her now feeble frame, and the information was translated on the screens as empty black space between the neon green echo graphs. This was evidence that a barrage of missiles had impacted the mammoth building when Armageddon reared its ugly head. Snake hated staring into all those high tech gadgets longer than he had to, he felt that they were inaccurate and dangerous, and the bright artificial readouts always gave him a damn headache.

  Before he lost his eye to the nerve gas attack in Leningrad, Plissken was considered the best pilot in his unit, some would even say in all of Special Forces. His senses were so well tuned that he could fly any aircraft simply by feel alone, even with the pressure visor completely blacked out. He believed in staying sharp on his terms, and purposely switched off the instrument panels during several training missions and flew virtually powerless. This caused the aircrafts signature to completely vanish from radar, and he really got a kick out of showing Captain Berrigan just how good of a pilot he really was. It was this kind of bravado that landed him in the brig more than once, earning him several insubordination charges to compliment his two purple hearts.  The Echo Graph System was years from being perfected, and hadn’t been battle tested, and when Plissken was coming up in the ranks, he witnessed various pilot deaths that were classified as “accidents” by Army Intel. With the start of the third world war on American soil, the military was forced to equip all of their vehicles with E.G.S. and deploy them over seas at a moments notice.

  When Plissken’s squadron flew into Leningrad on a ruse to extract an Intelligence Officer who had been captured, they took on heavier fire than expected and it was very clear that the enemy knew they were coming. The Russians used every weapon at their disposal against the fifty birds of death, and as Black Light commenced their assault on the frozen bunkers, a fatal flaw in their design had been found. Several gliders appeared to be flying through turbulence as they passed over and around the tracking stations that were on each end of the Russian base. The high intensity waves emitted by the large radar dish’s appeared to render the E.G.S. technology useless, and caused the pilots to fly erratically and crash. After this critical discovery had been made, the Russians intensified their invisible attack on the stealthy aircraft, and every pilot in the now doomed squadron began to experience unexpected and insurmountable interference. An icy Baltic hammer pummeled their instruments relentlessly, and without the visual aid of their screens they were all literally flying blind. They didn’t have the experience to get back to the allied base in Helsinki when the order to abort was given, and were all killed.

Plissken hadn’t flown since that day and was having a bit of trouble adjusting to the multiple computer readouts in such a short period of time. A powerful gust shook the glider like a toy as it passed in between the two behemoths, then it banked hard to the left restarting the mapping grid landing sequence that was extremely difficult to read with just one eye. He swallowed hard as he gripped the control stick with both hands, and then leveled off the glider and prepared to drop from the sky onto the roof of the North tower which provided a landing strip that was only sixty seven yards in length. This was a risky proposition for any skilled airman, but there wasn’t another pilot on the planet that was more qualified, or crazy, to land an aircraft in an area that was just a bit larger than half a football field.

The sleek bullet shaped vessel cleared the perimeter fence and hit the roof hard, and Plissken deployed every device available to stop it before the unthinkable happened. The Gulf Fire came to a sudden stop with its front end hanging over the edge; it just teetered back and forth as if toying with the idea of taking a nose dive into the dark abyss. The wind was swirling in every direction, and was proving to be a very powerful and unpredictable adversary, especially at such an incredible height. Snake had to find a way to make it from the cockpit, to the safety of the roof, without being caught in a violent gust and thrown to his death. He unlatched the pressure visor and tried to keep the glider steady as he climbed onto the sleet covered wing. In the distance he could see the lights beyond the prison walls where people lived, where life was still going on.

  The Statue of Liberty stood mockingly in the harbor with her torch ablaze, as a symbol of what once was, America the free. The great nation that once exemplified freedom had fallen victim to a horrendous attack, and New York City was first on the Russkie’s list. When Plissken lowered his gaze just below the horizon he noticed that the entire island of Manhattan was completely blacked out, and within this shroud of darkness was where the assault took place, where the bombs rained down. The most famous city in the world had been turned into an insane asylum within hours, as terror and hysteria became the main ingredients in a recipe of total destruction. World War III had started down there in the darkness, and below the height of towers was ground zero to the most notorious prison system humanity has ever seen.

  The glider rocked hard and brought Snake out of his trance and onto the wing, he landed flat on his stomach with a thud, and quickly gripped both sides as if his life depended on it. As Plissken struggled to hold on, he hoped that the nylon cord that anchored the glider to the roof, would not give way before he was able to safely climb off. His weight prompted the fuselage to shift on the roofs edge erratically, and the unsettling sound of metal scraping on metal was enough to instill the fear of death into the hardest of men. With his mortality in jeopardy he was compelled to look down, but could only see about half way down the building as darkness just swallowed up the rest. The glider continued teetering as the swirling wind caressed its hull, and Plissken anxiously waited for the chance to escape his almost certain demise.

  Suddenly the glider was caught in a powerful upward draft that had balanced it just long enough for him to make his move, and like a cat he quickly rolled of the wing and onto the sanctuary of the roof. That was as close as he’s come in a long while, but surviving intense situations under pressure was his specialty, it’s what he was trained to do. His lungs released an enormous breath of overwhelming relief, as he bent over in a heap clasping his thighs. Plissken slowly stood up and reached inside his leather jacket pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and with an almost joyful anticipation he pressed one between his weathered lips. He stared deeply into the flickering flame emitted by the kerosene lighter that Bill Taylor had given him while he was recovering in a military hospital in Finland. His steel jaw then cradled a smile of satisfaction as the flame ignited the sweet tasting tobacco and he took a long drag. Plissken just stood there like a figure that was chiseled out of stone, just glaring out across the expanse of the roof as he thought about the mission at hand.

  He raked his fingers through his hair, and released a smoky breath that was followed by the word “Shit!” From out of the darkness came a severely disturbed man rushing toward him wielding an axe.  He was wearing a feathered head band and clothing that was undoubtedly made of materials that were scavenged from the environment. Snake quickly un-holstered his side arm and fired a single shot into his chest at point blank range, killing him instantly. He then heard rustling behind him and war cries in the distance, but before he could react he was tackled to the ground from his blind side.

As Plissken struggled to get to his feet, the demented prisoner tried desperately to slice his throat open with a jagged instrument. He didn’t have much time to do away with his assailant as others were clearly on their way. Snake reached for a throwing spike that was inside his boot, and plunged it deep inside a vital artery on his attacker’s inner thigh. Then without any wasted motion, he heaved the screaming man off the roof. Just as swiftly he grabbed his pistol off the ground, and as the others moved in for the kill, he shot every one of them in the head. Plissken had just arrived in the city that never sleeps and was attacked by a pack of blood thirsty Indians that wanted him dead. It was apparent that they didn’t need a reason; they just wanted to kill him simply because he was there.

  Snake was overcome by a feeling of dread, when he realized that the minds of over three million un-caged maniacs that inhabited the cesspool below were governed by the same thought process. During the deadly encounter, Snake felt weighed down by his jacket and couldn’t afford this disadvantage to repeat itself while wandering around in the prison below. When he was still in pre-flight preparation, Hauk informed him of the secret access panel that he and his men used to store extra ammunition and survival gear, just in case they needed it. It was hidden within an exhaust vent that was located on the northeast corner of the roof. After keying in the access code that opened it, he took off his jacket and placed it inside for safe keeping.

  Plissken then began walking across the roof toward the maintenance elevator that the Black Bellies used to infiltrate the prison.  He jettisoned the empty shell casings from his chrome plated Smith & Wesson, and inserted a new speed loader that was filled with lethal hollow point rounds. As he carefully maneuvered in the moonlight, he noticed several grappling hooks that were secured to a rusted chain link fence that surrounded a row of air conditioning ducts about midway across the roof. Snake’s concrete fists just swallowed up the grips of his weapon as he held it out in front of him. The scope that was mounted just behind its four inch barrel magnified the dangling cables as he cautiously made his way toward the edge of the roof and looked down. The Indians had somehow managed to hurl the grappling hooks upward through some of the broken windows on the upper floors, and apparently scaled the side of the North tower all the way to its summit which was an astonishing one hundred ten stories above the ground.

  Plissken didn’t know why they were up there and really didn’t care. Perhaps they felt closer to their gods being that close to the gas clouds. After he unfastened the hooks from their anchor points, he tossed them down to the earth and continued across the roof. Plissken knelt at the control box and began hot wiring the elevator. As he waited for it to arrive on the roof, his mind began recollecting the heist at the Colorado Federal Reserve. He could still hear Taylor’s jubilant voice already spending his plastic fortune as the Pacific Express whizzed through a transit tube on its way to paradise. He never did make it to that imaginary place in the sunset, what he got instead was a half dozen smoking barrels for his trouble. Snake couldn’t see their blood thirsty eyes behind their tinted visors, but an overpowering wave of evil permeated the entire terminal as Taylor’s chest exploded in a crescendo of death.

  The Black Bellies ended the life of one man, and like a Phoenix from the fallen ash, created another. The elevator doors opened, it was pitch black inside. Snake turned to his left and noticed a dimly lit button on the wall that read Sky Lobby 44th floor. He pressed it and the doors began to close behind him, and what little light existed inside was quickly extinguished. The cold dark box began its decent into the belly of a now lifeless giant. It moved a lot slower than it did when the Tower was bustling with life, as it now ran on auxiliary power. The wind howled through the cracks in the doors as the grinding cables brought him closer to an uncertain fate. The pressure of being up so high made the dark void behind his eye patch pulse with a fury that readied every nerve in his body, sharpening them like a scalpel.

Snake had signed on the dotted line for the most insane mission ever devised, to break into an impenetrable and inescapable fortress, and extract the most important man on the planet, alive. Manhattan Island was twelve miles long and two miles wide. How in the world was he going to find the President of the United States down there in a molten pit deep inside the tenth level of hell?  What made the hopeless situation even worse were those damn charges implanted in his neck, they were ready to open him up in 21:28:17 regardless of the mission’s outcome. He had to make it back before the last tick registered on his life clock, just so he could teach that son of a bitch Bob Hauk the most important rule in life, don’t fuck with Snake Plissken.

  His deep dry voice sounded like it came from the bottom of a grave, and it nagged at him as the elevator slowly made its way down the cold dark shaft. The after image of his sadistic smile was forever burned into Plissken’s memory, and served as the extra source of motivation that he needed to get the job done. Plissken knew that there would be a time and a place to deal Hauk the cards that he surely deserved, and he certainly had it coming. The United States Police Force had taken everything that Snake had ever known and chucked it into a churning blender, and what remained was on its way down to the 50th floor, a man with nothing left to lose. They only have themselves to blame for creating the most notorious outlaw in United States history, and he will make them all pay for their transgressions… one way or another.

  The elevator shook as it descended deeper into the tower, and all the while his thoughts were on the un-maintained cables that suspended it high above the ground. The blunt force trauma he absorbed in the Steri-Chamber began making its way to the surface, but the way he saw it that asshole Duggan was the one that got off lucky. Plissken brought his head back against the cold steel wall and allowed his tired eye to close. A soothing sting began consuming him and he wished that it would dissolve away his battered consciousness, and help him find some semblance of peace, within this dark corral. But as he sat there in the dark he couldn’t help feeling like a caged animal just waiting for the elevator doors to finally open, releasing him into a maniacal zoo. Snake was still hungry, he reached into his survival pouch and pulled out a ration pack and just tore it open. He couldn’t see what it was until his brain signaled his taste buds that it was cured beef strips. He figured he wouldn’t have any time to stop for a break while he was in the thick of it, so he just ate. Then it hit him. Along with the howling wind came the smell of death and rot rising up through the elevator shaft. It repulsed him but he continued chewing and swallowed hard. He was getting close to his destination and prepared himself for whatever existed beyond the stainless steel doors of his dark sanctuary. At the briefing, Hauk explained that they had to seal off every elevator shaft on the 44th floor sky lobby because it was considered a hot zone for hostile inmate traffic and they had been ambushed too many times.

  Before the war, it was where people would get off and switch elevators that would take them further up or down the tower. It was a long narrow hallway with 10 elevator banks which housed 24 local and 11 express elevators. It was much safer to rewire the roof access maintenance elevator to stop on the 50th floor instead, it was six floors further up, but it was still only half way down to street level. Only 4 elevator banks and it was nothing but wide open office space, no surprises. The elevator stopped and the doors opened slowly, Snake stood silently for a few minutes just to make sure there wasn’t a welcoming committee lying in wait. He crouched low inside the shadows scanning the area just within his vision. He inched his way closer to the large opening and peered out into the darkness and just listened. His good eye began adjusting to the darkness and he slithered out of the elevator and into another shadow on the far wall. He looked at his life clock; it read 21:18:45, 44, 43, 42… It was a silent device, but he could hear the loud ticking in his brain as every precious second passed him by. He moved as silently as a cobra in search of its prey, in this case the President of the United States.

  As he began to move through the darkness, he noticed that the floor was littered with tons of computer printer paper and folders which held financial records of people and entire corporations, all useless relics of a world that was long gone. On the wall there were pictures of executives and employees and a skewed sign on the wall that read Dai-Ichi-Kangyo Trust Co. None of this meant anything to him; he just took it all in as part of a morbid self guided tour into hell. Snake walked the entire perimeter mapping every nook and cranny in the recesses of his brain. There were over turned desks and chairs and miles of telephone wires as far as he could see. Disaster had hit this place and hit it hard, the island of Manhattan had fallen victim to pure evil and was transformed into a hellish nightmare. When the relentless bombing started, every occupant in both towers ran for a finish line they would never reach, as their lungs became one with the gas and their minds united with the madness that it brought. The entire city and surrounding areas raged with cold blooded murderous insanity. The gas madness.

  The force of the explosions that had devastated the south tower had blown out a large number of windows on the 50th floor of the north tower, and caused minor structural damage to the floors immediately above and below it. As Plissken continued scanning the hellish landscape, the icy wind cut sharply into his skin and disturbed everything in its path. At times the pressure was so powerful that it created a vacuum that could suck a person clear outside of the building and into the dark abyss if they weren’t careful. Hauk alluded to losing several men to this deadly phenomenon while running routing security exercises, and stressed the importance of proper awareness ever since they disappeared.  Snake’s curiosity got the better of him and he cautiously began moving toward one of the tall narrow glassless frames, he then braced himself against a twisted metal bookcase and fixed his gaze on the south tower. He wanted to see what the damage looked like first hand, and felt that the vector graphic technology that the U.S.P.F adopted from the military after it had failed miserably in Leningrad, took the edge off being a soldier. The mock images that were being transmitted reduced the value of life to just things without any real value, they meant nothing. Taking in the damage and the amount of loss that was inflicted in battle on a personal level, allowed him feel the flow of the venom that was circulating through his system. The very venom that was poisoning his ever blackening heart, and he felt lucky to be alive…somewhat.

  There were many large holes on the south towers west wall that left scorch marks that rose as high as ten stories. Many of the impact zones shot clear through to the other side of the enormous building that had become just another casualty of this senseless war. After a time his eye broke contact with the devastation and he reluctantly continued moving through the rubble, he was on a collision course with the unknown and that left a very bad taste in his mouth. Plissken had experienced war on many levels and had often been the hand that dealt its destruction, but this was unnervingly different. It was eerily quiet and the faint odor of those damn chemicals made it all seem like a cruel and inhumane experiment and he was the lab rat in search of the cheese. Snake made his way back to the maintenance elevator and noticed that one of its doors kept opening and closing as if a child was playing with the buttons inside; it was reminiscent of an old vinyl record that was stuck on a groove. He walked across from it to a doorway marked stair well. Snake glanced at the glowing red numbers on his life clock, and they reminded him that he only had 20:58:45 left before the bombs in his neck exploded. The crystal meth was kicking in, he was now ready; he opened the door and descended into the darkness.

 

 

                                                                             Chapter 2

                                               THE DESCENT 

                       

 

The empty shell he had just explored had somewhat been lit by traces of moonlight mixed in with a tapestry of shadows, but as the door closed behind him, he found himself encased in complete and total darkness. In the elevator there was absence of light save for the glowing button on its wall, but this was different, the stairwell was as dark as a pharaoh’s tomb, devoid of all life. The smell of death lingered in the air and Snake almost didn’t want to match the images he knew were there with the horrible stench. He reached into his survival pouch and pulled out a pair of PVS-5 night vision goggles, he secured them to his face and switched them on. The darkness had been replaced with an eerie green glow. He furnished a rudimentary filter made from heavy gauze and wrapped it around his nose the best he could, but it served no purpose at all.

  “PLISSKEN…” His radio blared, “PLISSKEN COME IN!” Hauk’s voice filled the entire stairwell with his dry tone. Snake didn’t answer; he quickly grabbed the radio from his holster and switched it off. He wondered to himself how many others may have heard the chatter and were now on their way up, or down to his position. He listened for a moment but didn’t hear anything, so he unsheathed his knife and began walking down the stairs, trying his best to blend in with the walls. He walked down what seemed to be an endless stairwell leading straight into the pit of hell itself, but he pushed forward, he had no choice. All he could hear was his own foot steps, one after the other descending further, urged on by the artificial burst of fuel coursing through his bloodstream. Every landing seemed to look the same; littered with the morbid remains of the poor souls who perished from the gas madness and others that had obviously been cannibalized.

  Whatever the reason, they were there and Snake didn’t want to become part of the landscape that would make Satan himself grin from horn to horn. 20:28:42, Plissken had been on the move for half an hour and still hadn’t reached ground level. The night vision goggles were giving him a horrible headache that didn’t mix well with the throbbing pain that surged from his bad eye. He looked at the door in front of him; the sign read 14th floor No Re-entry. He switched off the goggles and reached for another piece of the gooey substance that served as his motivation to make it down to the main lobby. As he backed himself into the corner and slid down to a seated position, he began wondering what it would be like to feel his arteries explode taking him out of his misery and this god forsaken place. It was an attractive alternative, but an easy way out and Snake never took the easy way out… of anything.

  While sitting in the dark, he heard a faint sound that quickly stirred his defenses. Snake didn’t bother putting the night vision goggles back on, as his instincts have finally melded with his surroundings. He had been walking down the stairwell for a very long time and it seemed to have a rhythm that became very familiar to him and finding his way in the dark wasn’t that difficult anymore. Carefully sliding his feet across the floor, so not to stumble on the obvious obstacles Plissken carefully traversed every step and used the wall as a guide. Step #1: Walk down15 steps turn to the left, repeat step#1 simple enough. By his calculations he had descended three floors when he noticed a flickering glow; it was almost beautiful and it existed within the rancid bowels of hell. It fluttered on the walls performing a hypnotic dance that lured him closer. Snake gripped the handle of his knife with anticipation as the perfectly trained soldier within him just took over. As he closed on his destination, his gut coiled up like a Black Mamba, venom at the ready. He could still hear that sound only now it was a murmur, it reminded him of the pleasurable noise a person makes when enjoying a hearty meal, but in this case, it was almost disturbing. He was now on the landing and saw that the glow was emitted by a wall of candles that lit a hideously morbid smorgasbord of carnage.

His eyes widened with terror and shock, as there were body parts strewn everywhere in different stages of decomposition, and judging by the smell, the ones that were eaten to the bone must have been there for well over a week. Plissken listened for the murmur again, but it was gone, his presence on the landing must have frightened whatever it was into hiding. However, it left behind an odor that was so ungodly that it nearly compelled him to vomit. 20:18:38, he had been in the belly of a giant beast nearly forty minutes and has seen things that only a select few ever see and live to tell about. He came across a makeshift totem that was obviously made from a telephone pole, and on top a file cabinet draped with human skin stood statues of Indian warriors carved from wood. They were adorned with all types of trinkets and the same kind of colorful feathers that were on the heads of the savages who attacked him on the roof.  But the one menacing feature that made it clear to Snake just how seriously twisted and dangerous this prison world was, were the human scalps that were affixed to the statues clenched fists. It was an inhuman sight that was almost too much to bear, but the more he studied the macabre display the clearer its presence there was becoming.

  Native American tribes are very spiritual and they prey to gods and offer gifts, and at times sacrifices in exchange for their powerful magic. They would recite sacred prayers asking that they be protected, or spared, but in this case from what? Snake quickly put two and two together and realized that he had stumbled onto a goddamned sacrificial feeding station for the lords of the underground. “The Crazies” as Rheme had explained at the briefing, were in complete control of the city after dark. They were a nocturnal and cannibalistic horde that numbered in the hundreds of thousands. If the Indians were afraid of this murderous clan then he would surely heed their warning. Snake knew that he had to get out of there quickly because that murmur that disappeared was surely on its way back with a pack of hungry hyenas and he didn’t intended on being on the menu. Plissken made his way to the end of the landing he saw that the door was battle scarred and looked like it had survived many a war. It had been bludgeoned and carved up by instruments that would rip flesh from the bone very easily. The metal was gnarled and blood stained, if he was going to keep descending the tower, it wasn’t going to be through there. The stairwell was blocked off as well with a grotesque barricade made of barbed wire, wood and the skeletal remains of the inmates who found early parole in the gullets of the beyond insane.

  His instincts guided him like a compass, he put the night vision goggles back on and figuring that the 14th floor was his best bet, bolted back up the stairs without any wasted motion. He remembered that it was a no re-entry door, which meant that there shouldn’t be anyone covering it, at least he didn’t think so. Snake slithered up to the door and listened intently…it was quiet. He pulled out a collapsible pry bar from his survival kit, and proceeded to pick the lock with surgical precision and within seconds he was on the other side. Moving through the darkness like a ghost, he began searching for another way down to the street. Snake wondered to himself what the hell was waiting for him when he finally made it outside. Hauk never bothered to tell him all of the grim details that he had encountered while in the prison in search for his son. Perhaps in his heart he thought that Snake really had no chance of making it out alive on a solo mission, so he had resigned himself to this thought process and had written him off before he even landed the glider. Plissken however had other ideas. He made that black belly son of a bitch a promise and he wasn’t about to break it. Snake always kept his word.


 

Chapter 3

LAIR OF DEATH

 

20:06:52 He weaved in and out of the shadows becoming one with his surroundings, knowing full well that stealth was his only ally. If he was discovered, the mission would be compromised and he and the President would surely die. Plissken was motivated by a different set of rules than everybody else and he was governed by patience that made him very dangerous, unfortunately the charges in his neck were making him move faster than he wanted to under the circumstances. There was no room for mistakes as the margin for error was less than zero, yes the odds were heavily stacked against him, but that’s just the way he liked it. Snake had been immersed in the darkness for nearly an hour and his reptilian senses have now become nocturnal as well, and there’s nothing more dangerous than a side winder in the dark, you wouldn’t know it was there until it hit you.

  There was a group of men just ahead of his position and he began preparing for the full on assault that simply could not be avoided. As he studied the men, another stepped out from a doorway that was covered by an old shower curtain. The man was totally unaware that his death was crouched silently in the dark behind him. Snake struck swiftly covering the man’s mouth while driving his knife into his spinal cord, severing it… there was no time for him to struggle. Just as quickly the blade sliced his throat and he lowered the limp body to the floor without a single sound. The others were standing by a fire, they were speaking in a language that he had never heard before, and judging by the inflections the conversation was a light hearted one. They were eating something that was cooking on a grill made of chicken wire, but he didn’t even want to think about what it was.

  Their guard was down and they had no idea that Plissken was even there and being the ultimate opportunist, the ex-soldier knew that he would make easy work of them. When he was on the roof he pulled a few more toys from the secret access panel; a mini assault rifle, 4 timer grenades and extra ammo; it was time to go to work. He crawled around on his belly until he came across the perfect place for an ambush, and began assembling the assault rifle. After making the proper adjustments to the heat vision scope he looked down its length at the unsuspecting targets. Their silhouettes danced around in a blaze of vibrant color that took his good eye a bit to get used to, and then he fired. One after the other the Indians fell to silent bolts of death, Plissken rounded the corner right before the last body hit the floor.

  The fire was behind him now and everything just receded back into the darkness. As he moved across the floor he peered through the scope, if anything made it into his line of fire it would quickly be erased from the equation. As he ventured deeper into an unknown landscape he noticed empty sleeping mats that were made of news paper, clothing and wrapped tight with telephone wire. Some of them were placed inside makeshift Tee pees that were made from old office cubicles, they all had dog and cat pelts draped over their entryways. One of them actually had a car door affixed to it with its window amusingly rolled down. There were several rows of tall spikes sticking up from the floor; the ones in the front acted as torches adorned with animal skins and bones. The other two dozen, or so displayed severed human heads skewered into their sharpened ends; it was a sight that inspired fear and respect. Plissken found himself walking through a village of insane head hunting savages and felt relieved that its occupants were nowhere to be found. They had the place secured very well as many doors had been sealed shut with anything that could be found, obviously to keep the crazies from raiding their domain and murdering their numbers. The men that he had taken out must have been the guards that watched over the perimeter when the tribe was away. It was deadly quiet, too quiet and Snake didn’t like the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. The silence was breached by a rhythmic sound that came from one of the Tee Pees that was about ten feet in front of him.

Plissken quickly moved in ready to spray yet another twisted soul into oblivion, when he came to the dwelling his eye met a puzzling sight. An ancient man was sitting inside, he was clad in complete ceremonial dress, and he just rocked back and forth humming what sounded like sacred prayers. There were small fires burning on either side of him and pyres of smoldering incense that emitted the smell of burning flesh. Snake just stared at him; he almost couldn’t help it and instinctively leveled his weapon at the man’s head. This was obviously the tribes chief, the headdress he wore was adorned with pigeon feathers that were all dyed in different colors and all the tips had been dipped in blood. His face bore the canyons of age and his waist length hair was silvery white, he resembled a tired old wolf whose fangs had no bite left in them…he posed no threat to Plissken. He just sat there humming, staring back at the stranger who was pointing a high tech thunder stick at his decrepit form.

  Suddenly a door opened, and Snake just stood there almost frozen. There were tribesmen entering the floor carrying old wooden crates and burlap sacks full of supplies they had foraged from the street. What he had been searching for suddenly appeared before him and that doorway obviously lead down to the street... he had to make his move. The old man let out a piercing shriek and angrily rushed the one eyed figure standing before him holding a spear that was adorned with dangling cat bones. They rattled for just a moment, and then with a silenced flash the old man just dropped onto a pillow of his own grey matter, but it was too late. The savages heard the alarm and were on their way to investigate the commotion.

  Plissken took a deep breath and allowed the caldera deep within his tortured soul to release the orange fire, and the pressurized war that was in his blood was now focused on his enemies. He came out firing in a strobe that cut right through them, causing confusion, chaos and ultimately death. He slapped another magazine into his weapon and squeezed the trigger until he finally made it to the door. There were more of them converging on his position from across the corridor and he quickly slipped into the stair well. They were all met by a little surprise that was left behind by their uninvited guest. Snake was a full two flights below when the explosion erupted, he didn’t stop to enjoy pyrotechnic display, but he did feel a sense of pride that he hadn’t experienced since his days in Black Light. The huge blast blew out several windows and rained glass down to the street below, the flash itself was seen by a group of scouts that were entering the World Trade Center’s plaza from the Church Street side. They began running toward the building with a rage that was as sharp as the weapons they were wielding.

  Snake didn’t have much time, he had to sacrifice using stealth and implement heavy warfare if he was to make it to the street at all. The Meth acted like nitrous and made his body perform on an inhuman level, but it was almost time for another hit as the fatigue in his thighs was taking its toll. He took out several more Indians as he came across them in the darkness; he was now on the 8th floor and needed to pick up steam. The scouts were piling in through the revolving doors and were entering the lobby. 3rd floor: he was almost down. They spread out in between the elevator banks as they tried to figure out what was going on. 2nd floor: he slapped the last magazine into the rifle as he closed on the final landing. The Indians were waiting for a squad of Black Bellies to come storming out into the lobby and wage war on them as they have done in the past. But what they didn’t expect, was a lone desperate man to emerge from the eastern stairwell ready to kill them all if he had to. 1st floor –To Street: it was all or nothing. Without hesitation, Plissken stormed into the lobby and immediately heard the all too familiar sound of war cries reverberating off the marble walls, intermingled with the flight of dozens of arrows whizzing right by his head, missing their mark. The moonlight was pouring in through the tall spire shaped windows that wrapped around the perimeter of the North tower. It was filtered through the gas clouds that constantly hung over the city, and gave it an un-natural blood red haze.

The savages were everywhere, their silhouettes danced around in the dark like an insane shooting gallery where death was the only way out of the game. He didn’t have an itchy trigger finger, but this hell was more than enough to make the average man lose his composure, but Snake Plissken wasn’t an average man. He knew how to react under pressure and how to maneuver in a seemingly hopeless situation. Snake was as slippery as they come, and the Indians gave him the advantage of thinking that there was more than one man invading their territory, and he would use it to the fullest. Like a run away train he plowed right through the barbaric display of primitive force, firing only when he had to. One shot kills was a Special Forces trademark, and Plissken was damn good at it. The lobby quickly became a war zone, and he made damn sure that his pursuers knew that what he was unleashing was nothing less than cold calculated hell. There seemed to be no end to the turmoil as an undetermined number of rabid Indians were converging on the main entrance. As they entered the lobby, he shot only the ones that got too close, but every lost soul that he exterminated was replaced by one, or two more demented warriors that were out for his head.

  Plissken darted passed them and noticed an area that was used to store supplies before it was transported up to the village on the 14th floor. One thing caught his eye as he made a bee line toward the unguarded stash, and it was something that he could definitely use to inflict heavy damage. Snake quickly snatched two large duffle bags from the inside of a crate that was obviously part of the Government’s “Humanitarian effort”. He knew exactly what was inside each of them, but their weight turned out to be a bit of a burden. As he ran, they scraped on the marble floor as he hauled ass toward the escalator that went down into the old shopping center. They were at least forty of them hot on his heels, as he disappeared down the darkened motionless metal steps. When he made it down to sub level-1: he spotted a car that had been parked right at the bottom of the escalator. Without any hesitation, he shoved both bags through an open window and into the back seat. They each contained two propane tanks that were completely filled with compressed gas. He then slapped the three remaining magnetic grenades onto the vehicles rusted cadaver, with only eight seconds left before they all exploded. Plissken’s heart raced as he distanced himself from the eminent explosion that would punch anything within its vicinity, a one way ticket into oblivion.

  As he ran for cover behind a pillar, the large horde began filing in around the car in search of its prey. There was a white hot flash that instantly turned into a devastating inferno that just burned the tainted oxygen right out of the air. The concussion that followed was so powerful that it lifted Snake’s flaying body off the ground with his legs still in a running motion. When the pull of gravity found him again, he tucked and rolled several times while still encapsulated in forward momentum, and then finally slid to stop. As the thick black smoke began to clear, he surveyed the damage and noticed that the extreme temperature from the fire had reduced the car to a thin, twisted hunk of melted scrap. It appeared that most of the escalator had been buried by the thick rubble that fell from the ceiling, and there wasn’t a single trace of his pursuers… nothing that resembled a human anyway.  The immediate threat had been neutralized, and if there were anymore of them trying to get down it would take them a while to dig through that mess.  He was safe for the moment. As he dusted himself off and checked his body for injuries, he realized that he had dropped the assault rifle somewhere in the rubble and it was pointless to try and retrieve it, so he just continued onward. Plissken slowed his pace momentarily as he walked through the barren underground mall. He never let his guard down for a second as he didn’t know what to expect, or what else was down there with him. It smelled dank almost like it does just before it rains; the aroma however, was tainted by the smell of the chemicals that turned millions of brains into battery acid. Some of the most sophisticated biological attacks are completely odorless, and virtually undetectable, but the stuff the Russians used on us was dirty warfare.

Plissken reached into his survival pack for another piece of the Meth; his crashing system needed to re-boot itself and this heavy narcotic was the only thing that had the power to keep him going. He slept very little, if at all, in the past forty eight hours as his transition into the prison system was as smooth as a jagged cliff. Hauk knew that Plissken was practically spent before he “convinced” him to play savior to a world he had long turned his back on, and the Meth was simply a temporary means of keeping a broken machine running just long enough for it to get the job done. As he scanned the sub level he looked at all the empty shells that were once busy department stores, they were almost unrecognizable, just corpses…like everything else in this god forsaken place. Most of the gates were down but it didn’t make a difference the day the bombs fell and the poison gas filled the air ducts, everything that lived was affected one way, or another. There were lots of bodies that looked as if they have died in a horrible panic; their final expressions were etched into their petrified faces. They were lying in bunches, one on top of the other and their only saving grace was that they weren’t alive to witness the inhumanity of the world they had left behind. Everything had long been devoured by the looters when the war began, and the inmates picked the rest clean when Manhattan Island was transformed into the largest penal colony on the planet.

  Not a single thing remained, even the mannequins were gone. It was a very unnerving sight to process. It was very apparent that nothing went to waste in this jungle. There were cries of rage where the explosion had blown a crater in the thick cement exposing the level below it. Plissken was on the move again and remembered that there was a way out over by the old book store in the west end of the mall and quickly made his way back toward it. It was a stress crack in the corner of the building that was obviously caused by the heavy bombing when New York City fell under attack. There were torches on the wall that lead to the hole that was just big enough for a man to fit though, and there were also two armed men standing guard. There was an oil drum up against the wall next to the opening, it didn’t have a lid on it and it was nearly full. The Indians would dip their torches in it before they ventured out to explore the streets at night. Plissken was running out of options, he had to make his final push to the freedom that the street would provide him.

Razor sharp arrows began raining down on his position as his bloodthirsty pursuers were getting closer. Snake grabbed a mini flare gun from his pack and quickly fired a shot that hit one of them in the chest instantly engulfing him in flames. One of the guards left his post and rushed at him swinging a mace like weapon and was met by a Plissken’s knife in flight. The man fell to his knees with the blade buried deep in his chest and his eyes wide open…he was dead. The other guard jumped at him with unpredictable and dangerous fury that rivaled that of a rabid animal, he was swinging a length of pipe with a spike welded to the tip. The man pulled it back over his head as if to bring it crashing down on his prey’s skull, but Plissken intercepted the blow before it had any weight to it. The man then grabbed desperately at his throat and Snake delivered a head butt right between his eyes, but the man held on tight and his weight brought them both down to the floor. The savages were getting close the book store, as their primal screams were getting louder as he struggled on the floor with his crazed assailant. Snake managed to brake free from his vice like grip and as the man tried to sit up, he violently drove the heel of his boot into his chin, turning his head in an unnatural angle, and breaking his neck.

He quickly made it to his feet and squeezed through the opening, but he wasn’t done yet…not by a long shot. The maniacal horde began spilling in from every possible opening, they were everywhere like roaches. Plissken tipped over the oil drum and waited until the last possible second before emptying the flare pistol into the black sludge and watched as it ignited into raging inferno that nothing on earth could ever survive. The screams of extreme agony were rapidly engulfed by the sound of the swirling flames, and the chase was finally over. Snake stared into the opening as plumes of fire and smoke stretched out like fingers into the night, the intense heat felt pleasant against his skin as the chill from the late October night blew in from the Hudson River.

 

Chapter 4

STREETS OF DARKNESS

 

            19:51:32 Plissken removed the sync pulse tracker from his cargo pocket and switched it on, but the President was too far away for the device to be of any use.  Getting over to the crash site would be his next objective, so he irritably pulled the radio from his belt, and took an agitated breath before making contact with the other side. “Hauk!” The commissioner blared back in his usual cold and deliberate tone “Where the hell are you Plissken? You were supposed to keep us informed on your progress.” Plissken snapped back. “You didn’t say anything about me playing cowboys and fucking Indians asshole!” Hauk listened in amusement and his answer equated to pouring gasoline over an uncontrollable blaze. “Cities always changing Plissken, besides you didn’t have a heavily armed platoon escorting you… I’m impressed.”

  The throbbing in his Plissken’s bad eye began to send out invisible waves of hatred that far surpassed his earlier impulse to kill him back in Cronenbourge’s lab, and if that son of a bitch was in front of him now he would crush his larynx and finish the job. But it was a pleasure that he knew would be exacted at another time and place, so he kept his composure and requested the coordinates for Air Force One. Hauk took his time to reply, knowing full well that it made Snake uneasy, as he waited in the dark for an answer. He was dishing out a little payback for the defiant lack of respect that the decorated war hero demonstrated back in his office, and seized the opportunity to return the favor. Only eight seconds had elapsed, but it felt like hours before his voice broke the silence. “The crash site is on the West side of the island, near the prisoner transfer station on Houston Street, between Seventh and Eight avenues. Get over there and see what you find.”

  Plissken switched off the radio and started making his way down Vesey Street toward the old expressway that ran up and down the entire west side of Manhattan Island. It was the most direct route to the crash site and certainly the most dangerous, but after weighing the alternatives he realized that the probability of death was waiting for him around every corner. The beating of tribal drums filled the air, as Snake approached a wall of debris that appeared to have been built for a very good reason. It was haphazardly constructed from a large assortment of ransacked vehicles, bricks, dirt, lumber and bits and pieces of just about anything that could be found. It was roughly ten feet high, and there were areas on the structure that were marked with barbaric warning signs that were meant to be respected. It was clearly a boundary that separated one hostile territory from another, and it was arranged in a maze like fashion that blocked off every inlet from the northwest with the exception of Barclay Street.

  The wily war veteran cautiously traversed its length while keeping his finger perched on the trigger guard of his Ingram Mac-10 at all times. It was almost pitch black, and the heat vision goggles gave him an extra sense of security in areas where it seemed that even the moonlight had better judgment. As he moved silently toward uncertainty, he came to a bend in the twisted metal labyrinth that completely overlapped Broadway at the corner of Beekman Street. The area that was exposed underneath the barrier was once the grounds of the old City Hall building. There were no leaves on the tree branches, and the earth looked as dry as a bone after years of soaking in the corrosive chemical rain. Plissken moved as swiftly as he could as he kept his ears focused on the prisoners that were rustling about on the other side of the barrier, they were attacking its rusted framework with steel pipes and other blunt objects, trying to force their way through to the other side. Plissken quickened his pace as a section of the barrier was beginning to give way directly behind him; they had found a weak point and would continue their unrelenting assault until it fell to the ground. The never-ending fortification stretched from one end of lower Manhattan to the other, and there didn’t appear to be a single sign of life within it.

Plissken slowed down as he came across the remains of a village that had been abandoned in recent days. The Indians must have relocated to the World Trade Center, to avoid the harsh elements and deadly late night encounters with the Crazies. The area had been picked clean of whatever had been left behind, and it resembled everything else that he had witnessed in this unfathomable hell hole…it had been touched by the hand of death. Plissken had finally reached the end of the elaborate conduit. The air smelled of decay and the side walk was littered with bodies that had been horribly burned and repeatedly shot at close range with large caliber weapons. The darkened silhouettes of the Trade Center stood to his right as he made his way across the street. The scenery didn’t get any better as he neared an overturned dumpster on the corner of Nassau Street. When he looked up and saw dozens of human skeletons hanging by their necks, they were all tied to the lamp posts that lined the street as far down as his eye could see. Their arms and legs were bound with razor wire, and most of them had bullet holes in their skulls. They just dangled like demented wind chimes, as a Banshee like howl caressed the buildings and weaved its voodoo on the sanity of any soul that entered this domain.

  Snake had wandered to the very gate of Hell itself, and stood before the mouth of what came to be known as the infamous “Bone yard”. It was the unholy part of town where thousands of rioting inmates were tortured and murdered as they tried escaping the upstart penitentiary, while its security contingencies were still in the conceptual process. Although Plissken had never set foot in New York City before this day, he remembered hearing stories while he was still in the military, about the atrocities committed by the Harker administration when Manhattan Island was being transformed into the one prison for the entire country. His bad eye began to pulsate, as the orange fire began shooting barbs of hatred into his cerebral cortex, and his thoughts became focused on the man that he broke into hell to rescue. The man that was indirectly responsible for the events that destroyed everything he had ever known, and stripped him of every ounce of humanity. Plissken couldn’t help but feel like a puppet on a string, as those damn bureaucrats on Liberty Island were calling all the shots…for now. The moonlight gave the street a bluish tint, and as Plissken continued moving along Nassau Street toward Exchange Place, the skeletal remains that littered the canyon of death stood as a testament to the prison’s horrific beginnings.

 

 

                                                                            Chapter 5

                                         ISLAND OF LOST SOULS

 

           

            In September of 1985, the first fourteen thousand prisoners to arrive in New York City were bussed in from Rikers Island, and within seventy two hours their integration was complete. Within days of their arrival, scores tried swimming to freedom across the island’s natural barrier, but the hellacious currents and helicopters armed with snipers quickly became an effective deterrent. Thousands of others tried crossing the city’s main bridges and tunnels and were met by an equally horrible fate; their often lifeless bodies were left to warn the inmates that followed that escape would be impossible. After several weeks, the futility of their situation began to ebb away at their confidence, and the frequency of these occurrences became nil. However, the worms that filled the core of the now rotten apple were like rats on a sinking ship and they simply would not tire until they were either free or dead. They began fanning out across the large land mass looking for different ways to escape, but the smartest criminal minds among them opted for patience. They realized that it was only a matter of time before an unstoppable army could amass and overtake the prison’s guards, and every transport vehicle that arrived brought them closer to that goal.

  After the complete success of the Rikers migration, every police precinct in New York’s five boroughs, as well as the eight remaining inner city jails were in the process of transferring the contents of their holding tanks into Manhattan Island. The remaining fifty seven thousand prisoners were to be bussed into the penitentiary via the 69th street Bridge, by armed detachments of the National Guard. The Bronx, Westchester and Staten Island facilities would intersect with the 69th Street Bridge after taking their respective routs toward the island. Before the war, the United Nations awarded New York City with a war memorial that was to be fully dedicated to America’s most decorated and fallen heroes. The project was funded by every allied country that the United States Government helped to protect in times of great turmoil. It was erected on 69th Street and Metropolitan Avenue in Queens, and was given the name “Veterans Memorial Park”. “The Veteran’s Memorial Bridge” was commissioned to connect Manhattan Island and all points North West of the city via West Houston Street and the FDR Drive, to Metropolitan Avenue which was respectively re-named the “Veteran’s Memorial Highway”. The entire roadway was adorned with military regalia, and old glory waved her stars and stripes every one hundred yards on specially made flag poles. The bridge later adopted its new monikers “Glory pass”, and “the 69th street Bridge”. The roadway was completely sealed off to civilian traffic after the onset of World War III, and was now known as the as the highway that lead straight into to hell itself.

  The rest of New York State’s penal population was scheduled to arrive in large oil tankers that had been refurbished to carry thousands of prisoners to the transfer stations that were erected along the docks of the South Street Sea Port. This operation was to take place after every inner city cage was cleared of its filth, and every prisoner was successfully transferred inside the prison. The piers transfer checkpoints were being fortified with extra correction officers that were equipped with state of the art riot gear, in the event that an unforeseeable revolt were to ever take place. The situation was seemingly under complete control when the Secretary of State gave the green light to move ahead with the largest relocation project ever attempted. In the following months the transfer busses came and went routinely and with minimal incident, and by the end of the year there were nearly seventy one thousand inmates inside a prison that had only fifty thousand guards to keep the peace. Many of the alliances that existed within the inmates former prisons have remained intact, but they also brought with them many old scores that were not forgotten, and were immediately settled in blood.  Wars raged, and the deadly battles lead to the creation of new and more powerful gangs within the islands savage streets.

             The bloodletting was a daily occurrence that that had no foreseeable end, and with an extreme population explosion looming on the horizon, the danger of every guard checkpoint being completely overtaken was becoming a very real concern. The guards were able to repel a large majority of the bloody attacks, but without ample reinforcements their numbers were beginning to dwindle. The National Guard was deployed to Roosevelt Island to dismantle the tramway, but the makeshift outpost was severely undermanned and was experiencing difficulty keeping the most desperate inmates from escaping to Brooklyn and Queens via the Hudson River. Hundreds were shot on a daily basis and the situation on the streets of America was spiraling out of control. Unruly rioters were rounded up and transported to the island, in an attempt to keep the infected from ravaging what was left of our civilization. The gas madness was quickly turning the citizens of this now crippled nation, into insurgent’s that posed a serious threat to free society. The Government’s answer for every situation that involved the death of the innocent was “They are acceptable losses” and amid the turmoil on the streets, and opposition by members of Congress, the mass prisoner relocation project was still under way.

On December, 24th, 1985: The first two tankers docked at Pier 97, and when the gang planks opened, tens of thousands of inmates were herded onto the island to the sound of bullhorns and machine gun fire at their backs. The remaining two hundred thirteen thousand inmates from every New York State Prison were now in the process of being moved into their new permanent residence. The incoming barges lined the waters of the Hudson River, and one after the other they passed Ellis Island on a migration that was to form a different kind of melting pot. Just three weeks into the project, successful escapes across the Harlem River were becoming a frequent occurrence, as the numbers game was alarmingly beginning to favor the prisoners. The escapees that were fortunate enough to make it passed the multiple checkpoints in the Bronx and beyond were eventually captured or killed, and were simply viewed as statistics. The Depleted National Guard units did what they could to secure the prisons perimeter, but the military was too busy fighting the escalating crime rate on the streets to effectively fortify the prisons personnel. The war had taken a large majority of the country’s soldiers over seas, and left the second stringers home to tow the lines of justice.

  The tankers continued to dock at the Sea Port with regularity, and each check point was met with a barrage of savagery that was beginning to weaken the resolve of every guard on the island. In only five months, the New York State correctional system had somehow managed transfer every inmate from its seventy one facilities, and by June 12th 1986 there were well over one million seven hundred fourteen thousand prisoners on Manhattan Island. The streets became a war zone as the estimated million and a half souls that survived the relentless bombing and were never evacuated, began assembling upstart gangs to protect what little they had left against the hardest criminals America had to offer. They began furnishing weapons out of anything that could be found, and many had come into possession of guns and knives that were found inside cars and other random locations throughout the dead city. They fought tooth and nail against the criminals, until one among them made it known, that the prison could never hold them if they didn’t want to be there. With the battle for liberation looming just over the horizon, they began to plot, and to organize until that faithful day was upon them.

  On February, 19th 1987, every guard outpost fell under constant attack, and the violent revolt spilled the blood of guards and prisoners alike. It was now becoming clear to prison officials that these aggressive escape attempts had become a situation that was apparently not containable through conventional means. The guards were heavily out numbered, and the only way for them to even attempt to overcome this hopeless situation, was to instantly execute all non compliant prisoners, and secure the prison by way of deadly force.

With seventy five percent of the prisons guards being comprised of strictly correction officers that migrated into the new system with the prisoners, they lacked the experience and the fire power to control such a large mass of un-caged rioters, and were sustaining heavy losses. Law enforcement officials have never seen, nor were they prepared for, a situation that even remotely resembled the mass hysteria that took hold of a large percentile of country’s population. The uncontrollable crime rate in the streets rose to an unprecedented four hundred percent, and there were barley enough police and military reserve officers on hand to effectively maintain order within the major urban cities that were hardest hit by the bombing. The United States of America was in a desperate war to stay alive, and the fabric which held the very ideals of this nation together was disintegrating before the Governments bewildered eyes.

 

                                                                                

                                                                           Chapter 6

                               THE UNITED STATES POLICE FORCE

           

            There was simply not enough man power to secure and support the containment of every prisoner that had been transferred to Manhattan Island, and the government did not foresee the extreme rioting that occurred during and after the transfer of New York States entire penal population. By the third quarter of 1987 the department of justice declared that America’s entire penal population had reached a plateau of just over two and a half million inmates, and transporting them all to the New York Maximum Security Penitentiary would prove to be an extremely daunting task. The operation to move the rest of the country’s inmates was put on hold, until a new harder hitting plan could be put into operation. With no answers in sight, the President devised a plan to use the soldiers that were fighting in the chemical laden war overseas. They have all been infected with the gas madness, but their superior battle training seemed to be the only way to combat an enemy that was just as aggressive as they were. The inferior personnel would be incrementally exchanged with these military madmen that were returning home from the war effort, to carry out their directives to combat the fires of civil unrest.  In 1988 the President signed a declaration that gave his new militia the absolute power that it required to restore the security of this once proud nation, and to ensure the fortification of the prison…at whatever the cost.

  The first order of business was to put an end on the rioting that was literally ripping the prison apart at the seams, and causing a multitude of problems for the Harker administration. Elite squadrons of Apache helicopters were brought in to the fray, and quickly began to restore order. They flew sorties within and around the islands boundaries, and with clipped military precision they systematically erased every threat from existence. A compliment of three Apache squadrons were then instated as the penitentiaries permanent patrol force, and gave every inmate a taste of what was yet to come. The Army core of Engineer’s plan to erect a fifty foot high containment wall to completely surround the perimeter of Manhattan Island was now underway, and would take a combined twenty seven hundred military and civilian construction companies approximately four years to complete. The United States Police Force began its campaign by taking over every law enforcement agency in the country, and all the non essential personnel that had been replaced, were then sent overseas to fill in the depleting roster. The rest were deployed to Manhattan Island to fortify the prisons inner perimeter, and wait for their military replacements to arrive. Troop transport planes continued bringing home tens of thousands of battle hungry soldiers every month, and by the beginning of 1989, the scourge of humanity had completely assimilated the duties of every police officer and prison guard in the country.

  Their uniforms were as black as their soulless bodies, and the deadly brand of “justice” they dealt quickly became the equalizer on the streets of a crime ravaged America. Within their first year of service they imposed a heavy handed martial law on the citizenry that insured that every city across the board was held in check, and any opposition was either terminated, or sentenced to life imprisonment on Manhattan Island. The prison was envisioned to hold every prisoner in the entire country, and the United States Police Force was more than ready to use any means necessary to seal off the prison from any chance of escape. With their minds now at ease, the Governments plan to completely segregate every criminal from free society was now officially under way. Population control experts were brought in to perform an accurate census on the seven hundred fifty eight State, and one hundred fifteen Federally run facilities within United States territories. The final report presented an alarming statistic, which caused prison officials to re-think their strategy before proceeding with their plans to re-locate the prisoners. There were three hundred seventy two thousand, three hundred women in the penal system, which equated to seventeen percent of the total prison population.

            It was a staggering ratio of about five men to every woman, and within a large geographic area such as Manhattan Island, the onset of rape would be a situation that could neither be controlled, nor avoided. Unwanted pregnancy and inhumane child issues within the prison, was a noose that would certainly do in President Harkers bid for re-election. There were roughly ten thousand women in the prisons population that had already been exposed to the certainty of this scenario when the first wave of transfers was completed, and with no guards inside the prison, there had to be a way to curb this primal behavior before it could occur. Scientists worked around the clock to create a device that was to be used to neuter the entire male population, so that all sexual urges would be suppressed. It was crude, but it was the best they were able to come up with to meet the governments relocation timeline.

  The subject’s testicles were placed into a saddle which was then drawn into a stainless steel container that hummed for fifteen seconds. A cold spaying of anti bodies numbed the area which was then cleanly severed by a laser that cauterized the wound instantly. The process was extremely painful, and the lingering effects would last for as long as seventy two hours. There was no hospital stay after the procedure, and the only comfort that was provided was a two week supply of penicillin. The government was also fully aware of the estimated million and a half people that survived the bombing when the war began, they were never evacuated, and it was simply not cost effective to go in the city and perform the procedure on a seemingly insignificant male population. Those who were unlucky enough to have survived the horrible aftermath, were now infected by the gas madness, and considered to be acceptable losses. They were going to be a part of the echo system whether the new arrivals were ready for them, or not. After minimal testing, the sterilization device was put into production and the prisoner relocation process was under way.

  The government appointed and maintained; Western, Midwestern and Eastern sectors to control the flow of prisoner traffic being transferred to New York City from every point across the country. Each sector had fifty sterilizer units on site, and each facility ran an average of twelve hours per day, five days a week. Two thousand prisoners a day arrived by tanker to the prisons single entry point at the South Street Sea Port, and by the end of the first year, seven hundred thirty thousand prisoners were fully processed and transferred into their permanent residence. Every bridge and tunnel was fortified with barricades that were erected to deny access to all bridges and tunnels on the Manhattan side. Every checkpoint was equipped with machine gun turrets that were manned by personnel that were more than willing to cut any form of opposition into ribbons. The Black Bellies as they came to be known would salivate profusely when the chance to violently take a life became available, and they were extremely creative in the pursuit of their murderous pastime.

  As they held the prisoners at bay, electronically controlled smart mine fields were being laid down across every span, and then covered over with thin layers of blacktop. This perimeter defense measure would insure that detainment of all inmates would in fact be permanent, and in time, monitoring stations would no longer be needed inside the prison. When the relocation project was nearing its third year, and a staggering three million, one hundred ninety thousand inmates were now incarcerated inside the New York Maximum Security Penitentiary. As the infusion of new Manhattanites struggled to find their identities within their dark surroundings, the Black Bellies shot the ones that wandered too close to the shore line. It was a practice that continued for nearly a year after, even as transfer tankers became more infrequent and there were fewer “greenies” as they liked to call them, running around looking for a way out. The shooting gallery subsided after a time, and as boredom began creeping into the already tainted minds of the blood thirsty enforcers, they took it upon themselves to go out beyond the barricades in search of prisoners to gun down.

A large concentration of settlements was discovered in and around the buildings of lower Manhattan, and the sadistic death squads maliciously slaughtered the helpless inhabitants simply for the sport of it, and frivolously tossed their mutilated remains into the street like garbage. Fearing for their lives, the prisoners learned to avoid the attacks all together, and sought shelter deep inside the sewers, and the vast underground networks of the cities subway system. The Black Bellies knew better than to follow them down into the vermin infested tunnels, and surmised that noxious gases and disease would do away with them sooner or later. What they didn’t take into account, was that they might actually adapt to living within the extreme filth and decay…and survive.

  The dark faceless reapers were creatures that ran on the adrenalin rush of indiscriminately violent murder, and the high octane battle fury that fueled these impulses, had been forced to lay dormant for longer than any of the soldiers could handle. It was nearly spring time, and there hadn’t been an inmate sighted near the Sea Ports transfer station since December of 1991. The saliva in their mouths had run dry, and with nowhere to focus their uncontrollable aggression, they soon began to turn on each other. Erratic behavior became the first visible sign of a post traumatic war syndrome that had never been documented once in neither military nor civilian record. Neurological disorders that closely resembled the behavior altering patterns found in Tourette syndrome were coupled with the stereotypic movements exhibited by many caged animals. This dangerous amalgamation has furthered the perversion of an already psychopathic entity, adding to it the twisted dimension of the multiple personality disorder.

  One of the first to fall victim to this wicked neurosis was Sergeant Duggan, who out of nowhere began attacking members of his squad with a blind and relentless fury. Duggan was in charge of ensuring that all detainees landing on Manhattan Island understood the prisons only rule, as they exited the transfer tankers and were assimilated into the population. He was without question the meanest dog in the yard, and often handed out parting gifts that were wrapped in brass, and found enjoyment in breaking the bones of his un-contesting victims. The man was a brawler of golden gloves caliber, and he wore a chip on his shoulder that he constantly dared the world to knock off. Not even the darkened visor on his riot helmet could conceal his delight, the day he began to pummel his subordinates to an utter pulp. The carnage that he inflicted made him feel alive again, and when other squads began to follow suit, it became a situation that snowballed terribly out of control.

The Secretary of State ordered the detainment and study of everyone involved in the mêlée, and that all classified information be withheld from the media. In the months that followed, government researchers ascertained that the life span of soldiers that were stricken with the gas madness was about two years post infection. Many of the autopsies also revealed that the madness effected people differently, and that approximately one in every one hundred and seventy nine cases was identical. There were also incidents where the onset of cerebral necrosis had gone into remission, the subject didn’t expire, but still retained all the symptoms of severe mental illness. Sergeant Duggan was one such case, and became known throughout Liberty Island Security Control, as the rabid lab rabbit. The classification pinned on him by his peers, made the veins in his forehead protrude well past the surface of his beet red skin, and he never hesitated to kick the living shit out of anyone whether they looked at him sideways, or not. The man just invited trouble, and was considered to be so violent, that his behavior rivaled the craziest inmates that ran amuck inside of scum central. This wonderfully warm quality that he possessed, primed him for a new position that was opening up in inmate out processing, and his name was the only one on the entire roster that came to mind. Duggan’s file was reviewed by the prison’s Board of Directors, who deemed the two bit thug “fit enough” to remain in service, and promoted him to officer in charge of the steri-chamber.

            Clean gloves hide dirty hands, and there wasn’t a person on the planet more deserving of that job than he was, and besides nobody else wanted the fucking job anyway. Duggan even coined a phrase that greeted the prisoner’s right after they left the de-nutter room, as he liked to call it. It hung on the wall and read “GOODBYE CHARLIE, don’t think it hasn’t been fun.”

The United States Police Force employed a shuffle system that kept all personnel stationed inside the prison free of the necrosis syndrome, and they were regularly replaced so that the police presence would remain strong, and free of violent incident among themselves. The Black Bellies were completely removed from all interior checkpoints, when the penitentiaries containment wall was completed in the spring of 1993, and the prisoners were left to their own devices to freely create a savage new society within its lawless boundaries. Manhattan Island’s transformation was now complete, and all tunnels except for the Holland were completely sealed off, and all waterways concealed a deadly secret just below the surface. 

The most inhumane prison system ever conceived was now operational, and President Harker began using the fear it imposed on the American public. The White House was constantly under fire by civil rights activists who blamed Harker, for turning his back on the humanitarian side of the project that was entirely financed by the Government. The concept of food drops had not yet been considered, and malnourishment was quickly becoming the enemy of all life within the prison. What groceries remained on the shelves of ransacked stores, and dilapidated buildings was being ferociously fought over, and clearly wasn’t enough to sustain the entire population for any significant length of time. This apparent food shortage caused the most insane prisoners to cannibalize the contaminated carcasses that littered the streets, and it was only a matter of time before this newly developed taste for blood would wreak havoc on the living.

During the hot summer months, malaria spread rapidly among the prisoners that were already possessed by the madness, and the combination of the two contagions mutated into a deadly new virus. The epidemic spread like wild fire, and was delivered through the highly infectious bacteria that festered in the saliva of all who carried it. It was very similar to the bite of a Komodo dragon, and with this rabid new predator roaming the streets hunting for food, nobody in the prison was safe.  The beings that were spawned from the pestilence of death and madness soon became known as the crazies. They had a foul stench about them, and it often overtook their prey before they ever got the chance to run. They were feared and reviled by everyone on the island, and the number one rule among the populous became to never be on the street after dark.

           

                                                                                

                                                      Chapter 7

                                                   WALL STREET

 

            The Street smelled of stagnant death, and Plissken covered his face with his large hand as he continued walking deeper into no mans land. There was nothing left that even resembled the city that used to exist just a few short years ago, and as he turned the corner onto Wall Street, there stood the biggest symbol of American history that can possibly be imagined. Right atop the steps of the old Federal Hall building stood the statue of the very first President of the United States of America, George Washington. He took the solemn oath in this very building when New York City was the nation’s capital. Now two hundred years after he left office his immortal image stood as conqueror of every lifeless body that lay beneath his weathered bronze frame. Plissken moved toward the middle of the street, as the mass open grave made it impossible to walk on the sidewalk closer to the buildings where he preferred. The sound of the overly quiet streets, the swirling breeze and the buzzing of one hundred billion flies feeding on the dead, had all become a morbid symphony that echoed in the center of his brain.

  The old financial district which once stood for the wealth and power of this once great nation became a symbol of anarchy and death. The Presidents homing signal was very faint, and seemed to be moving in a northwesterly direction. Plissken had no choice, but to keep wandering to the east, as the barricade had forced him on a heading that lead him away from the crash sight. The buildings in this section of the prison were badly damaged by the bombing and many of them had partially collapsed to the ground as a result of their wounds. The terrain was treacherous and unstable, and Plissken had to employ extreme caution as he walked through enormous sections of debris that lay on the weakened streets. The decimation of lower Manhattan at the hands of the Russian war machine was monumental, and it was severely intensified by the grisly contribution made by the United States Police Force. Plissken came to a wall of rubble that was blocking his forward progress and the only way to get to the other side was to climb over it. The bodies that littered the streets all the way to this point began to dissipate, indicating that the chasm of death had finally come to an end. The stagnant stench of decay made it almost impossible to breathe, and Plissken had to force himself to step on the bodies that were piled a quarter of the way up the barriers jagged face as he began to climb.

The sound of decaying flesh releasing malodorous gasses every time he shifted his weight began to chip away at his iron resolve one scale at a time. It made him wish that he could press a magic button that would make his neck explode prematurely, as every repulsing step brought him closer to a reason not to survive this unthinkable ordeal. But the fire within him would not go out, and it gave him the capacity to move forward like a good soldier, unrelenting in his pursuit. Snake reached for a protruding piece of rebar and pulled himself up beyond the inhuman stew, and just kept climbing leaving the horror behind him. When he made it high enough he began to see pockets of space in between the large chunks of jagged debris, and made damn sure to thoroughly check them all for traps and other hazards before moving on. After reaching the top of the pile, Plissken used the heat vision goggles to examine the street below. Nothing moved within his field of vision as he traced every broken window on the ravaged buildings as he searched for convicts with a taste for blood.

19:27:26 He cycled through every setting on the goggles, until he was absolutely positive that it was safe enough for him to proceed. Using an exposed piece of computer cable, he began to lower himself down the other side of the treacherous obstruction. The spikes on his boots helped to secure his footing, but the loose debris made it extremely difficult to completely plant his weight. Snake spotted an over turned school bus right below him protruding through the rubble; it was about half way down. All he wanted was to feel the steady ground under him again, so without delay he released his grip and landed firmly on his feet. He slithered off the bus and down to the street, staying low to the ground as he sought out cover behind a rusted mail box.

There were dozens of stripped and over turned vehicles on the street, along with objects that were entirely out of place. It added a feeling of utter hopelessness to an already desperate situation. Snake remained in a crouched position as he came to the corner of Wall and Water streets; he knew that remaining unseen in this concrete jungle would be no easy task, even for a soldier of his caliber. He began to see prisoners moving around in the distance; they were unquestionably still running in the direction of the towers. On this night, the former Big Apple was rocked by a tandem of thundering explosions that sent shock waves for miles and disturbed an entire echo system. Plissken made his way across to the East side of Water Street, it smelled of urine and fecal matter, and there was broken glass everywhere. It shimmered like diamonds in the moonlight and burst into worthless dust under the weight of his boots.

  There was a lamppost a few yards away from where he stood, it flickered on and off as he now made his way North along Water Street. There was a small band of hobos huddled next to a small fire; they were just trying to keep warm in their cardboard tenement. They didn’t seem to care much for the one eyed outlaw that silently passed through their turf, and weren’t about to start asking any questions. Every step of the way, Snake’s good eye remained fixed on their forms like a hot laser, until he vanished around a corner. The wind began to pick up as he got closer to the old Sea Port, and the salt in the air fused with the putrescent odors of the night, and created an atmosphere that was overflowing with despair. Plissken was tired, and he didn’t want to use up the few remaining pieces of Meth until he really needed to. Down by the water, the streets were completely deserted, and he always had that raw feeling in his stomach that something bad was going to happen.

 

                                                                              

                                                                             Chapter 8

                                     RONDEVOUS WITH THE DEAD 

 

 

19:25:13  Plissken had been terribly thrown off course and needed desperately to find a way to make up for lost time.  He continued moving north along Water Street for about one mile, until it branched off into an area that had once been the city’s civic center. It was a lot quieter on this side of lower Manhattan, and the Snake moved as quickly as he could while blending in with the environment. The Brooklyn Bridge stood to his right, and as he looked across the river he could see patrol helicopters in the distance making their usual rounds over the murky waters of the Hudson. The sound of their whirling blades hacking into the night sky reverberated off the buildings, but they never came within a mile of the shore line. As they flew back to base, their high powered searchlights illuminated sections of the prisons containment wall, reminding Snake that he was still a prisoner. He was a death row inmate whose last rights would fall upon deaf ears, if his mission to rescue the President was unsuccessful.

As Plissken made his way around the deteriorating landmark, he began to make out several figures that were huddled together in the darkness. They were living beneath the overpass that once bore the burden of heavy rush hour traffic, when the city still had a pulse. They kept a very close eye on the stranger that was trespassing on their domain, and obviously knew better than to show any aggression toward the lone gunman with such an intimidating presence. Their blood crest was scrawled on many of the buildings along Pearl Street, but Plissken ignored the warnings, as he didn’t plan on staying around long enough for any of them to get any bright ideas. As he penetrated deeper into uncharted territory, the sync pulse tracker alerted him that the President was on the move again. The device used biorhythm impulses to triangulate an accurate two part heading, and the first readout placed a marker three miles north of Plissken’s current position. In all his days, Plissken had never seen anything that resembled the surreal landscape of the prison, and his thoughts were focused on the nearly four million inmates that resided on the enormous cell block, and their collective mindset was cause for great concern.

Several months before Plissken’s capture, the entire island was right in the middle of the largest turf war since the Duke took control of the prison in 1990, and every faction was fighting for their right to survive within its savage streets. By the time Plissken came wandering into their territory, the Skulls had already been decimated by their power struggle with the Turks who wanted to abandon their nomadic lifestyle, and join forces with the Aztecs and the Gypsy Hoods. It was a strong belief among the Turks senior clansman that not having an established territory made both groups vulnerable to attack by hordes of violent gangs that were solely on the hunt for blood and spoils. A meeting took place further uptown at the Aztecs well fortified base camp at old Tompkins Square Park, where a vote involving the senior members all four factions would decide the fate of all who were opposed to the unification. After lengthy deliberations the votes fell unanimously against the Skulls, and they were then abandoned and left to live as they wished, and the Turks became part of one of the very first unified clans in the prison.

Plissken was more than ready for an attack that never came, not realizing that the group’s numbers had been greatly diminished by defectors that had joined forces with the Turks. The Skulls had been demoralized to the point were their fighting spirit had been completely broken, and they could only watch as Snake Plissken slithered through their territory completely unopposed. He could feel the weight of their penetrating stares probing his every move, but the semi-automatic insurance policy that was hanging off his shoulder would make damn sure they all kept their distance. Many of them recognized the outlaw immediately, but dared not speak his name above a whisper as his deadly reputation preceded him. The biorhythm signal was now flashing dead red on the trackers western quadrant, as he came across several fires burning along the encampments outer perimeter.

There were skinned rats and other vermin being turned into jerky, as pungent black smoke permeated their dead flesh. With the triangulation now complete, Snake quickly altered his course to a North Westerly heading and disappeared into the darkness. The streets were devoid of any activity as Plissken made his way to the South East corner of Center Street. The Corinthian columns that adorned the front of the old Supreme Court Building stood majestically atop its stone steps, and could barely maintain the pretence that they once stood for justice. Its inner sanctum was now corroded by the murderers and cutthroats that its former denizens once fought to put behind bars. Plissken turned the corner and walked south for several blocks until he reached the corner of Chambers Street. He found himself standing behind old City Hall Park, and started moving west until he finally made it back to the corner of Broadway. The barricade that threw him off course was visible just a couple of blocks south of his position, and as he looked through the heat vision goggles he could see that there were still inmates still trying to get to the other side of it. A delicate balance had been disturbed by the hellacious explosions that Plissken inflicted on the North tower when he made his escape from the Indians.

  The blasts must have been heard as far up as Canal Street, and scores of inmates had been making their way toward lower Manhattan in a complete frenzy for several hours. Plissken had inadvertently created a diversion which was now proving to be a factor that could control his very life and death, and he has been given the opportunity to pass through hostile territory virtually unnoticed. But had to move quickly because the gangs that controlled the immediate area could be returning at a moments notice, and he didn’t want to get involved in an unnecessary offensive situation. Plissken was well versed in the art of bringing war to the enemy, and he cautiously observed hordes of disturbed inmates scampering passed, as he waited for an opportunity to get to the other side of the street. The chill in the air wreaked havoc on Plissken’s weary frame, and the fatigue felt even worse as he was forced to wait idle in the dark. Knowing full well that he had to pick up his pace, he reached into his survival pouch and consumed the last two pieces of crystal meth. The inmates were pretty spread out, and didn’t notice Plissken behind an old news paper dispenser inching his way toward the corner. When the street appeared clear enough to proceed, he bolted across Broadway to the other side of Chambers Street, and ducked into a long dark shadow. As swift and powerful as a King Cobra, Plissken slithered along the sidewalk over to a row of parked junkers, and peered through one of the broken windows at the wild animals that would surely skin him alive if he were to be discovered. He slowly receded away from the turmoil and began moving west on Chambers Street.

The blacktop was still wet from the rain that fell just a few hours before he landed inside the prison, and right on the ground in front of him the moonlight revealed at least a dozen corpses that had been eaten right to the bone by something that was clearly inhuman. As Plissken weaved his way toward West Broadway, the abject desolation that surrounded him began to play tricks on his lone optic nerve, and judging distances was now becoming a real problem. 19:08:36 It had been nearly ten minutes, and the meth was beginning to kick in. Nervous and confused, Plissken’s breathing became short and labored, as a cold sweat began to build up on his forehead. The orange fire that consumed his very being was urging him to move onward, but his legs began to feet like flimsy rubber supports that were beginning to give way. As he turned onto West Broadway, the scarred city streets resembled the nightmare that his life had become and the air became dank and filled with an odor that Plissken had encountered earlier inside the World Trade Center. A putrid fog like mist was exuding from every manhole cover in the immediate area, and the deadly cocktail of noxious gases was beginning to overpower his lungs. As he continued moving along the street, Plissken was grabbing at anything to hold himself upright. He felt like he was breathing in Napalm with every inhalation, and his jugular began to pulsate almost out of control. As he tried desperately to keep his composure, Plissken sensed that he wasn’t alone, and blurry images began to come into his line of sight.

There was an old woman pushing a shopping cart with a broken wheel that kept spinning uncontrollably, it seemed to be filled with things she had found in her travels, but upon closer inspection Plissken saw that it was in fact filled with human body parts. The same foul odor that permeated the air was rolling off her body like a cascading waterfall, and when she looked in his direction he noticed that her face was being consumed by maggots. Plissken was overdosing on a toxic adrenaline that was inebriating his acute sense of perception and becoming a hallucinogenic. The strong narcotic that his body had been forced to absorb in large quantities was causing his system to crash, and he had to find a way to exhaust its effects before it was too late. Tainted sweat was beginning to burn Plissken’s eye, and he could feel the salty dew that was forming on his upper lip begin to pour down both sides of his trembling face. Everything around him was now engulfed in a milky haze, and the desperation that followed was quickly becoming the enemy that would attack him from within.

  Plissken’s mouth became as dry as Hauk’s iron clad mirth, and that bastards words began to reverberate inside his mind which was now beginning to spiral out of control. “Two microscopic capsules lodged in your arteries, they’re already starting to dissolve. In twenty two hours…The echo was deafening and Plissken covered his ears in the hope of keeping the inevitable from occurring. He was quickly shaken from this posture by the ringing of a tricycle bell, there were two little girls playing by the stoop of a dilapidated building. The clothing they wore was covered in filthy dry blood, and their eyes were glazed over with the madness. Plissken stumbled away from them as they spoke with sweet voices that hid their obviously deadly intentions. “Where are you going mister, don’t you want to play with us?” Plissken felt something hit his boot; when he looked down to see what it was, he saw a severed head with both eyes gouged out. The voice of a boy came from the opposite side of the street. “Can I have my ball back now?” Plissken looked over, but it felt like he was looking through a kaleidoscope which only offered a slide show of morbid imagery that was meant only for him to see. Everything began to spin out of control, and the pull of gravity felt like it was increasing with every step his quivering legs tried to take.

  The fire, it was always the fire that kept Plissken’s engine running, and it made him accomplish things that nobody else ever could. The man was a survivor, whose will was cast from tempered steel, and he would fight for all he was worth to the end. Plissken tried to find his bearings, as he stared almost blankly into the Sync Pulse Tracker’s tiny readout screen, and the LED was blinking steadily indicating that the President was approximately one mile north of his current position. His heartbeat was pounding like a sledgehammer, as an old man came to the doorway of another building and began pointing in his direction, as he disappeared into the mist. Plissken had become extremely disoriented, and came across a fire hydrant that had a stream of water pouring from its cap less spout. Plissken cupped his hands and splashed the cool liquid onto his face, and then began to drink. It didn’t seem to bother him that the waters source might be contaminated, as much as the horrible sight that that he witnessed as soon as he raised his head. Snake was surrounded by a pack of sub humans, and he calmly began to look around, taking stock of how many probable targets and exit points would have to utilize if he had to fight his way out. None of them were moving; they just sat there, gorging themselves on the flesh of a charred human body that was without a doubt, jettisoned from Air Force One. The suit jacket that was draped on what was left of its torso lead Plissken to believe that the President and all of his aids, had most likely ended up as the late night buffet, so he moved cautiously and didn’t make any sudden or threatening movements. There were dogs growling at him as he passed, they were all covered in mange and festering sores. The madness had taken hold of them as well, and as he turned off West Broadway their glowing eyes was the last he saw of them.

  There was a flickering glow coming from a building just up ahead, and the air smelled of smoke. Plissken ran as fast as he could to the end of the street, and came across a subway station that had been partially covered over by the side of a collapsed building. It had been on fire for several hours, and the blistering hot temperature caused the edifice to finally give way. The fire was so hot, that most of the debris that rained down onto the street had been fused into the melted blacktop. The one thing that stood out was the wing of an airliner that had been violently ripped from its fuselage, and the highly combustible jet fuel that spewed from its engine had ignited an inferno that had been burning for nearly six hours. The thick black smoke left an acrid taste in the back Plissken’s throat, but it was a welcome change to what his senses had already been forced to endure since his arrival in old Manhattan. Judging by the extent of the damage to the buildings upper floors, it was very clear that the rest of the Air Force One had become an out of control missile that met its end in the darkness further uptown. The plane that was carrying the most important man in the world had chiseled a path of destruction right through a canyon of stone, and blazed a trail that would ultimately lead Plissken right to it. There were pockets fire scattered all over the street, and many of the buildings as far as he could see, were engulfed in flames that had long burned out of control. As he followed the fiery wake of Air Force One, what little windows remained on the battered buildings on both sides of the street, reflected the glowing orange flames left behind by the ill fated airliner.

The flickering light that danced off each pane appeared to mock him with a Morse code message that read “Ohhh Snakey, what were gonna do to you.” The affects of the meth was beginning to wear off, and as Plissken got closer to his objective he began to screw the suppressor onto the barrel of the Mac-10. As he turned the corner onto Seventh Avenue he looked to his right and saw something that nearly took all the breath from his lungs. A disheveled man with long hair, and green army fatigues, was standing in the middle of the street staring right at him. He was drinking cloudy liquid from an old bottle, and spoke words he could never have known. “It was a trick, a lousy fucking trick!”  Plissken stopped dead in his tracks and turned to face him, and his eye became fixated on the figure that strangely resembled Bill Taylor. The man started limping towards him talking gibberish, and as he got closer the words that came from his mouth became sluggish and terribly distorted. Snake unconsciously leveled his weapon at the man’s chest, and then side stepped onto the side walk. Plissken backpedaled as he weaved his way through all of the garbage that was strewn everywhere, and when he looked over to where the man was standing, and he was no longer there.  There were pools of fire all along the ground, and when Plissken looked back in the direction he had come, he saw the blazing trial of destruction that the large airliner had etched into the concrete canyon that eventually broke it into several pieces.

  The wreckage was visible approximately four blocks North from were he stood, so Plissken hurried his pace toward the fiery tomb that most likely consumed the man he was seeking to rescue. There were many inmates still running around with their hands full of whatever they could scavenge from the crash site, and they showed absolutely no interest in Plissken, none at all. They were simply getting clear of the area, and obviously had their own survival in mind. The sweltering heat emitted by the fires began to warm Plissken’s weary body, and it began pulling his mind back to reality almost unwillingly. As the nightmarish dream state slowly evaporated before his disoriented eye, Plissken began to remember where he was and his purpose was becoming as clear as his hatred for the U.S.P.F. The numbness was all but gone, and Snake Plissken felt alive once again. Plissken walked around to the back of the wreckage and saw things that no sane mind would ever be able to process, and walk away from unperturbed. He just took it all in and moved on. It was a terrible site, body parts were intermingled with disintegrated machinery, and the few remaining rows of the airliners large seats still had appendage less torso’s securely strapped into them.

It was just as Plissken had thought; the fiery god forsaken crater before him had become a late night buffet for the criminally insane. There was barely anything left that even resembled a plane, and there was nothing left alive within, or around its mangled shell. Plissken stopped in front of a park on Hudson and Leroy streets and pulled the radio from his belt. “I’m at the plane…Nobody else made it Hauk. Wait a minute…” Snake received a beacon from the Sync Pulse tracker, it triangulated the Presidents homing signal very quickly this time around, he was close! “I’ve got his pulse, right up ahead moving northwest.” 18:32:57 Plissken walked up Seventh Avenue and made a left onto Bedford Street. The signal was very strong, and the anticipation of possibly finding Harker alive made his bad eye vibrate with painful barbs that shot what felt like hydrochloric acid all the way down his spinal column. Plissken continued his northward vector along Bedford Street, and as he traversed through the eerily silent darkness; he noticed that there wasn’t a soul to be found anywhere. The decrepit landscape of the once great city was draped in a bluish moonlight that gave everything a dead stillness. It was so quiet, that Plissken could almost hear his own heart palpitating in sync with the flashing red dot on the trackers tiny read out screen. It began to triangulate once again, flashing erratically until the red dot populated a single square on the mapping grid.

  The President was less than five blocks away, but the silence still bothered Plissken, it was still way too quiet. He slowed his pace considerably, observing the roof tops for look outs, and snipers. If the President was where the little machine said he was, he would be heavily guarded and not very easy to get to. Plissken still had the element of surprise in his favor, and didn’t want to spring any of the traps that were obviously in place prematurely. He just waited, and listened sticking his forked tongue to the wind while seeking out his prey. The darkness was taxing Plissken’s good eye, so he used the night vision to inspect the area just outside the building that was holding his objective. He was only two blocks away, and nothing moved outside of the Lucille Lortel Theater on Christopher Street. The Marquis read “Old Manhattan Revue, Featuring the Velvet’s.” Plissken walked right up to the theaters ticket window and peered through the opaque glass that was lit from the inside. Snake looked at the tracker, and it confirmed that he was definitely in the right place. He began to search for a way into the building when a door opened behind him. Plissken quickly turned and saw a dirty bum that stepped from within the theater; the man did not take notice of him and walked off into the night.

  Before the door could close, Plissken used his weapon to hold it open. As Plissken studied the buildings interior he could here music playing, odd music, and the kind that can only have come from deep within incarcerated minds. Plissken was now in the lobby of the theater, and the ticket taker was passed out on the table where he collected cans of food as payment to view what the inmates called “a show.” The candelabra’s that lit the lobby gave off just enough light for Plissken to see an inmate scavenging through the clothes of a man that he had obviously killed. He was being stripped of all his belongings as he lay on the floor, and Plissken just walked passed without as much as a glance, the music was getting louder. He came to a doorway and looked down toward the stage, there were men dressed in drag adding horrible lyrics to a cacophony that was already mind wrenching. “This is hell this is hate, but now this is our world and it’s great. Stab a priest with a fork, and you’ll spend your vacation in New York…” Plissken stared at the stage in disgust; he swallowed hard and began to walk inside toward the front of the room. There was a jolly older man sitting in one of seats enjoying the show, and when Plissken walked passed him he immediately recognized who he was. He just stared in awe as the infamous outlaw disappeared into a doorway behind the stage. Plissken was standing in a stairwell, and began looking at the sync pulse tracker as stood at the edge of the stairs that lead down into the basement. The jolly older man came storming through the doorway, and Plissken turned as quick as a cobra and aimed the Mac-10 at the mans head before he could even blink.

            “Hey, you’re Snake Plissken aint ya? The man said with a sheepishly evil grin. “What do you want? Plissken answered, in a low abrasive voice. “Nothing, I heard you were dead.” Plissken turned away from the old-timer paying him no mind, and the jolly old mans happy go lucky demeanor quickly changed to one of great concern for Plissken, as he disappeared into the maw of the theater. “Hey, you don’t want to walk around down there…”

 

                                                     Chapter 9

                                               “WHERE YA GOIN BUDDY?           

                                                      December 24th 1974

 

  “Here let me help you with your luggage mam!  I wouldn’t want you to get hurt ya know, not on this icy side walk. No Sir! I mean mam! You see, I pride myself on driving the safest cab in all of New York City. Heh, heh…Yes mam, the safest! And I’ve been driving this here cab for ten years now, this very same cab! I got an award for it being the cleanest in 73 ya know…”  The woman couldn’t fit in a single word, and even if she had a crow bar for a tongue, she was no match for Art Bushynski’s mile a minute cab speak.  “Would you like me to bring your bags up to your room mam? I got no problem wit…” The woman somehow found the nerve to interject as if her very life depended on it. “No. That will be perfectly alright Mr…” With his fat fingers still wrapped around the suitcase handles, he grinned at the woman exclaiming “My names right there on my hack license if you care to look mam! Art Bushynski’s my name, but you can call me Cabbie, everybody else does!” The woman answered in a vulgar tone “As I was saying…Cabbie.” Looking at the jolly man with the beaming smile, who answered happily “That’s me.” Raising his caterpillar like eyebrows at the woman, as if trying to impress her with his Bowery Street charms.

  The woman was extremely put off by the lively mans poor attempt at charisma, and decided to end the encounter as abruptly as she could. “The Waldorf Astoria is perfectly capable of sending a bell boy to fetch my things, thank you. Now please leave!”  Annoyed at the rude woman’s unwarranted verbal assault, Cabbie answered in a belligerent tone that sent the woman back on her heels. “No skin off my rump lady! I know when to take a hint. If you don’t want me around, then (pointing his index finger to the ground) I won’t stay around! You see, I’m a gentleman mam, aw skip it!” Cabbie dropped the woman’s bags on the side walk, climbed into his cab and drove across two lanes and disappeared into a sea of rush hour traffic. The woman didn’t even bother looking in the direction of the screeching tires, burning rubber and the irritating cacophony of car horns, as Cabbie sped away down Park Avenue South. The old bag was just another annoying insect on the windshield of disappointing encounters, and Cabbie had already forgotten about her, as she became a distant blur in his rear view mirror. Art Bushynski hadn’t a care in the entire world, and he was off to meet his best friend Eddie for lunch at the South Street Sea Port.

  The theme from American Bandstand echoed in the air as Cabbie made a hard left on 23rd Street on his way to the FDR Drive. “Hey Eddie, go ahead and tell ol’ Rhonda to fix me up her famous Hot Pastrami on Rye with extra coleslaw on the side, and a malted milk will ya I’m starvin.?”  Cabbie was always on the radio with his good friend since their days in the Navy, and it seemed that nothing was ever going to change that. ‘Why don’t you tell her yourself, she’s right here sitting on my lap.” Eddie answered with a swagger that made Cabbie grin the entire length of Manhattan Island. “You dirty dog,” Cabbie snapped back. “I knew I couldn’t trust ya with ol’Rhonda. Hey girly, don’t forget to wash your hands before ya make my sandwich, heh, heh!” He then floored the gas pedal and turned onto the downtown entrance ramp of the FDR drive. They say that there are a million stories in New York City, and Cabbie knew a million and one, and he was proud to call the streets his own. Cabbie felt like an ambassador of the bright lights and the hustle that gave the city a pulse like no other place on earth, and as he raced down the highway to meet his pal Eddie the hair on his arms stood up because he knew in his heart that this town, his town, was special.

Snake was now in the bowels of the theater, only this time his eye was slightly hampered by the gloom of perpetual darkness, as he ventured into yet another world within the prisons countless environments. His nocturnal senses which were sharpened by the savage streets above began slicing through the shadows, as he followed the sync pulse tracker’s homing beacon through the lower intestine of hell. As he searched for President Harker, Plissken passed a room where three punks were having their way with a helpless woman. Her almost limp body was being held up by a skin head, while another ripped at her clothes and exposed her breasts. The clapping that came from the third individual added a sadistic beat to the entire scene, which played out in the dim light which came from a fire that was burning in the corner of the room. They were all behaving the way they thought they should with the attractive female who was in the wrong part of town, and with no laws to stop their barbaric assault; they would rape her repeatedly and well into the night. However, all they could ever do was pretend, as the removal of their testicles in the steri-chamber perhaps years ago, took with the ill fated organs, any semblance of a sex drive. They were playing out a twisted sexual fantasy, and the saddest part for all of them was, that they were completely devoid of any pleasure at all. They were just disturbed erection-less shells of what they used to be, before they were stripped of their manhood and sentenced to a life of total emptiness.

  Plissken found the display amusing, as he walked passed without as much as a glance in their direction.  Bob Hauk said it best; he just didn’t give a shit. As Snake continued onward, it dawned on him that these prisoners although they were all deranged in one form or another, were the only free society to exist in the United States. They lived and died by their own rules, the rules of a savage land that was once the greatest city on planet Earth. Within its containment walls there were many different cultures striving for the goal to simply survive inside a twisted melting pot untainted by any political views, police presence, or laws that made everyone on the outside seem like cattle that were being lead to a slaughter. New York City was living up to the moniker of concrete jungle, and only the strongest would even dare to survive in here. An old saying had been re-written “If you couldn’t make it here, you wouldn’t make it at all.” And the most dangerous man alive was right in the middle of it. Plissken searched every room while keeping his eye trained on the sync pulse tracker for any sudden rhythmic changes to its blinking LED. The musty smell of urine and human waste product was beginning to overtake Plissken’s senses once again, as he came to a man that was sitting on the floor right in front of him.

  “Hey Chief, The man said while trying to make conversation with the dark stranger that was looking down at him. “Nice night.” Snake just looked at him fully aware that the man was tipping off his partners that were hiding in the shadows nearby, that a new victim had just wandered into their trap. But what they didn’t seem to understand was that the trap had already been sprung, and the snake that lay coiled within it, wasn’t fucking around. Nice boots, NICE BOOOTS!” The signal to attack was delivered in vain, and brought two assailants rushing in at Plissken from behind. “Hey!” Said the first attacker, as he moved in for the kill brandishing a switch blade. Snake quickly countered the anemic attack, and then drove his skull into the man’s nose, killing him where he stood. The second was met by an equally as deadly strike to the skull with the base of the war veteran’s Mac-10. Plissken then cocked the weapon and pointed it at the old fool who knew that he would be next if he didn’t respectfully vacate the immediate area. “Easy now chief, I’m walkin, I’m walkin…”

  18:06:27 Plissken was really close, the tiny red beacon was flashing almost centered on the sync pulse trackers readout screen. Nothing moved as he made his way deeper into the maw of the theater. The more Plissken observed the more he realized that the inmates were still people, and as he weaved his way through their domain virtually unnoticed, their lives unfolded before him. They had no food, or water for days at a time, and some were simply lucky enough never to wake to the rising of the next sun. They all lived huddled together like vermin, waiting for the next crumb to fall to the ground, so they can kill each other for the right to eat it. Plissken began to feel vulnerable, as thoughts of Taylor and his parents being slaughtered at the hands of the United Stated Police Force filled his mind with images that would haunt him for the rest of his life. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had run so dry that his tongue felt like sandpaper. Plissken’s hatred began to make its way to the surface, and the magma that fueled his rage was propelling him forward once again. In the dark just up ahead Plissken heard a muffled commotion. A man that was almost completely collapsed to the ground was being beaten by a dirty bum in a rain coat. The man that was being pummeled as he held onto an old basin was wearing a black suit jacket, and on his outstretched arm Plissken noticed the homing device that he had been following for hours.

  He looked at the sync pulse tracker which confirmed that he had indeed found President Harker alive! Snake gritted his teeth, and kicked the man so hard that he fell into a darkened doorway and never emerged again. Plissken approached the beaten man and leaned in with the words, “Mr. President?” The man turned into the light and faced Plissken, and revealed himself to be a drunken bum with a worn out, bloody, toothless grin. Barely conscious, he looked at Plissken and said pointing at the device that was strapped to his wrist. “I’m the President, sure I'm the President. I knew that once I… got this thing that I’d be President…”  Plissken wished that the bombs in his neck would’ve exploded at that very moment, so that the nightmare that just seemed to be getting worse would simply end. “Where’d you get it!” Plissken asked in a very annoyed tone, while clasping the mans feeble wrist. “I woke up…a…aand there it was just like a miracle.” Plissken smashed the device against the basin rendering it inoperable.

Secretary of State Prather was sitting at the monitoring station with Dr. Chronenborg, as the Presidents vital signs had all flat lined on the computer screen right in front of them. “Jesus!” said Prather, and Chronenberg nervously interjected with “I, I, I could be just an impact to the mechanism it self.” And he took off running to find Bob Hauk, leaving the nervous secretary to his stale cup of coffee. Plissken immediately got on his radio. “Hauk.” The commissioner’s monotone voice came back seconds later. “I’m right here Plissken.” Snake’s voice was agitated and to the point. “I don’t know what you assholes are looking at, but it’s not the President!”  Snake put the speaker right in front of the bum’s mouth and almost as if he knew, the man became eerily patriotic. “Hail to the chief, la, la, la, la, la, laaaaah…”  Plissken took the radio and snapped “All right get your machine ready I’m coming out!” Bob Hauk coldly answered “Eighteen hours Plissken!” Snake quickly answered, cutting off the commissioner in mid sentence. “Listen to me Hauk, the President is dead you got that! Someone’s had him for dinner!” Hauk listened to Plissken’s plea, but answered with a military crispness that didn’t surprise Snake, not one little bit. “If you get back in that glider, I’ll shoot you down! If you try and climb out, I’ll burn you off the wall! Do you understand me Plissken?” Snake answered in a low raspy almost defeated voice. “A little human compassion.” As he stared blankly at the walky talkie in that he held in his hand.  “Get moving Plissken!” said the commissioner almost as a parting shot that added even more sting to his already weary body.

Plissken collapsed the antenna on his radio, and placed it back on his belt. He began to feel the weight of the city upon his shoulders as he searched for a man that was surely a corpse by now. The prisoners had nothing to gain by setting him free, and nothing to lose if they abruptly ended his political career. Plissken began to realize that the information that was recorded on the cassette, was much more important to Hauk than the President himself, and with that thought the needle that he was trying to procure had now become much smaller. This was insanity, how was he going to find a ghost he thought? Plissken had no starting point, no direction and no clues. He climbed out of a broken window that led to an alleyway in the back of the theater, and began to make his way back to the crash site where he might be able to piece together some answers…

 

                 I HAVE BEEN WRITING AGAIN AND THERE WILL BE MORE SOON!!

 

 

 

                    Follow link to new site which will be up soon!

                                                                http://ultimatesnake.webs.com/

                                                                      

 

                                                                        

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

           

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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