Page 54 of Fable for the End of the World

“I can’t imagine that anyone who chooses to live out here alone would be very welcoming to unexpected company.” I reach over my shoulder for my rifle.

“Probably not.”

I can’t hear anything from the vicinity of the cabin. It would be wisest to give it a wide berth and continue along, but my mind and body are buzzing with the possibility of food, sleep, and shelter. It’s a difficult siren song to resist.

Inesa must be thinking the same, because she says, “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to just check it out.”

There’s a flicker of emotion in her eyes that I can’t quire read—hope? Fear? Maybe both. I nod.

We creep forward, slowly. I’m aware of how heavy Inesa’s footsteps are—she’s no hunter, after all. I open my mouth to tell her to stop and let me go first, but she shoots out an arm to hold me back.

“Wait,” she says.

“What is it?”

She points at her feet, where something gleams like a thin ribbon of silver.

“A trip wire,” I say in surprise. “It must wrap around the perimeter of the house.”

I’m rather impressed by this Outlier’s precautious ingenuity, and more impressed that Inesa thought to look for it. She pointsabove my head. I look up and see rusted metal half camouflaged among the tree branches. Dented old cans, connected to the trip wire, no doubt, and rigged to alert the cabin’s owner if anyone comes too close.

“Well, there goes the theory that they’re friendly.” Inesa gets to her feet. “There could even be mines, bear traps...”

“I doubt someone who uses a trip wire rigged to tin cans has that kind of sophisticated technology.”

Inesa bites her lip. “I suppose.”

“Let me go first.”

“Wait.” Inesa reaches out and grasps my wrist.

The warm, soft pressure of her fingers stops me instantly. She kneels down and combs through the leaves until she comes up with a fist-size rock. Before I can say a word, she chucks it in the direction of the cabin.

My eyes go wide. We wait in silence. Inesa is still holding on to my arm.

After a few moments, she shrugs and says, “Just testing for land mines.”

“You’ve ruined my stealthy approach.”

The corner of her mouth quivers upward. “Sorry. But better than being blown to pieces, right?”

The fact that no one has come bursting out of the cabin door, guns cocked and knives drawn, is encouraging. I take hesitant, prowling paces toward the house, balancing my rifle against my shoulder. When it’s within reach—and when I’m satisfied I won’tstep on any bear traps—I press myself against the outer wall and test the door handle.

Locked, though that’s not enough to deter me. I can tell by the way the handle rattles that it’s a latch lock, flimsy. I jam the end of my rifle beneath the handle in one brisk, powerful thrust.

There’s a clattering sound, and the door creaks open.

Inside is a yawning darkness, heavy and silent. I step over the threshold, rifle aloft, finger hovering over the trigger. The night vision in my prosthetic clicks on, and the interior of the cabin glows in its eerie green light.

Inesa has joined me at the door, but I raise an arm to hold her back.

Casting my gaze around, I see mostly ordinary things: A small bed with a tattered cover. A cast-iron, wood-burning stove. A table and two very wobbly looking chairs. My vision flickers briefly with bands of static—I wonder if Luka’s blow damaged my prosthetic after all.

When the static fades, I notice something draped over one of the chairs. At first I think it’s just a heap of clothes. But as I zoom in with the prosthetic, I make out the limp, slumped body of a man.

The shock is fleeting. There’s no heat signature, so I know instantly that he’s dead. Still holding Inesa back, I take another step into the cabin. Except for the corpse in the chair and a few other battered pieces of homemade furniture, it’s empty.

I press a finger to the man’s neck and check for a pulse—just in case. His skin is cold and there’s no give to his flesh. Rigor mortis,the stiffening of the flesh before rot. That explains why the Wends haven’t found him yet. No blood, no smell of decay.

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