The definite urban predator came in low, going for Remo's seemingly exposed belly. It would have been a perfect disemboweling stroke, a lateral rip calculated to split Remo's abdominal wall into a clown grin, letting his tightly packed intestines come tumbling out.
It never landed, because Remo drove the heel of one shoe into the man's definitely exposed belly.
The man stopped, grunted and turned green. He dropped his knife, the better to clutch his stomach. It felt strangely hollow in his mauling hands, the strong abdominal wall flapping like a loose plastic window shade. He doubled over.
When the awful smell emanating from the seat of his pants reached his quivering nose, the knife man muttered, "I think I done shit my pants."
"Better check to be sure."
"I ain't shit my pants since I was little."
The knife man was definitely greener now and still doubled over. He hobbled over to the side of the road, where he gingerly removed his soiled pants.
When he turned around, the knife man saw the gray slimy ropes hanging out his backside and asked, "What's my damn guts doing on the outside of me?"
Remo shrugged casually. "You tried to disembowel me. I returned the favor."
"I didn't see no knife."
"There's more than one way to disembowel a cat," said Remo, finishing the job by driving a knuckle into the empty cavity of the knife man's stomach and shattering his lower spine.
The knife man made a messy pile when he sat down forever.
Whistling, Remo painted a circle around his body and ran the diagonal slash across it, intestines and all, before driving off.
"Remo Williams," he said in a bright announcer's voice, "you just snuffed half the car-jackers in Furioso, Florida. What are you going to do now?"
In his own natural voice, he replied, "I'm going to Sam Beasley World."
Chapter 3
Flanked by a running roadblock of caterwauling blue-and-gray Massachusetts State Police cars, the Presidential motorcade raced away from the University of Massachusetts at high speed, lights flashing in alternation. Scurrying traffic crowded to the side of the road. Police and Army helicopters buzzed overhead like protective dragonflies.
No one noticed the weaving white Ford Aerostar van as it scooted down the opposite lane to turn up the UMass access road.
If they had, they couldn't have failed to notice the driver. Or the bulky virtual-reality helmet encasing his head like a sensory-deprivation sphere.
Despite the fact that he couldn't see past the helmet's blank eyephone goggles, the driver slid up the curving access road without scraping a fender.
"You're almost there," a voice inside the VR helmet said softly.
"This is so neat," the driver burbled. "It feels exactly like I'm driving a real car in the real world in real time."
"Pay attention to the mission, not the technology, " the soft voice told him. "You are in a totally immersive experience which requires absolute concentration."
"Got it. What was all that commotion back there?"
"You have entered the action phase of the experience."
"Great. No offense, but except for the high-res graphics, it's been a pretty uneventful ride so far."
"Did you notice anything unusual about the motorcade?"
"Yeah, they were hauling ass to beat the band."
"The President has just been shot."
"Damn."
"You and only you can find the assassin hiding in the brick buildings directly ahead of you."
"Good game concept."
"That is the parking-garage entrance on your left. Drive in there."
"Shouldn't I be making my own decisions?"
"You can try the branching nodes later. The clock is ticking. Here is the game scenario. Rogue CIA and Secret Service elements are trying to get to the assassin first. If they succeed, the cover-up will begin and the American people will never know the terrible truth."
"Count on me," said the driver, flooring the accelerator.
It was incredible, from the authentic sound of a racing six-cylinder engine to the acoustics that changed as soon as he slid into the virtual-reality underground parking garage beneath the illusionary University of Massachusetts.
"This is really cool," he blurted. "I actually smell stale car exhaust."
"The Jaunt VR System has a forty-thousand-facsimile olfactory library. We call the process 0lfax.
"Olfactory library. Sensurround sound. Vehicle simulation. Your guys have put together the VR system for the twentyfirst century here. Damn! Everything looks, smells, sounds and feels real. Really real."
"The Jaunt System has achieved seventy-five million polygons per second of resolution. Mere reality is estimated at eighty million polygons."
"Let me tell you," the driver said, parking the car in the nearly empty garage. "You can't hardly notice those missing five million polygons."
"Do not forget your weapon. You'll find it in the glove box."
The driver turned his insectlike head. The glove compartment popped open and revealed a revolver clipped to the panel. He picked it up. It felt real. Probably was.
"This is only a dinky little .38," he said in disappointment.
"Stuffed with Devastator bullets. Perfect for your mission."
"You could have at least included a laser targeting system."
"Make sure you write that on the survey questionnaire when the simulation is over."
"You bet," said the driver, stepping out of the car. He began walking, tentatively at first and with greater confidence as the computer-generated surroundings responded to his presence.