Page 77 of Fable for the End of the World

Carefully, I lift the tablet up. As soon as I do, the screen flickers on.

It doesn’t show the usual checkerboard of icons—the weather app and the web browser, photo library and system settings. There’s only the bar at the top of the screen that indicates the time, and the battery life. No internet connection, of course. There’s a single icon in the upper left corner, a blue folder. I double-tap to open it.

Inside is a video file. One unlabeled mp4.

I swallow hard and tap it with my thumb.

The video starts to play immediately, so it must have been predownloaded. It opens in full screen, showing me a large, neon-lit room. There’s a wall covered nearly inch-to-inch in framed posters, crammed with shelves holding plushies and plastic collectible figurines, still in their plastic boxes. Strands of twinkling lights are draped everywhere, in a rainbow of colors.

Sitting in the center of the room, in an enormous high-backed leather desk chair, is a face I instantly recognize. Well—not really a face. A figure in a skull-shaped mask, with large and incongruous pink rabbit ears. He’s wearing a bright green hoodie advertising some sports drink, and fingerless gloves that show off his black nail polish.

It’s Zetamon, the most-watched creator on Caerus’s streaming platform. No one knows his real name, and he’s never shown his real face, but every day tens of thousands of people tune in to watch him play video games, or, more often, react to various videos. The reaction streams have always seemed ridiculous to me, because you can’t even see his expressions. And he says everything in his famously deadpan voice.

Melinoë recognizes him, too—her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Hey guys, welcome to the stream,” Zetamon says, with his trademark dourness. “Today I have a special guest joining me. If you haven’t heard of him, you’ve been living under a rock, or you’ve just gotten out of a fucking coma. Anyway, everyone say hi to New Amsterdam’s latest internet boyfriend, and try to keep your thirst comments under control.”

The door to the room opens, and Luka steps inside.

My heart stops. Just for a moment, and then it stutters to life again, beating painfully against my sternum. Luka sits down in a second oversize chair, next to Zetamon, his gaze on the ground.

He’s alive. The relief that shudders through me is enough to make my vision blur and my bones turn to jelly. He doesn’t even look any worse for wear. In fact, his face is smooth, radiating with a subtle glow. There’s a healthy flush to his cheeks. When I look closer, I notice other subtle changes: his cheekbones are higher and more prominent, dusted with some faint gold powder. His lips are redder. Even his eyebrows have been plucked, though the scar through his left one remains.

Caerus has done some work on him. The rough-edged gauntness of a life in the outlying Counties is gone. Well, almost gone. He still has Dad’s strong, square jaw. And Dad’s hazel eyes. My eyes.

“So, Luka,” Zetamon says, “aka the most famous guy in New Amsterdam right now. Tell us how it feels to be here today.”

Luka’s gaze shifts. He won’t look at the camera straight on.“Uh, relieved, I guess,” he says. “Lucky that Caerus found me when they did.”

“Yeah, it was pretty, like, cinematic, them pulling you into the helicopter to save you from those zombie cannibal things.” Zetamon regards his nail polish. “Are those, like, common where you live?”

“The Wends? Yeah.” Luka’s fingers curl into a fist.

“Creepy,” Zetamon intones. “Anyway, take us back to the beginning. How did it go down, finding out your sister was put up as a Lamb? How did you feel?”

“Afraid.” This answer comes more quickly, though Luka still doesn’t look up from his lap. “The last Gauntlet, it was another girl from our town. Sanne Dekker. She didn’t survive.”

It’s obvious that Luka has been coached on his answers. And I’m sure Zetamon has been told explicitly which questions to ask. Caerus has arranged every aspect of this interview.

“But you had a plan,” Zetamon prompts.

“I mean, we didn’t have much time to figure it out, but we knew we had to get as far away from Esopus as possible,” Luka says. “We borrowed a car, brought some supplies. We figured our best chance was just to run.”

“That didn’t work out for you, though.”

“No.” Luka’s knuckles are white, bones pressing up against his skin. “She caught up to us.”

“Yeah. So let’s talk about her now, the Angel. Melinoë.” Zetamon glances at his computer screen. “Chat really wants to know how you managed to fend her off—not once, but twice.”

“The first time was mostly luck.”

“Nah,” Zetamon cuts in. “You’re too humble, brother. The moment in the car was insane. Everyone thought you killed her. How’d you get to be so good with a gun?”

Luka talks, awkwardly and haltingly, about our taxidermy shop. He doesn’t mention Dad. Obviously Caerus doesn’t want people to know that anyone has managed to escape them, to live off their grid. He doesn’t mention Mom, either. It would hurt the narrative, if he told the truth. Better to let the audience believe that Mom is an innocent victim, and that I was a willing sacrifice. Azrael must have cut the cameras when I told Mel the truth about Mom, the same way he did when Luka and I talked about Dad.

“Okay, so you’ve run into the woods,” Zetamon says. “Those creepy fucks are chasing you. And then the Angel appears out of nowhere. What are you thinking?”

“It was hard to think.” For the first time, Luka sounds sincere. Vulnerable. His voice is low, almost too quiet for the mic to pick up. “It was just instinct. In that situation, all you can do is try to survive.”

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