Chapter 31: Chapter 30 – The Fight in the Haunted Mansion

The Tourorist jumps down the elevator shaft past the entrance of the Haunted Mansion, then runs through the hallway at the beginning of the ride, with the illusion pictures and statues that follow you with their eyes when you look at them. Soon enough, they hear a slam and a grunt from the other end of the velvet carpeted hallway. Fritz is close behind. The Tourorist yells ahead to keep the farce going that their companions are still with them, “Get to the cars, he’ll never catch us!” And they run to the conveyor belt that’s miraculously still operating despite the battle raging throughout the park. 

A deep, haunting announcer’s voice still plays on loop from the loudspeaker, under the eerie theremin theme music of the ride, advising riders to keep their hands and feet inside the vehicle at all times. The Tourorist steps onto the conveyor belt and walks between the carriages. They’re shaped like giant black half egg shells. When a rider sits in the carriage, the back of the shell curves up and over their head, providing plentiful cover. The open side of the shell faces ahead. The Tourorist gets into a carriage and pulls the metal lap bar down. They reload their submachine gun and check to see that their body armor is secure. The ride begins.

Fifty feet back they hear footsteps and grunting as Fritz tries to climb the track leading into the ride. Fritz has no choice but to get into another carriage, because the track, like the exposed skeleton of an escalator, is too narrow,greasy, and treacherous to walk on unaided. The Tourorist waits patiently, feeling the submachine gun in their grip, relaxed, but pointed forward so they can aim and shoot reflexively. As the carriages move through the Mansion’s haunted hallways, they twist on their axes, spinning around up to 180 degrees in either direction, to surprise passengers by pointing them at this animatronic ghost here, or this scary skeleton popping out of a hydraulically operated coffin there. They make these spins on a timer that feels random when you’re sitting in the carriage, but is cleverly timed based on the frights along the ride’s tracks. This spinning means that one carriage could spin around to face the passengers of another carriage at a moment’s notice, and as the carriages move along the curving track, with its steep inclines, plateaus, and declines, one carriage could have an advantageous vantage point over another at one point in the ride, and vice versa, depending on their location within the mansion. 

The Tourorist takes in the faded floral wallpaper on either side of them as the carriage they sit in travels linearly along the track. Spooky organ music emits from hidden speakers, and the false doors in the hallways open and slam shut like drums carrying a beat. When the doorways open they reveal mirrored illusions: ghosts flying endlessly in holograms projected on transparent plastic sheets and otherworldly ghouls trying to pry open hotel room doors. The Tourorist grips their submachine gun and attempts to listen above or below the din of the speakers, straining to detect movement from their pursuer. The Tourorist’s carriage swings 90 degrees, enough that the Tourorist can see the edges of the other carts, but these other carts have turned around simultaneously at the same angle of rotation, so the Tourorist can only see the backs of the carts. They lift their submachine gun, looking for a shot, any bit of arm or flesh, but find nothing. “The bastard’s clever,” the Tourorist whispers to themselves. 

The track leads around a corner, then slowly up a twisting incline, into a large, wide open room with a high ceiling. Holographic ghosts circle the cavernous airspace. At the center of the room is a circular table covered by a purple velvet tablecloth, with dark antique wooden chairs around it. A seance takes place presently. A candle on a brass plate levitates in the air, and in the middle of the table sits a glass crystal ball, with a black haired fortune teller’s disembodied head chanting inside of it. The track leads up the incline and around in a horseshoe bend to an upper level hallway. The carts on the track rotate to face the table from their positions as they climb the track. The Tourorist grips their submachine gun again, poised to fire into Fritz’s cart as soon as they get sights on him. The speakers blast the audio track from the fortune teller’s chanting. A theremin accompanies the chanting as it echoes up to the invisible black ceiling. Halfway up the incline, the Tourorist can just make out the outer edges of the black carts behind their own. Like black turtle shells, they faintly reflect the light illuminated from the crystal ball and the orange candle hovering above it. The Tourorist presses their back into the back of their own carriage, making themselves as small and flat as possible in case Fritz’s cart somehow gains a vantage point above theirs first. The black metal barrel of the Tourist’s submachine gun glows a faint, flickering orange in the false candlelight. 

“Patient… Patient… Patient…” the Tourorist hums to themselves, trying to hold until the perfect moment. When they’d heard Fritz mount his carriage at the beginning of the grim ride, they’d calculated he was about six carriages back. Mind you, nothing would have stopped Fritz from changing carriages, or abandoning a carriage altogether and sneaking farther into the ride to beat the Tourorist at their own game, to ambush them while they ignorantly watched the cars behind. But the Tourorist was confident they’d have heard the clamor if Fritz had dismounted and remounted a different carriage. And when the Tourorist’s carriage would gain a vantage point to see into and aim into Fritz’s carriage, so would Fritz gain an opportunity to look into the Tourorist’s own carriage — the time to react would need to take place in the span of a reflex, faster than a thought or calculation, for Fritz was just as quick of a shot as the Tourorist, and his weapon would fire the instant the light of the Tourorist’s flesh hit his eye. There was no time to change targets, and the likelihood of Fritz leaving the carriages altogether was slim enough that it would be too large of a risk to plan a shot anywhere else but the fifth carriage back.

The Tourorist’s carriage is reaching the plateau of the inclining horseshoe bend, and their carriage is rotating just degrees away from seeing the edge of the fifth carriage. The Tourorist sucks air through their nostrils and holds, ensuring the movement of their breath won’t cost them a point of accuracy. The carriage rounds the curve, and in less than an instant, many things happen:

The Tourorist sees the flash from Fritz’s muzzle before the carriage is even fully visible, and the Tourorist lets off a return spray from the submachine gun, they hold the trigger viciously and paint every inch of Fritz’s carriage. A large hole smolders next to their head, and their ears ring from the blast, but the Tourorist remains unscathed. Disturbingly, Fritz is no longer in the carriage, but it is riddled with holes where he had been sitting, or would have to have been sitting to place the hole currently next to the Tourorist’s head. 

The Tourorist sprays at the other carts, adrenaline flowing through them a bit too hotly. They force themselves to stop, realizing they’re giving away their position. The Tourorist’s cart is farther along the plateau, but now beginning its orbit away from the seance and toward the horrors that await in the next hallway. They see the velvet covered table get knocked over and hear the fortune teller’s crystal ball shatter on the floor, and the hovering candlestick get violently pulled downwards and diagonally, like a spider in a spiderweb being dragged through space by an unwitting jogger. The Tourorist pops out the clip from their submachine gun and catches it before it thuds to the floor of their cart. They pop in a fresh magazine while they attempt to calculate how soon Fritz will be upon them. He's on the move, but needs to climb back onto the track and get into another carriage. 

The track carries the carriages through a short hallway, and one of the walls gives way to a balcony overlooking a ballroom of 18th Century ghosts in powdered wigs, and large gowns, dancing in circles to a baroque ghost orchestra. The Tourorist’s cart spins suddenly, and they’re face to face with the inner shell of an empty cart. They shoot into it reflexively, but the bullets only clang against the back of the black carriage. A muzzle flash from a shotgun lights up the room and burns halos into the Tourorist’s corneas and the Tourorist’s chest explodes in a searing, painful heat. Fritz is lying on the floor of his carriage, with a smoking shotgun pointed up at the Tourorist. The carriage spins around again, providing the Tourorist with some momentary respite from the battle; their bulletproof vest is suffocating them and a few dozen pellets of white hot buckshot have lodged themselves irritatingly into their neck and shoulders. Another shotgun blast tears a hole in the top half of the Tourorist’s carriage. They had serendipitously ducked down in pain, moments before. They swing their submachine gun back and blind spray over the lip of the torn carriage, giving themselves some time with suppressive fire so Fritz can’t immediately follow up the shotgun blast. Another shotgun blast explodes the plaster support beam above the Tourorist’s head, sending dust and bits of fake wood raining down upon them. The Tourorist, suppressing their pain and the desire to enter a coughing fit, removes their shredded bullet proof vest. They fire sporadic sprays from the submachine gun to buy some more time. 

The track begins a mercifully sharp turn around a corner, followed by a steep incline that mimics the angle of a mansion staircase. Quickly, the Tourorist jumps out of their carriage onto the track, and hides behind the bend. As Fritz’s cart approaches the Tourorist jumps into it, their knife drawn in a stabbing position. It’s empty, besides spent shotgun shells and flattened bullets sent from the Tourorist’s own weapon. The Tourorist swings around frantically, searching for a target, but no one is there. A balding skeleton in a tuxedo pops out of the wall and cackles maniacally, before popping back into its hydraulic shelf. The Tourorist waits and slashes their knife desperately in the dark, the track comes out of the hallway and makes its descent into the immense imitation open air graveyard. 

An animatronic starving peasant holds a gas lamp to light the way next to a starving animatronic greyhound. You can see its ribs through its mangy animatronic skin. The Tourorist pulls their Desert Eagle from its ankle holster and turns on its barrel mounted hyper-bright LED flashlight. They point it in all directions, finding no prey in the weapon’s high beam. Thoughts flit through the Tourorist’s mind like a finance banker’s rolodex. “Why would Fritz leave like that? Maybe I did hit him with the suppressive spray? Is he ahead of me?” Suddenly, a thunderclap from above. Fritz leaps out of the broken upper wall above the graveyard, which is painted black to look like the sky. He lands in the graveyard among the tombstones that bob up and down, and to and fro, to the beat of the joyous Haunted Mansion theme song. The Tourorist fires off a few rounds into the tombstones, then loses their shot as the carriage careens around a bend in the track. Just as this happens, Fritz thuds onto the carriage bench next to them, putting all his weight onto the lap bar. The fight begins in earnest. 

The Tourorist fires off the entire clip of the Desert Eagle, but Fritz is already gripping their wrist and controlling the shots to go everywhere but into his body. His hands feel like an industrial press designed to crush old automobiles in a junkyard. Fritz holds the Tourorist’s knife wrist just as tightly, and slams it down to the lap bar. As the Tourorist tries to wrench their hand free, Fritz smashes his forehead into their nose repeatedly. The first time stuns the Tourorist, and the next three times wakes them back up. Blood streams down their face and they let go of both weapons, which fall beneath the tracks. The Tourorist stomps the inside of Fritz’s ankle, but only meets reinforced steel reinforced boot. It does move Fritz enough to let the Tourorist’s knife hand slip its grip to pull a backup knife from their chest pocket, a razor sharp “poker” with an obsidian tip, designed specifically for close quarters combat situations such as this one. The Tourorist pulls it out and slams it into Fritz’s crotch in one smooth motion. It’s met with a wholly unsatisfying clink. The Tourorist looks up into Fritz’s eyes, “So… the stories are true.” 

Fritz smirks, then grabs the Tourorist’s neck with his free hand. The Tourorist drops the poker and reaches for Fritz’s neck too and they wrestle for grip on each other’s wind pipes, like two cobras in a pit. Soon enough, Fritz’s fingers find purchase, and he squeezes until the Tourorist’s trachea snaps. He keeps squeezing until his fingertips fine bone, then he grabs the Tourorist’s limp jaw with his other hand, and pulls, snapping the Tourorist’s neck. 

Fritz gets off the cart and walks toward the exit, victorious. As the carriage carrying the Tourorist reaches the final leg of the Haunted Mansion, the illusion mirrors in the hallway reflect the Tourorist’s corpse, slumped over the lap bar, in between two blue hologram ghosts, one fat, one skinny, both styled to look like 1930’s hobos with porkpie hats and bindles, waving happily in the mirror.

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