MirrorWorld

The old man pushes the door open wide, allowing Allenby and Blair to hurry inside. I make a step to follow, but am stopped by movement at the fringe of my vision. The large man, whose build, crooked nose, and response to the ringing bell suggests a pugilistic history, strides toward me. I could get inside without facing him, but a man of his bulk would make short work of the door.

“You the jackass who switched on the music?” the pugilist asks as he wipes his nose with both thumbs, makes twin sledgehammer fists, and starts bobbing.

“Yes,” I tell him.

The crowd around us buzzes with excitement, eager for the violence to begin.

“I thought it was an ambulance,” I add. The statement makes the man pause for a moment, long enough for him to notice that I’m not backing away, nor have I taken up a fighting stance.

“Ain’t you afraid?” he asks.

I jab. The fast strike slips past his defenses, crushes his nose, and staggers him back. Before he has a chance to realize I’ve broken his nose, I kick him square in the nuts. The great thing about having no social fear is that I can fight dirty and not feel bad about it later. The pugilist howls and drops to his knees. I finish him off with a roundhouse kick that knocks him unconscious and spills him into the road. He’ll live, but he might not be able to reproduce, which is my little gift to the world today.

I glance at the crowd, which is stunned by the sudden and extreme violence. It’s more than they bargained for and didn’t go the way they expected. But it won’t hold them back forever, and now that I’ve hurt one of their own, they’ll be out for blood.

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.