The doctor’s eyes flared, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he turned sharply on his heels and marched out of the room. There was silence for a few seconds, then Prather spoke:
“There’s something that needs to be said, Hauk,” he began. “The President is, of course, very important to us… but the briefcase-that’s more important right now.”
“Yeah,” Hauk replied. “I kind of figured that one out for myself.”
VIII
9:00 P.M.
They sat Plissken in the steri-chamber, so he could think about it for awhile. There was nothing fancy or scientific about the steri-chamber. It was a small, white room where they strapped you naked on a stainless steel table, then put a box about the size of a typewriter over your hips. The machine then, quite quickly and smartly, would cut your balls off.
They had a blackbelly named Duggan in there to watch him. Duggan was the craziest son of a bitch that Plissken had ever seen. If anyone belonged in the steri-chamber getting his balls cut off, it was Duggan.
The blackbelly was hopping around the room on all fours, imitating a rabbit he had seen once that had gotten a dose of gas. Plissken had a pretty good loop of chain to work with while he was sitting down. If he could only get Duggan close enough to him, he could try to get it around the man’s neck. Then, with any luck, he could use his gun to shoot off the chains.
“And then… and then…” Duggan was out of breath, eyes wide, unable to stop laughing. “And then, he’d kindly go on off to the side.”
The man flung himself wildly off at an angle, banging into a small table full of instruments and gauze. The table fell down, skittering the instruments loudly across the shiny floor.
Duggan jumped to his feet and his head darted around. His gummy monkey face suddenly solidified into something rock hard and perverted. He pulled a. 45 out of his belt and leveled it at the Snake. His hand was shaking with rage,
“So, that’s the way it’s going to be, is it,” he said, his voice quaking. He was breathing loudly through his nose. “Just look what you did, you gutless bastard.” He nodded his head toward the mess on the floor.
Plissken tightened his hands on the chain, waiting for his opportunity.
“You know what you’re gonna do?” Duggan asked rhetorically. “You’re gonna get down there right now and pick that stuff up, that’s what.”
“Go to hell,” Plissken said.
Duggan began vibrating physically. He primed the bolt on the gun. His arm was shaking, weaving around. When he tried to speak, the words got all balled up in his throat.
“Down… on the… floor. NOW!”
Plissken moved off the bench, his length of chain stretching full as he stood up. He set the table upright, then squatted down and began picking up the scattered metal clamps and hemostats. Duggan stayed just out of arm’s reach, always out of arm’s reach.
Plissken looked up at him from the floor. The man had a monstrous grin plastered on his face. He turned back to the work. All at once, Duggan was right there. Plissken had turned his head just enough to see the steel-toed boot curling toward his exposed side.
The kick was well-intentioned; it had authority. It caught him just below the rib cage, and his whole side exploded. He jerked up with it, crashing back into the instrument table, all his work gone, clattering back to the floor. He hit the wall hard, then slid and doubled over to the floor.
Duggan was on top of him, gasping putrid breath, his automatic buried deep in the flesh of Plissken’s neck, cutting off his air.
“Ohhh, Snakey,” he rasped. “What we’re gonna do to you.”
He was jostling his hips against Plissken’s side. “We’re gonna fix you so that there won’t be no more little snakes slithering around. Yesss.”
Somewhere between the pain and the nausea, Plissken found the length of chain and got hold of it. He looped it once around his hands, and itched for Duggan’s neck.
Then, a voice. “What the hell…”
Duggan jumped to his feet, still shaking, trying to get himself under control. Plissken looked up from his sideways view on the floor. The fat duty sergeant from in-processing had come into the room.
“He was… trying to escape,” Duggan said, while smoothing his disheveled hair. “That’s it. I subdued the prisoner during an escape attempt.”
The Sergeant looked at Duggan, then let his eyes drift down to the Snake. He never changed expression. “Something may be up,” he said. “Cronenberg said to stop his processing until further notice.”
“What for?”
Plissken got himself into a sitting position, leaning his back against the wall. His side was badly bruised, but he didn’t think there was any permanent damage.
“I just do what I’m told,” the Sergeant answered, and looked at Plissken again. “You okay?”
“Never better,” he answered, and got slowly to his feet.
The Sergeant walked up to Duggan. “Just leave him right here, understand? Don’t hit him, don’t hurt him, don’t shoot him. Just leave him alone until you hear from me. Got it?”
“Sure, Sarge,” Duggan said, holstering his gun. “You know you can count on me.”
The Sergeant looked at him, sighed deeply, then stalked from the room.
Duggan flared around to Plissken, the fire in his eyes again. “Look what you did to me,” he said through clenched teeth. “Try to treat you assholes with a little kindness and you throw it back in my face. Well, no more Mister Nice Guy. You get back in your seat and don’t move.”
Plissken went back to the bench and sat down heavily. Something was up; he couldn’t imagine what. His immediate problem, though, was staying alive long enough to find out what it was. He watched Duggan carefully, watched for the madness to fog his brain again.
The man pulled a package of cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He put one in his mouth, then looked up at Plissken. He smiled. “Like a ciggy?” he asked.
No answer.
“C’mon, Snake. We’ll bury the hatchet.” Duggan leaned down close, holding the pack out to him. He reached tentatively for one. Duggan snatched the pack away from him at the last second.
“You don’t want one of these,” he said. “They taste like shit.”
“They are shit,” Plissken replied.
Duggan lit his anyway and took a deep, satisfied drag. “Just wait ’til they strap you to that table, Snakey boy. Whooee! They just whack those suckers off, just whack ’em off. No anesthetic, no nothing. Yes, sir. I’ve heard them scream for hours afterwards.”
“I ain’t there yet,” Plissken said.
Duggan laughed, holding the burning cigarette up in front of Plissken’s face. “Just think. No more hot peter, Snakey. No more jazzin’ up the girlies. I’ll tell you. I think I’d rather blow out my fuckin’ brains than go around without no balls.”
“What brains?” Plissken said, and regretted it immediately.
Duggan’s eyes got wide again, and he was fumbling with the holster for his gun.
“Remember what your chum said,” Plissken told him.
The man frowned deeply, trembling, then backed away, taking quick pulls on the smoker to calm himself down. “Oh, I’m going to like it when they put you on that table. I’m going to get up real close and whisper in your ear while they’re doing the job on you. Yes, sir.”
He just stared for several seconds, then smiled that frightening smile again. He walked over to the table and climbed up on it, pretending that he was strapped down. Then he started acting like the box was strapped on him. He was shaking and screaming, yelling for mercy. That’s what he was doing when the duty Sergeant came back in.
“Aw jeez, get off that table,” the man said in disgust.
Duggan jumped down. “Aw, Sarge. I was just…”
“I know what you were doing,” the man responded. “And I hate to disappoint you, but there ain’t gonna be no show today.”