Page 21 of Fable for the End of the World

He slips from the first person to the second person so fluidly I almost don’t notice. My throat feels too thick to speak. I can’t move a muscle as he raises his hand, cups my face, and tenderly strokes my cheek. The hand that has whittled me, carved me, shaped me,mademe, in every sense of the word. When I was little, I always wanted to call himFather.

The same childish impulse rises again, along with an equally childish question.Why are you doing this to me?

But I keep the words tucked down deep. And when Azrael stands, I stand, too.

“Get in the helicopter, Melinoë,” he says quietly.

And I do.

From ten thousand feet, the land is scraggly, half drowned. The outlying Counties of New Amsterdam are green with veins ofbrown, muddy rivers flooding down thousands of tributaries, overflowing their banks, creating lakes and ponds where there were once valleys and gorges.

The white specks, like lichen on a mossy log, are Caerus pod houses. I can’t see any other buildings until the helicopter dips closer. Then tumbledown wooden structures come into view, partially camouflaged by the damp woods around them. We pass a hundred identical towns that are barely more than a scattering of these houses, clustered together like bodies around a fire.

The North River lies against the land, a length of filthy rope, weaving through the Catskill and Adirondack Mountains. I tap my temple to activate the comms chip, and information scrolls across my vision. A map of Esopus Creek. The photos of the Lamb and her brother. And her tracker, a pulsing red dot on the map. It has an electric hum to it, like a live wire.

As the helicopter starts its descent, Azrael reaches out and grasps my arm. The wind and the whirring blades make it impossible for me to hear him, but I can read the shape of the words on his lips.

The Lamb has to die.

His grip on my arm is tight enough to hurt. I mouth back:She will.

Then he lets go.

The helicopter doesn’t land; it hovers about ten feet off the ground, a rope ladder is unfurled so I can climb down. The propulsed air from its blades blows back the trees, sending dead leaves fluttering off limp branches. And the noise draws the inhabitantsof Esopus Creek out of their houses, onto their porches, squinting through the wind to watch me drop.

I’m required to start my Gauntlet at the Lamb’s legal residence, which means she’s had a head start of several hours. My hair blows around my face, partially obscuring the sights around me: the anxious faces of the Outliers, their precariously perched houses, the muggy smell of the churning water below. All these outlying towns are the same, more or less; I’ve seen half a hundred of them.

But as I look around, a powerful sensation shoots through me. An image flashes through my mind, just a brief burst of light. My limbs quiver and my cold blood runs hot.

There’s no proof of it, no proof except that full-body shuddering, that burst of light, but somehow Iknow, down to the very marrow in my bones—Esopus Creek is not new to me. The memory isn’t false familiarity.

I’ve been here before.

Seven

Inesa

The Wesselses are the only people in Esopus Creek who own acar. I’ve never been inside one until now. It’s boxy, with two rows of seats and no doors, so you can fall right out on a sharp turn if you aren’t buckled in. There’s mud caked over the hubcaps and so much dirt splattered up the sides that I can’t tell what color the paint beneath is supposed to be. It looks nothing like the cars I’ve seen on TV. Dr. Wessels says that’s because it runs on gas, not electricity. Luka is loading red gasoline canisters into the trunk.

“Practically a fossil,” Jacob says, slapping the hood. “But it still runs fine.”

He urges me to get in and try driving. I turn the key in the ignition and the engine growls to life so furiously that it shakes the entire car. My stomach lurches.

“I don’t know if I’m cut out for this,” I say, feeling nauseous for too many reasons to count.

“You’ll be okay,” says Jacob, buckling himself into the passenger seat. “Just take it slowly at first.”

At his direction, I drive three jerky circles around their house. The whole time, my knuckles are white around the steering wheel. Dr. Wessels is standing on the porch, his arms crossed over his chest, clearly not impressed with my driving. He probably thinks I’m going to crash his car and die in a fiery explosion before the Angel even gets her hands on me. There’s at least a 30 percent chance.

“Good job,” Jacob says, overgenerously. “Now try going a little faster.”

The speedometer ticks from fifteen to twenty.

After a few more circles, my stomach is too upset to continue. Bile clogs my throat—just bile, because I haven’t eaten anything, even though Luka tried to force bread and soup into my mouth earlier. “Don’t be stupid,” he said, “you need the energy.” But whenever I think about eating, I just hear the hum of the tracker and my gorge rises again.

I get out of the car and walk over to Luka. “I think this might be hopeless.”

“You’re doing fine,” he says, but his teeth are gritted. “Let’s just get out of here.”

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