The First to Die at the End (Death-Cast #0)(39)

Right before my head slams down on the sidewalk, I know this is how I’m going to die.





Orion


3:10 a.m.

This can’t be it; this can’t be how this goes down.

I really want to believe this is a prank, but I know it’s not, I saw that fear in his eyes as he was falling. I rush to his side, tripping over myself for a sec, and I flip Valentino over to find a big cut above his eyebrow. His blood stains the ground, looking like a Rorschach test that I don’t give a shit about scoring well on because I only need to know if he’s alive or not.

“Valentino, dude.”

He groans, which is great because only living people groan, which means I can breathe knowing that he can too. His eyes flicker open, and his bare hand is shaking as he raises it to his wound.

“Don’t touch it,” I say. The last thing he needs is an infection. “Let’s go back and get you checked out.”

“No, I’m fine. I can clean it up at home.”

“You sure?” I ask, helping him to his feet.

“I’m sure. Let’s just get off these streets.”

I make sure he’s not dizzy as we continue on, and he seems as stable as someone can be considering they just busted their face on the sidewalk while running away from masked men. This night is fucking insane. He’s right that we need to get him home, where he’ll be safe. I’m not used to the Upper East Side, but the city grid makes it mad easy to get to Seventy-Seventh and Second.

“I thought I was going to die,” Valentino says.

I’m not going to tell him I was thinking the same thing.

“In that moment, I mean,” he adds.

“You’re good, though.”

“It would’ve still worked out for you probably. Brain damage and being this close to the hospital is a recipe for success.”

I can’t give air to that thought without feeling like shit for being the one who encouraged him to leave the hospital and almost got him killed and would have benefited from it.

Valentino is quiet, and I don’t know what to say. Should I apologize?

“Zombie,” he finally says.

“Uh, what? Oh shit, you have a concussion!”

Valentino shakes his head. “No, you had said I looked like a zombie. Before everything. I think that would’ve been a better name for Deckers.”

As someone who has reread the Death-Cast website a thousand times, I know why Deckers is the official title. “So Joaquin Rosa thinks of Deckers as the captains of their own ships and—”

“I get that. I’m sorry to interrupt.”

“Interrupt away!”

“Calling us Deckers feels too intellectual. We’re zombies. The living dead.”

“Doesn’t that feel too obvious, though?”

“Middle ground: Dead Enders.”

“That’s too morbid.”

Valentino stares dead ahead. “Dying is morbid, Orion.”





Frankie Dario


3:15 a.m.

Death-Cast can’t call Frankie Dario, but that doesn’t stop Frankie from calling them.

Someone who works there, at least.

Frankie is sitting in his dark kitchen, drinking stale coffee out of his unwashed thermos while waiting for his wife’s best friend to pick up the goddamn phone. He’s learned the hard way not to count on Rolando, not after he disastrously forgot the rings for Frankie’s wedding and didn’t realize it until the ceremony was already underway. But did Gloria blame her best friend who probably wanted to ruin the wedding because of feelings he still has for her? Of course not. Frankie got chewed out for not checking in with Rolando sooner, as if he didn’t have a million other duties assigned by her. But Rolando finally has a purpose in life, and that’s working as a Death-Cast herald to tell people they’re about to die.

Until it’s all revealed to be a scam, that is.

Frankie has too many doubts about Death-Cast to register himself or his family for their services; the government already has too much information about them anyway. Things they shouldn’t even know. But Frankie isn’t an idiot. He knows there’s money to be made here by photographing these so-called Deckers in the event they do die. The best part? Getting personal intel from Rolando.

If he ever answers the phone.

The photo series could be what truly defines Frankie’s life. He’s not good at a lot of things. Take this coffee for example. Absolute shit. But that’s fine, he’s not some mindless barista who lives to serve the whims of those wanting frosty cappuccinos with three—not two, not two and a half, not two and three-quarters—pumps of caramel syrup. Frankie can’t make a cup of coffee, but he can take beautiful pictures. His newest tenant, Valentino, got suckered into putting down a deposit on the apartment because of Frankie’s misleading photos on Craigslist.

That’s talent!

It’s time for Frankie to achieve his dreams of winning a Pulitzer for Breaking News Photography, and he’s positive he’ll do so for his work on this historic End Day. He’ll either capture the first Death-Cast deaths or the relief on a Decker’s face after they survive the day.

Frankie’s leg bounces, his knee banging into the bottom of the table.

It’s as if his soul is itching with how badly he wants to be out in the world and getting pictures already.