How there are currently Deckers roaming the country, unaware that it’s their End Day.

PART THREE

The Firsts

Death-Cast is here for you.

—Joaquin Rosa, creator of Death-Cast

William Wilde

(Deceased)

Death-Cast was supposed to call William Wilde to tell him he’s going to die today.

This evening, William and his girlfriend of five years, Christi, left their one-bedroom apartment in downtown Brooklyn and rode the train to Manhattan to be among the partyers in Times Square for the launch of Death-Cast. William, a celebrated photographer, wanted to capture this historic event on camera, turning down many offers to do so for magazines. But seeing as he was already set to work the next morning, William wanted to do something for himself, for his own private collection. Especially on a night that was going to be extra memorable by having Christi tagging along.

By that, he meant setting his camera on a timer and capturing the moment he proposed.

Not getting shot.

The gunman was wearing a skull mask and muttering about the end of the world before senselessly firing into the crowd, that first bullet striking William in his throat.

His dreams of receiving an End Day call with Christi as an ancient couple surrounded by children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren were over.

He had to settle for dying in her arms, her tears on his face as he choked on his blood.

Times Square was so, so bright until it dimmed and dimmed . . .

“Stay with me, babe,” Christi had said. “It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay!”

No one needed Death-Cast to know this wouldn’t be okay.

But Death-Cast should’ve called nonetheless.

Joaquin Rosa

3:03 a.m.

Joaquin fears he will soon be calling everyone at Death-Cast to let them know the company is dead.

It’s unclear whether this unnotified Decker’s death is an isolated incident, but either way, Joaquin must get down to the bottom of it to protect his legacy, as well as make sure no other registered users die without warning.

Back in his office suite, Joaquin rolls up his sleeves and grabs his laptop.

“Make sure no one speaks to the press,” Joaquin says. “We don’t want to cause a panic.”

“Well, we don’t want the public to panic,” Naya says.

It’s as if she knows good and well that there’s a riot of nerves roaring in Joaquin’s chest.

Alano looks up from his notebook, where he’s been drawing a dress, unable to fall back asleep. “How long will you be gone, Papa?”

“I’m not sure, mi hijo. As long as it takes to get everything back on track.”

There’s a part of Joaquin that knows, deep down, that if he can’t resolve the issue, he may not want to return to face the music. But he always does, and he always will. Even when life feels impossible.