The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(16)

“If people want mystery, perhaps they should pick up a detective novel,” Joaquin had answered with a crooked smile. “If these lives are truly our only ones, we’re better off living them without the mystery of when it will all be over. You know what you can’t do once you’re pronounced dead? You can’t make sure your finances are in order for your family. You can’t finally do the thing you’ve been scared to do your entire life. You can’t tell someone you’re sorry. You can’t tell someone you love them.” Joaquin had uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, closer to the interviewer, like he was about to share the universe’s biggest secret. “Death-Cast won’t just tell people when they’ll die. We’ll make sure their lives don’t go unlived.”

Joaquin knows the devastations of losing someone unexpectedly.

It’s midnight, but no one is celebrating.

All eyes are on him, sitting at a computer in the heart of Death-Cast’s headquarters.

The call center has colorful walls, happy and healthy plants, and stone fountains with water cascading onto white rocks. It’s a beautiful backdrop for photo shoots, yes, but this was designed by his wife to be a soothing environment for the operators—known as heralds, since they’re the ultimate messengers—during their harrowing shifts. This job can mentally scar someone, Joaquin knows this. That’s why instead of psychics and assassins and time-travelers, the world will find therapists and crisis counselors and social workers operating the phones to console the Deckers while being mindful of protecting themselves.

He casts a quick glance at his wife, Naya, and their nine-year-old son, Alano, who are waiting with the same bated breath as everyone else. His family has been put through the wringer since Death-Cast was announced on July 1, but they’re finally going to see the fruits of Joaquin’s labor.

He’ll make it up to them one day.

Joaquin picks up the phone.

The sounds of camera shutters clicking drown out the soothing fountains. This is the only time Joaquin will allow photographers inside the facility. They’re all here to capture history. He’s already wondering which photograph will be used on all the front pages later and if it will be iconic enough to act as the cover of his inevitable memoir too.

More pictures are taken as Joaquin switches on the computer, the monitor angled away from everyone so only his eyes are on the screen. One of Joaquin’s many promises to the public has been that privacy will always be protected, and he will never betray that trust.

He reads the name at the top of the list and dials their phone number.

It’s time to call the very first Decker and tell them they are going to die today.





Orion


12:01 a.m.

Death-Cast is calling.

So this is it, that bastard grim reaper is finally getting me. I won’t get to see how this first year of Death-Cast plays out or the one after and so on and so on and so on and so on. I might not even make it through the hour before I become past tense. I can’t breathe, and I feel like I might drop dead right now. My heart is beating, pounding, hammering, and it’s pulsing even faster than the Death-Cast ringtone, which sounds like a church bell being rattled around by some kid. The alert is getting louder, louder, louder as all the demo videos warned it would to make sure the calls don’t go missed. And even though the alert is only for me, it’s ending all the life around me—everyone is reaching for their own phones before realizing it’s my End Day, not theirs, because they have all the time in the world.

I’m huddled up with Dalma and Valentino, but I can’t look at them, I can’t see it in their eyes how real this is.

One minute ago, Death-Cast went live, and now I’m going to die, something I’ve been prepping for the past few years of my life, and I’m still not ready to go—I’m still not ready; I don’t want to go; I want to stay, stay, stay.

I grab my phone even though I don’t want to answer my End Day call. But then I see the phone is dark, still, and silent. No DEATH-CAST caller ID, no vibration, no ringing.

They’re not calling me.

My heart doesn’t slow down, it’s still hammering as I look up and see Valentino holding his phone as it screams the warning of a lifetime.





Valentino


12:02 a.m.

Death-Cast is calling to tell me I’m about to die, but my life is only getting started.

This has to be a mistake.

Orion and Dalma and a bunch of strangers look horrified. They shouldn’t, though. There’s no way I’m dying. Death-Cast is new, and they’re bound to get some things wrong. Once I clear this up, we can all go back to partying.

“Don’t worry,” I say to Orion and Dalma. “I’m sure a bunch of people just got calls they’re not supposed to receive.”

“Like a pocket dial?” Dalma asks. “I don’t think Death-Cast heralds are—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the heralds are humans too.” I nod over at the extraterrestrial believers with their eyes to the sky, waiting to be abducted. “So unless the heralds are actually aliens and we got all this wrong, we should leave room for human error.”

“Totally,” Orion says, but I don’t believe he believes me.

“I literally just signed up. It’s got to be some mistake.”