They Both Die at the End (Death-Cast #1)(15)

I can’t keep moving, though. My heart is racing, my legs are on fire, and I gotta catch my breath.

I sit on the curb outside the gas station. It smells like piss and cheap beer. There’s graffiti of two silhouettes on the wall with the air pumps for bike tires. The silhouettes are both shaped like the dude on the men’s bathroom sign. In orange spray paint it says: The Last Friend App.

I keep getting dicked out of proper goodbyes. No final hug with my family, no final hug with the Plutos. It’s not even the goodbyes, man, it’s not getting to thank everyone for all they did for me. The loyalty Malcolm showed me time and time again. The entertainment Tagoe delivered with his B-movie scripts, like Canary Clown and the Carnival of Doom and Snake Taxi—though Substitute Doctor was just so bad, even for a bad movie. Francis’s character impressions had me dying so hard I’d beg him to shut up because my rib cage hurt. The afternoon Jenn Lori taught me to play solitaire so I could keep myself moving, but also have alone time. The really great chat I had with Francis when we were the last two awake, about how instead of complimenting an attractive anyone on their looks my pickup lines should be more personal because “anyone can have pretty eyes, but only the right kind of person can hum the alphabet and make it your new favorite beat.” The way Aimee always kept it real, even just now when she set me free by telling me she wasn’t in love with me.

I could’ve really gone for one last Pluto Solar System group hug. I can’t go back now. Maybe I shouldn’t have run. The charges probably went up for running, but I didn’t have time to think.

I gotta make this up to the Plutos. They spoke nothing but truth during their eulogies. I’ve messed up a bit lately, but I’m good. Malcolm and Tagoe wouldn’t have been my boys if I weren’t, and Aimee wouldn’t have been my girl if I were scum.

They can’t be with me, but that doesn’t mean I have to be alone.

I really don’t wanna be alone.

I pick myself up and walk over to the wall with the graffiti and some oil-stained poster for something called Make-A-Moment. I stare at the Last Friend silhouettes on the wall. Ever since my family died, I would’ve bet anything I was gonna die alone. Maybe I will, but just because I was left behind doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have a Last Friend. I know there’s a good Rufus in me, the Rufus I used to be, and maybe a Last Friend can drag him out of me.

Apps really aren’t my thing, but neither is beating in people’s faces, so I’m already out of my element today. I enter the app store and I download Last Friend. The download is mad fast; probably a bitch on my data, but who cares.

I register as a Decker, set up my profile, upload an old photo off my Instagram, and I’m good to go.

Nothing like receiving seven messages in my first five minutes to make me feel a little less lonely—even though one guy is throwing some bullshit about having the cure to death in his pants and yo, I’ll take death instead.





MATEO


3:14 a.m.

I adjust the settings on my profile so I’ll only be visible to anyone between the ages of sixteen and eighteen; older men and women can no longer hit on me. I take it one step further and now only registered Deckers can connect with me so I don’t have to deal with anyone looking to buy a couch or pot. This diminishes the online numbers significantly. I’m sure there are hundreds, maybe thousands, of teens who received the alert today, but there are only eighty-nine registered Deckers between the ages of sixteen and eighteen online right now. I receive a message from an eighteen-year-old girl named Zoe, but I ignore it when I see a profile for a seventeen-year-old named Rufus; I’ve always liked that name. I click on his profile.

Name: Rufus Emeterio

Age: 17.

Gender: Male.

Height: 5’10”.

Weight: 169 lbs.

Ethnicity: Cuban-American.

Orientation: Bisexual.

Job: Professional Time Waster.

Interests: Cycling. Photography.

Favorite Movies TV Shows Books: <skip> Who You Were in Life: I survived something I shouldn’t have.

Bucket List: Do it up.

Final Thoughts: It’s about time. I’ve made mistakes, but I’m gonna go out right.

I want more time, more lives, and this Rufus Emeterio has already accepted his fate. Maybe he’s suicidal. Suicide can’t be predicted specifically, but the death itself is still foreseen. If he is self-destructive, I shouldn’t be around him—he might actually be the reason I’m about to clock out. But his photo clashes with that theory: he’s smiling and he has welcoming eyes. I’ll chat with him and, if I get a good vibe, he might be the kind of guy whose honesty will make me face myself.

I’m going to reach out. There’s nothing risky about hello.

Mateo T. (3:17 a.m.): sorry you’ll be lost, Rufus.

I’m not used to reaching out to strangers like this. There have been a few times in the past I considered setting up a profile to keep Deckers company, but I didn’t think I could provide much for them. Now that I’m a Decker myself I understand the desperation to connect even more.

Rufus E. (3:19 a.m.): Hey, Mateo. Nice hat.

He not only responded, but he likes my Luigi hat from my profile picture. He’s already connecting to the person I want to become.

Mateo T. (3:19 a.m.): Thanks. Think I’m going to leave the hat here at home. I don’t want the attention.