Page 32 of Fable for the End of the World

I shouldn’t. But my stomach clenches as I look down at her unmoving body. With her limbs spread out like that, her eyes closed in a peaceful way that belies the circumstances, she really does look like an angel. Obviously. And she’s beautiful. Obviously. All the Angels are supposed to be beautiful. Raindrops track down her face, clinging to her full, heart-shaped lips.

“Come on,” Luka urges.

I tear my gaze away.

He could have put a bullet through her brain, ending all this for good. He must have considered it. I look over at Luka. He’s breathing unevenly, and shivering, not just from the rain and the cold.

We’ve always done what we could to survive, and made no apologies for it. But the gulf between survival and murder isn’t an easy one to cross. Killing someone—even an Angel—is something that, deep down, his instincts protested. Just like mine would.

Maybe the viewers are typing their grievances furiously into the chat, castigating him for his hesitation, for his weakness. But I can’t call reluctance to murder someoneweakness.And I don’t think I would be able to live with myself if I made my brother a murderer at just sixteen.

Luka drapes my arm around his neck and helps me stagger forward a few steps. I cough again, covering my mouth, and blood splatters my palm.That can’t be good.

The rain is still gushing down in heavy, translucent sheets. I bend over, with a bolt of excruciating pain, and pick up the Angel’s rifle. It’s sleek and black, so different from Luka’s, with its rusted barrel and wooden stock. I’ve never used a gun before. But I guess if I’m going to learn how, it’s now or never.

As I straighten up again, Luka says, “Come on, Inesa. The Wends won’t be far behind.”

I cast one look back at the Angel. She’s not moving, eyes closed, mouth open slightly. Rainwater slicks her white-blond hair to her cheek and the cold brings a blue marbling to her skin. I think I see her chest rising and falling faintly, but I’m not sure. I might have just imagined it.

If she’s not dead already, the Wends will tear her to pieces anyway, when they come across her unconscious body. Maybe, in some way, that still makes Luka and me murderers. But the slight uncertainty, that crucialmaybe, transforms it into something I might be able to live with. If I survive, that is.

I let Luka help me stagger out of the clearing, as the rain pelts down, and the Angel lies still and silent in the dirt.

As it usually is with these sudden, soaking downpours, the rain stops almost as quickly as it started. In the aftermath of the storm, the forest is uncannily peaceful. The animals are still hidden in their dens and tree holes; the birds are too timid to sing. The only sound is that of water dripping from the leaves and onto the dirt. And, of course, of Luka and me stumbling through the dead, muddy leaves.

We try to be as quiet as possible, but it’s difficult when my limbs feel so unwieldy. My throat burns agonizingly with every breath. There must be bruises pulsing there already, in the shape of the Angel’s fingers.

Luka has Dad’s compass out and is staring down at it determinedly. But it just keeps spinning and spinning, the needle never resting at true north.

“Maybe it got damaged in the rainstorm?” I suggest meekly. My voice is so hoarse, it’s almost comical. Almost.

“Maybe,” Luka mutters. There’s a crease in his brow. No, not a crease. A crack. He’s close to breaking.

I stand up straight and gently remove my arm from his shoulders. “I can walk on my own now, I think.”

Luka doesn’t respond. He watches the needle spin and spin.

Looking at him, a memory floats up. It was not long after Dad left, in those first hazy weeks when we were all quietly convincing ourselves that he’d just disappeared temporarily like he always did, that he’d be throwing back beers on the porch again soon enough.

Luka kept clenching his jaw and grinding his teeth. I assumed it was just stress—he had plenty of reasons to be stressed. But then one morning he coughed, and a tooth came out in a rush of blood.

We took him to Dr. Wessels, who pried open his mouth and peered into it with a tiny flashlight.

“There’s an abscess,” he said. “I’ll give you some medication to clear the infection. If you’d come in earlier, I might’ve been able to save the molar.”

“It’s fine,” Luka said, voice tight.

Dr. Wessels gave him some pills and a handful of gauze pads to stanch the bleeding. While Luka busied himself transferring credits for the visit, Dr. Wessels pulled me aside and said, “Why didn’t you come in here sooner? A tooth abscess is one of the most painful conditions I can think of. Didn’t he mention the pain?”

I lifted my head to glance at Luka. He was clenching his jaw again, moving his tongue around the inside of his mouth.

“No,” I said.

That was when I realized I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen him cry.

I blink, returning to the present. Luka puts a fist to his forehead, brow still furrowed as if he’s concentrating, but there’s an empty sheen in his eyes that tells me he’s not really seeing what’s in front of him. Very cautiously, I put a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s stop for now,” I say. “Rest up a little.”

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