Total Recall

CHAPTER 12 Johnny

Quaid had the satchel, but he still had nowhere to go. He walked down the street in the rain, no longer noticing it. He hoped the bag had what he needed, whatever that was. It seemed like a very slender thread on which to hang his life.

Suddenly, he heard a sound that had of late become all too familiar: someone had fired a gun. He supposed it wasn’t that unusual in this neighborhood, but he’d been through too much already to take it for granted. Looking for the source of the sound, he saw two men racing toward him. They were too far away for him to see who they were, but he didn’t wait for introductions. He turned and plunged into a waiting JohnnyCab, ducking down and trying to hide his head.

Johnny turned to the back seat and smiled his patented smile. “Welcome to JohnnyCab. Where can I take you tonight?”

“Just drive!” Quaid snapped. “Quick!”

The mannequin paused, then spoke with the same friendly tone. “Would you please repeat the destination?”

Quaid glanced back through the rear window. The two men were close enough now for him to make out their faces. They were the two goons who had been after him at the subway station. They must have traced him here despite the towel!

“Anywhere!” he exclaimed, still looking back. “Go! Go!” He saw Richter draw some heavy artillery and aim it. “Shit!”

Johnny did not move. Neither did the cab. “I’m not familiar with that address,” he said.

Now Helm had his own gun out and was taking aim. They were still half a block away, but those guns looked like young cannons from here.

“McDonald’s! Go to McDonald’s! Now!” Richter and Helm started firing. Still the cab didn’t move.

“There are fourteen McDonald’s franchises in the greater metropolitan area. Please specify—”

Enough was enough. Quaid knew that if he didn’t get moving in seconds, he’d be done for! He grabbed the mannequin and wrenched it from its moorings, dragging the thing into the backseat and taking the steering wheel with it.

Bullets shattered the back window. Quaid wished briefly for the old days, when all vehicles were required to use shatterproof glass or plastic. He leaned over the driver’s seat and reached awkwardly for the joystick on which the steering wheel had been mounted. The cab lurched forward.

Johnny’s head spoke: “Please fasten your seat belt.”

Without the steering wheel, Quaid barely had control of his vehicle. How was he going to manage?

As well as he had to, he thought grimly, as bullets whizzed past his ears. He gunned the engine and tried to maneuver the sensitive joystick into a left turn down a side street. Another window shattered and he jumped, sending the cab into a spin. He was flung to one side as the cab turned in a neat circle.

Richter and Helm poured on the gunfire. Windows exploded around Quaid as he tried to regain control of the cab. He jerked the joystick in the opposite direction—and it broke off in his hands!

“Shit!” The cab stopped spinning and sped onward, leaving Richter and Helm behind. For a moment Quaid thought he was in the clear. Then he glanced through the windshield.

He was headed directly for a concrete wall.

“Prepare for a collision,” Johnny said calmly. “Prepare for a collision.”

Quaid felt hysterical laughter fighting its way out as he struggled to reach the nub of the joystick, but it was quickly replaced by sheer terror. The car was completely out of control and the wall was getting closer by the second. A crash was unavoidable. He opened die door to jump to safety.

Then he remembered the satchel! Clinging to the doorframe with one hand, he reached back into the cab and hauled the satchel from on top of Johnny’s smiling face.

“Prepare for immediate impact,” Johnny said, unperturbed.

Quaid leaped! This, too, his body knew how to do; a stunt that might have killed an amateur hardly bruised him, as he tumbled clear and rolled down an embankment, hanging on to the satchel as if for dear life. Seconds later, the cab smashed into the wall and exploded in flames.

Quaid was safe, for the time being. But Richter would soon be after him again, when he discovered there was no corpse in the JohnnyCab. Quaid had to lose himself better than he had before, and stay lost. He climbed to his feet and disappeared into the darkness.

Richter and Helm pulled up short as the cab exploded. The rain was still coming down, but it could do little to extinguish the great gouts of flame that flared from the ruined vehicle.

They gazed at it, catching their breath while savoring the destruction. All kinds of mayhem were nice, but fire had its own special appeal. Helm started forward, but Richter held him back.

“Not yet,” Richter said, offering Helm a cigarette. “I like my meat well done.” He lit his own cigarette, then turned to watch the barbecue.

Meanwhile, below, Quaid was climbing over a fence, satchel in hand, unobserved. This was the industrial section of town. He headed into the comforting concealment between two brick buildings. With luck the goons would be distracted by the smashed cab above long enough, and would lose his trail entirely. He ran on, gaining confidence. Now he needed to find a private place, out of the dreary rain, to check the satchel. He put a hand to his head, holding the ragged turban in place; he was lucky he hadn’t lost that during his encounter with the wall!

Helm had gone for the car and radioed for backup. Now he, Richter, and four other agents watched as two firemen foamed the smoking wreck and searched for remains. One of the firemen backed out and crossed over to Richter.

“Nobody home,” he said, with a shrug.

Richter and Helm looked at each other in amazement.

“Maybe he burned up,” Helm said.

Then the other fireman called out from the wreckage. “Wait a second! I’ve got something!”

Richter and Helm approached eagerly as the fireman dragged a charred form from the foam. It was the smoldering remains of the mannequin driver. The ghastly head turned.

“Thank you for taking JohnnyCab,” it said brightly. “I hope you enjoyed the ride!”

The quarry had slipped the noose again! Enraged, Richter smashed his fist into the Johnny head, cracking its jaw and shutting it up. He grimaced and drew his hand back quickly, The damned thing was hot!

An agent ran over to him. “We picked up a reading at the cement works,” he said. “It’s weak, but it’s him.”

“Move!” Richter shouted.