Page 24 of Fable for the End of the World

This is probably the most we’ve talked about Dad since he left, and probably the closest we’ve come to discussing our feelings. Mom, on the other hand, is a topic that feels impossible to broach at the moment. Somewhere in the lowest, darkest parts of my mind, I wonder if Luka agrees with her. If he thinks I’m the weak, expendable one between the two of us. He criticizes me all the time for being overly charitable with our clients, for still getting woozy at the sight of blood. For not believing the worst in people after they’ve proven, over and over, that they’re as much our enemies as the water lapping at our door.

Night falls, and the world becomes eerie.

It’s not just the darkness. It’s dark enough at night in Esopus, where only about half the town can regularly afford electricity. Buthere, miles away from anything that could reasonably be calledcivilization, it’s the silence that’s terrifying. There are the perfunctory noises of the mosquitoes, of the animals moving through the brush that lines the road, but there are no human sounds. No generators being pulled, no parents shouting for their children to come in for dinner, no punters poling furiously against the churning water. I start to wonder about those animals in the brush. Some of the noises are too loud to just be scurrying rabbits and squirrels.

My suspicions are proven right when something darts out into the road, a brown-and-white streak in my headlights. I yelp and slam on the brakes. The creature freezes.

The deer stares me down with two sets of eyes. There are webbed feet where its hooves should be. Its fur is matted with a wetness that makes it look sleek, and dangerous. Even from the safety of the car, a shudder of fear goes through me.

Luka bangs his hand against the dashboard, hard, and the sudden sound spooks the creature. It flicks its antlered head and then vanishes into the woods again.

“Those things are hideous,” Luka mutters.

I press slowly on the gas again, skin still prickling. Despite my line of work, I don’t find the mutations as repulsive as most people do.

“They’re just surviving,” I say. “Four eyes are better than two at spotting predators. Webbed feet are better for swimming.”

“They’re not just surviving—they’re overpopulating. They’re driving the real deer to extinction. I’d shoot them all, but it wouldbe a waste of bullets.” Luka’s rifle is still wedged carefully between his knees.

I can’t really refute that, so we just lapse back into silence. The car rattles on down the dirt road. My driving slows to little more than a crawl, because the headlight beams only illuminate about ten feet in front of us, barely able to penetrate the muggy darkness.

“I don’t want to hit a deer,” I say, and then, before Luka can roll his eyes at my sentimentality, I add, “It might damage the car.”

“Yeah,” Luka says tensely. “Be careful.”

And then—something. It bolts out of the tarry blackness. There’s a thud, and the whole car shakes. My instinct is to slam on the brakes immediately, but I don’t even have time to lift my foot. There are several more thuds—louder, closer—and then she drops onto the hood of the car.

I try to scream. The sound just lodges in my throat.

The Angel’s hair is practically white, streaming out behind her. In the shuddery gleam of the headlights, her skin is almost translucent, purple veins showing like a leaf held up to the sun. Her eyes lock on mine and pin me into place. They’re so dark I can see my reflection in them, warped and tiny, terrified.

The empty quality of her stare was something the cameras didn’t pick up, that I didn’t notice, during the few minutes I watched of her last Gauntlet. There’s nothing behind her eyes at all, not even cruelty. They’re as cold and bleak as the river on a winter night.

“Inesa,go!” Luka shouts.

I slam the gas pedal all the way to the floor.

Somehow, even as the car crashes down the dirt road, juddery enough to make my teeth rattle in my skull, it doesn’t dislodge her. The Angel crouches on all fours, lithe and agile as a spider in her skintight black suit. The metal of the hood crumples under her hands. Sharp, glinting claws emerge from the fabric of her gloves, extending her fingers to a gruesome-looking length.

With one hand braced on the hood, she reaches for the rifle strapped to her back.

Instinctively, I raise an arm to shield myself, squeezing my eyes shut—but the blow I’m expecting doesn’t come. Instead, the glass of the windshield cracks. The Angel thrusts the butt of her rifle against it, over and over, tiny fissures spiderwebbing outward from the point of impact.

I think I catch some expression of anger flit across her impassive face as the windshield holds—maybe just the flaring of her nostrils—but in another half a heartbeat, it’s gone. And then she is, too.

I still have the gas pedal pressed to the floor, so I think maybe I’ve jostled her loose at last. But the relief doesn’t even have a chance to settle. Quick as a strike of lightning, the Angel appears on my left, clinging to the roof of the car, limbs splayed to wedge herself in the empty doorway. Her face is ghostly white, a bright, spectral shock in the darkness. And now shedoeslook angry, teeth flashing, predator-sharp.

This time, I scream.

I raise my arm again, the other still braced on the steering wheel. I don’t know if it’s some sort of Caerus technology, but when she locks eyes with me, I find that I can’t look away. I can’t even blink. Hypnotized into total stillness, all I can do is stare into her empty gaze, her black prosthetic whirring and clicking.

She reaches for her rifle. I can see that, even as I’m frozen. Another scream gets caught in my throat, and only a pitiful, choking sound comes out. My tracker throbs in time with my racing heart.I’m going to die, I think, and the realization is like a kick between the shoulder blades, the tinny taste of blood in my mouth—

Bang.

The Angel’s face crumples, brow furrowing in shock, mouth twitching with bewildered, bridled rage. There’s blood in the air. But it’s not mine.

Behind me, Luka is drawn up almost to his full height, rifle held aloft and aimed over my head, through the empty door. Smoke curls from the barrel into the air. A slow, dark stain spreads across the Angel’s shoulder, turning the fabric of her suit somehow blacker. Her body spasms, her long, thin arms shuddering, knees buckling. Those unnatural claws retract into her gloves and her fingers slip from the roof of the car.

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