MirrorWorld

Moving casually, I step toward the shop and slip through the door, carefully closing and locking it behind me.

The shop is full of eclectic antiques. There’s a tall 1950s radio, glowing with power. A stained-glass lamp. A medieval helmet opened to reveal a secret decanter and shot glasses. I feel like there is someone I would like to tell about all this, but there isn’t anyone. My only friends are Shotgun Jones and Seymour, and their tastes run a little closer to the crap given away on The Price Is Right.

“Crazy,” Allenby says. She takes my wrist and pulls me away from the door. “This is Matt Williams.”

The old man nods at me.

“How can we get to the roof?” I ask.

He points up. “I live on the second floor. Fire escape goes to the roof. Stairs are around back.” He starts leading the way but isn’t going anywhere fast.

I snap my fingers at Blair. “Get to the roof. Make sure the chopper knows where we are.”

Blair runs for the back of the store. I hear his feet thundering up the staircase a moment later.

“Help Mr. Williams to the roof,” I say to Allenby. “I’ll try to slow them down.”

When Allenby reaches out to take Williams’s arm, he shrugs away. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my store, and I’ll be damned if I let them hooligans make a mess of things.” He hobbles behind the counter and retrieves a shotgun. He struggles with the pump action for a moment but manages to chamber a shell. “I’ve seen war before.”

War?

“And I’m not afraid to shoot the first of those bastards to come through my door.”

I pat his shoulder, say, “Thank you,” and head for the back of the store.

Allenby rushes up behind me and says, “We can’t just leave him! They’ll kill him.”

“Do you want to stay because you think it will change his fate? Or is it because you fear being ridiculed later on for leaving an old man to die? If it’s the latter, I won’t say a word. If it’s the former, you’re a fool. He chose his path. Respect it.” I start up the rugged stairs without looking back.

One of the shopwindows shatters. Allenby starts up the stairs, revealing her personal truth—her life is worth more than her honor. There is no help we can provide for Williams that will avoid his death. But ours … we still have some control over how our lives come to a close. At least for a few more minutes.

The apartment above the store smells like history—dust and mold hidden within the folds of countless overfull bookshelves. If the fire outside reaches this building, the apartment will all but explode. This much brittle, dry paper will ignite like gasoline.

“Here!” Blair shouts from the back.

We hurry through the living room to the kitchen, which is equally packed with old books. A pile of them has been spilled on the floor, apparently shoved away by Blair, who is peering back in through an open window above the spilled books. He waves us on. “This way!”

Blair’s feet clang on the fire escape as he runs toward the roof.

A second window breaks beneath us. It’s followed by a shotgun blast, a scream, and then the sound of thunder as countless people stream into the shop. If Williams screamed, the sound was blocked out by the rumbling, which I can now feel in the floorboards beneath my feet.

Allenby crawls through the window, but not nearly fast enough. My hand hits her ass and shoves. She spills forward with a shout of surprise. I dive through, spin around, and close the window. As Allenby starts to protest about her rough treatment, I lie down on top of her, which fills her with enough fear to close her mouth.

“If you stand, they’ll see you,” I whisper. “Crawl away before standing, but quickly. It won’t take long for them to figure out why the books have spilled.”

She nods and slides forward. I hold my weight off of her and follow, but our stealth is a wasted effort. The window behind us shatters as a book—an old leather-bound Bible—careens through, strikes the black metal railing, and explodes into a flurry of ancient pages. A baseball bat begins clearing away the remaining glass shards.

“Go!” I shout as the distant chop of a helicopter reaches my ears. “I’ll hold them here.”

“But…” she says, clearly confused about why I would stand my ground here but not downstairs.

“They can’t overwhelm me here,” I say.

She understands, and runs up the stairs to the second story. I glance up and see Blair climbing a ladder to the roof. The helicopter sounds about a minute out. It will take nearly that long for Allenby to reach the roof. One minute, I tell myself and then turn to face the first person through the window, which is actually a pair of people, one holding a knife, the other a Louisville Slugger.





6.

The pair pauses for a moment. That I’m standing my ground has them wary, no doubt recalling the pugilist’s crumpled form.