Fun House

49

Knit cap has his compact semi-automatic up in a two-handed grip.

I do the same with my Glock.

Sixteen images of him creep forward.

I don’t know which one is really him, which ones are his reflection.

I inch ahead, match him step for step.

Now the killer repeats to infinity. His reflection is reflected back so many times, it looks like a receding mineshaft full of shooters. I notice he has a communicator headset, the same as the backdoor lookout’s, strapped on underneath his ski cap.

A new image flickers off a mirror.

A blazingly bright light.

From the camera crew. It swings into a full-filament burn and bounces off the mirrors all around me. I am momentarily blinded.

I blink. Try to clear the floating sunspots singed into my retina.

Becca and Soozy jitter into view on half of the endless array of glass panels surrounding me. The shooter is still in the other half. He’s aiming left and right and straight at me. The girls keep moving, bumping into mirrored walls, feeling their way in the dark.

Knit cap keeps following them, moving stealthily. He is a killer cat. A never-ending column of death.

The effervescent mirror frames glow under the black light.

So do the killer’s teeth. Bright white. He’s smiling like a shark.

And I don’t dare take the shot because I have no idea which image is real, which is a reflection. I’m trapped inside a crazy kaleidoscope of killers.

Now the shooter’s white teeth move. I read his lips: Roger that.

He pivots to take his shot.

His orange I.D. badge glows under the ultraviolet lights.

Big block letters all around me spell out: WERC

And in one flat space: C R E W

That’s the panel I target.

I don’t have time to try something cute, like shooting the weapon out of his hands.

I aim for his chest. The floating I.D. badge.

My Glock explodes. The cramped maze reverberates. Glass shatters as the bullet rips through knit cap’s chest and cracks open the mirror behind him.

The impact spins him around. He drops to one knee.

Becca and Soozy are screaming. Their camera crew is panicking. They drop their handheld light. The tungsten filament sizzles and sputters out. I hear stampeding feet as the hit man raises his weapon.

He sees me. Maybe my reflection.

His chest wound oozing DayGlo red, he squeezes off a round. A mirror to my right explodes.

I fire again.

He won’t be able to.

He flies backward into a sheet of silver glass that crackles into a spider web of slivers.

He is dead.

I glance at my watch.

It’s 9:54:30.

I just gave Layla Shapiro her big ending.