The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(20)

I reach for my phone, ready to call Scarlett to break the news. But it’s not in my pocket. I triple-check my pockets in my pants as if it’ll magically manifest since the third time’s always the charm. Nothing, of course. Where could it— Damn it.

I never put the phone away. I never got the chance to. I was hanging up with Joaquin Rosa when I heard the first gunshot and froze. Then Orion tackled me, and the phone must’ve fallen out of my hand. This is the worst start to my final day on this planet. Returning to Times Square to look for the phone would be so stupid. Fool me once, shame on New York. Fool me twice, shame on me for risking my life so I can call my sister and for holding out hope that Death-Cast might call back to tell me it’s not actually my End Day.

The phone is gone. I have to accept that just like my fate.

Besides, it already served its grand purpose.

No other call will be as life-changing as the one that started this mess.





Joaquin Rosa


12:21 a.m.

This isn’t how Joaquin imagined Death-Cast’s launch.

He believed the calls would be simpler.

Statistically, there are big spikes in death rates on holidays. More drivers on the road equals more accidents. Sharing a cigarette with a family member can lead to one’s lungs turning on them, and since they can’t be treated in understaffed emergency rooms due to the holidays, the day is stained with loss. Not to mention all the suicides in this unforgiving world. It’s all painful, but ultimately, not uncommon. But today isn’t a traditional holiday.

Perhaps it’s still too early, but Joaquin expected some praise to start flowing in by now. How many people are living differently, more thoughtfully since discovering this isn’t an ordinary Saturday, but instead their final Saturday, their one and only End Day?

Instead of treating Joaquin as an angel, they’re calling him the devil.

“They’re talking about me like I’m the villain,” Joaquin says to his wife. He’s in the company suite, scrolling through Twitter on his laptop while Naya looks over his shoulder. This is all so heartbreaking. And such a slap to the face. No one knows the sacrifices he made to bring these forecasts to the public. “The world knows I didn’t invent death, yes?”

“You’re reinventing death,” Naya says.

“I’m reinventing how we live with death,” Joaquin counters.

“I’m familiar with Death-Cast’s adages, my love.” Naya sits beside Joaquin, prying his hands off the keyboard and holding them in her own. “But the rest of the world is still catching on. I warned you that choosing to be so face-forward also means becoming the face of death until people understand otherwise.”

If only Joaquin were actually a psychic overlord from space so he could look into the future to know when this abuse will stop. He’s itching to read more comments, to find one loud voice to inspire others to view this situation differently, to remind everyone that Joaquin is a human from this planet with a love for life.

“I’m just trying to help,” he says, wondering if this was all a mistake.

Perhaps Death-Cast should have remained buried.

“You are helping,” Naya says. “But until they believe in you, don’t forget who already does.”

Joaquin gazes at his brilliant, beautiful wife, praying that Death-Cast won’t call either of them until they’re at least one hundred so they can grow old together. During his wedding vows, he told Naya that he wants to love her even when she has more wrinkles than any of the shirts he balls up and tosses into the closet at the end of the day. She found him funny even when others didn’t, and just like that first time he heard her laugh in a coffee shop, he knew it was a song he could listen to on repeat for the rest of his life.

Together, Joaquin and Naya turn, their eyes landing on their son. Alano is only nine years old, and it took just as many years to conceive him. The Rosas tried and tried, then gave up, and tried and tried again to no success. Joaquin kept blaming himself, furious at all those sperm cells that were strolling during the race and not even bothering to cross the finish line. He resisted all conversations about adoption because more than anything he wanted a child whose DNA stemmed from his own, from Naya’s.

A miracle happened and here he is, Alano Angel Rosa.

He’s fast asleep on the couch with his new German shepherd puppy as if tonight isn’t the start of a true golden age.

Given how the night is unfolding, perhaps it’s great that his son isn’t witnessing these horrors.

Joaquin may not be the devil, but let everyone believe that if they must.

They’ll remember soon enough who the real monsters are and realize that he was the hero all along.





Valentino


12:29 a.m.

En route to the hospital, I can’t help but wonder what’s going to kill me.

Had Orion gotten the End Day call, he would have every reason to suspect his heart being responsible for doing him in.

But me?

It could be anything.

A car crash seems fitting. It’s a cruel fate that’s just enough to twin Scarlett’s accident except actually be fatal this time. I might fall down one of those steaming manholes and bleed out in the sewer. Or I can escape from a fire only to fall off the fire escape. I’d hate that irony. There are endless possibilities for freaky accidents. But so far the biggest threat has been a gunman with a skull mask. He didn’t stick around to finish the job, which has me thinking he wasn’t really after me. But what if someone does target me? Who could I have pissed off so badly? I was nice to the airport employee who helped me find my suitcases at the carousel. I tipped my taxi driver. My landlord doesn’t seem to be a fan, but killing me isn’t going to get him his rent money. The only other people I personally know in this city are . . .