New York Alano Rosa
New York Alano Rosa
11:00 a.m. (Eastern Daylight Time)
Death-Cast didn’t call because I’m not dying today, but others have with death threats simply because I’m the heir to the
Death-Cast empire. At least they’re giving me a warning. That’s the Death-Cast way, after all.
Over the years I’ve had people tell me I shouldn’t be bothered by death threats because I’ve grown up knowing my End Day.
That’s not true. There are many privileges I receive from my father creating Death-Cast, but knowing when I will die isn’t
one of them. In fact, my father has been accelerating my training to inherit the company on his own End Day. When that will
be is as much a mystery to him as mine is to me, but with the rise of the Death Guard radically pushing their pro-natural
agenda on behalf of their favored presidential candidate, my father knows he’s a target as those cultists call for the end
of Death-Cast. The irony of my father not having his affairs in order before dying isn’t lost on us.
We need to be cautious, even here in New York, where it was rare to find pro-natural propaganda around the city before this year. That all changed on Sunday, March 29, when the two-week lockdown period ended and people returned outside to find DEATH-CAST IS UNNATURAL posters on the subway and bridges and in churches and grocery stores and every public place imaginable. If the Death Guard
had their way, millions of people around the world would’ve died from the coronavirus without warning for no other reason
than that’s what they believe was part of the natural order.
The natural order of life and death changed on Thursday, July 1, 2010, when President Reynolds told the country all about
Death-Cast. What I didn’t know at nine years old was how things would eventually get so divided between those who believed
in Death-Cast’s mission and those who opposed it. President Reynolds wasn’t prepared for this either. Two months into his
second term, President Reynolds received his Death-Cast alert and spent his End Day hiding in an underground bunker, only
to be assassinated by his most trusted Secret Service agent, who decided to fight for pro-naturalism instead of his president.
This morning, I was finishing President Reynolds’s biography instead of an early copy of my father’s upcoming memoir when
I received a call from an unknown number.
“I’m going to kill you, Alano Angel Rosa,” a young man threatened.
“Thanks for the courtesy call, friend,” I said before hanging up.
That was my forty-seventh death threat. It was followed by another six calls from other harassers within the hour before I deactivated the line and set up my new phone. It’s always annoying to have to log in to my Death-Cast account and update my number every time mine gets leaked, but that will soon be resolved by my father’s latest creation. Not much else I can do unless I abandon having a phone completely. My parents ask that I block unknown numbers and report threatening texts without answering, but I can’t help myself. If someone wants me dead, I have to know how much they know. If they have only my name and phone number, then that can be anyone, anywhere. Historically it’s been an empty threat. But if someone says they’re watching me walk home through Central Park when it’s dangerously close to midnight, I take that threat seriously and run for my life.
The most unnerving part about the original caller was that his voice sounded familiar, but I can’t fully place it. He sounded
young, but not too young. It could be anyone who wants revenge on Death-Cast, but I’m inclined to believe it might be a relative
of one of the Death’s Dozen.
There’s Travis Carpenter, whose older sister, Abilene, was hit by a truck in Dallas, Texas. On Friday, August 27, 2010, my father personally apologized to the family, only to be threatened with a shotgun by Travis Sr. I wondered if both Travises are working together to make my father feel the loss of a child, but according to my research, Travis Jr. seems to be busy pursuing his political science degree. Travis Carpenter is also still registered for our services, unlike Mac Maag, whose uncle, Michael Maag, was robbed and stabbed to death on the first End Day. I have no idea if Mac Maag supports the Death Guard since his social media profiles have been inactive for the last three years, but I like to believe he’s just living a peaceful pro-natural life. And then there’s Paz Dario, who I knew about before the first End Day since he was the cute boy in Scorpius Hawthorne and the Immortal Deathlings , but he’s more famous now for being the boy who killed his father, Frankie Dario. I used to check in on him a lot before
he deactivated his social media from the unjust backlash that spawned because of Grim Missed Calls . I hope he’s doing okay.
As for me, I’m not concerned about this morning’s death threats, especially not while I’m here at our primary Death-Cast headquarters,
where we have the best security money can buy. I’m able to focus on the work at hand, which right now involves shadowing a
meeting in the boardroom between my parents and Dalma Young, the creator of the Last Friend app.
“Death-Cast has rewritten death, but it has always been about changing lives,” Pa says.
“That you have,” Dalma says, sitting across from my parents while I stand in the corner with my tablet.
“As have you, young lady,” Ma says.
Dalma is twenty-eight years old, but she can honestly pass for twenty-one, maybe even nineteen like me. She looks like a goddess
with her black halo braid, glowing brown skin, and the white caftan dress. “You’re sweet, but my aching back doesn’t make
me feel young at all.”
My father laughs. “Hard work hurts. We would like to honor you for yours.”
Dalma’s brown eyes look between my parents. “Honor me how? You’ve already done so much for me. The grants, your advertisements promoting Last Friend. Not to mention your inspiring commencement speech at my graduation, Mr. Rosa.”
My father has an ego, something my mother has spent years trying to tame, but he’s too unique a beast, like a dragon flying
in a sky of pigeons. There is no grounding him as long as he’s the only soul alive to create a company as special as Death-Cast.
“The connections forged through the Last Friend app have inspired me, time and time again. That is why at next week’s Decade
Gala we will be naming you our inaugural recipient for the Death-Cast Life-Changer Award.”
Tears slide down Dalma’s cheek. “For real? Isn’t there someone more deserving? What about the Make-A-Moment founders?”
“The Holland sisters are among the incredible innovators who have helped shape the age of Death-Cast, but you changed the
lives of all Deckers who needed company in their final hours.”
Dalma tries controlling her sobs as she shakes her head. “Lives have been lost because of me too.”
As the Last Friend app approaches its five-year anniversary on August 8, there have been some really thorough profiles recognizing all the good it’s done as well as the crimes committed through the platform’s history. Deckers inviting Last Friends into their homes only to be robbed of their possessions. Solicitation for nudes and sexual favors as if it was the Necro app. Relentless harassment from Death Guarders who scare Deckers away. Abuse where Deckers have been treated like punching bags for people needing to blow off some steam. The darkest stain on the company’s history has to be the summer of 2016, when the Last Friend serial killer murdered eleven Deckers. Everyone believed the killer had gone and died himself since the killings stopped for several months, only for him to claim his final victims on Friday, January 13, 2017, and Thursday, May 25, 2017, before being caught.
I know a lot about the Last Friend serial killer. My best friend’s brother was the first victim.
There’s a familiar, haunted look in Dalma’s eyes as if it’s impossible for her to not see the blood on her hands even though
she didn’t kill those thirteen Deckers herself.
My father’s brown eyes are distant too as he stares at the empty corner of the room. “It is admirable to take accountability
for any shadows cast over your company, as we have, but you must understand that the despicable serial killer who preyed on
innocent Deckers is no more your fault than Deckers dying after receiving Death-Cast alerts is mine.”
Dalma nods, but she doesn’t seem to believe it. “Mr. and Mrs. Rosa, I’m deeply honored that you think so highly of me, but
I don’t feel comfortable accepting this award. Sometimes I think Deckers are better off if I terminate the app so nothing
horrific like that ever happens again.”
My parents look between each other, lost for words.
“You’ve done so much good, Ms. Young,” I say, surprising everyone. Shadows aren’t supposed to speak. “I was so touched by
Time magazine’s profile on people who choose to be Living Last Friends for Deckers seeking companionship. I haven’t had the honor of serving as one myself, but I really hope to, even just once to make someone’s End Day brighter.”
I pull out a chair and sit next to Dalma. “You can’t bring back those thirteen Deckers any more than we can resurrect the
Death’s Dozen, but both companies deserve to survive because we’ve done far more good than harm. Your app’s record holder,
Teo Torrez, has served as a Last Friend over one hundred and thirty times since January 2018 to honor his son, Mateo, who
lived his best End Day thanks to his Last Friend, Rufus Emeterio—the very same Rufus whose trio of friends known as the Plutos
started an annual trend on September 5, 2018, where they each serve as Last Friends to commemorate him. This constellation
of connections exists because of you, Ms. Young. Terminating the app won’t terminate death, but it will terminate those life-changing
End Days.”
Dalma rubs her teary eyes, and I grab her a box of tissues. “You sound like my therapist,” she says, blowing her nose.
“I’ve read a few self-help books.”
“Time well spent.”
“Does this mean you will accept the award?” Pa asks.
Dalma nods. “I’ll prepare a speech.”
“Fabulous,” Ma says, coming around the table to give Dalma a tight hug. “We’re looking forward to celebrating you. Please
feel free to invite the whole family.”
“My mother and stepfather are spending the summer in San Juan, but my sister and her girlfriend—sorry, fiancée—are in town.
I’ll invite them. Dahlia loves a cocktail party.”
Pa gets up from the table. “Congratulations to your sister and her partner. Pass along their contact information when you get a chance so we can send over formal invitations.” What he really means is we need their names so our private security force, Shield-Cast, can do extensive background checks before allowing them in the building. “I believe your friend Orion Pagan has already RSVP’d yes. That right, Alano?”
Earlier today I went over the guest list with Pa’s chief of staff. “Mr. Pagan is confirmed.”
Dalma’s lips purse before she smiles. “That’s wonderful.” It doesn’t sound like it.
I was under the impression that Dalma Young and Orion Pagan were best friends. It was Orion’s connection with a Decker—Valentino
Prince, who my father personally called on the first End Day—that inspired the Last Friend app, after all. Now it would appear
there might be some drama at the Decade Gala. I make a mental note to have security surveying them throughout the night.
After an attendant arrives to escort Dalma back to the ground level, I walk with my parents down the hall toward my father’s
office, followed by all our personal bodyguards, Ariel Andrade, Nova Chen, and Dane Madden. This building is the safest place
to be, but it doesn’t hurt to be extra careful.
“Nicely handled,” Pa tells me.
“I didn’t overstep?”
“Not at all. Was that Time profile about Living Last Friends in your brief?”
It’s my job to know everything about everyone. If we’re meeting with someone, I spend hours researching who they are and writing comprehensive reports. Everything from where they were born to what they do now to their favorite hobbies and even what topics to avoid in our meetings. I prepared one for Dalma Young that made me feel qualified to be her personal biographer.
“It was,” I answer. I even provided a TL;DR that went unread.
“I will be more on top of it next time,” he says, patting my back. “Nonetheless, your being up-to-date saved the day. I was
especially impressed with how compassionate you were about Dalma’s ghosts and your ability to motivate her to continue her
necessary work so Deckers never have to die alone. You will make a great leader one day, mi hijo.”
I’ve grown up knowing I will one day inherit Death-Cast when my parents retire, but my father has always been adamant that
I climb the company ladder instead of stepping into the role. He can tell me everything there is to know about being CEO,
but it’s the experiences that will make me successful. That’s why I spent last summer as an assistant and have been fully
with the company since Monday, January 6, after spending New Year’s Day/my birthday in Egypt. I’m not in love with the administrative
duties like inputting information into spreadsheets or ordering supplies, but that’s not why my father hired me. It’s because
I’m a naturally gifted learner who loves research; I believe I was a historian in a past life. I take great pride in this
work and would do it for free.
That’s hardly saying anything since my family is so wealthy that we will die before we can spend all our money, but that doesn’t stop my father from trying. We mostly live in our penthouse condo that overlooks Central Park, but he also purchased a house in the Chicago suburbs, a bigger house in Orlando, and the biggest out in the Hollywood Hills with a mind-blowing view of Downtown Los Angeles. Oh, we also have the house in San Juan. We haven’t been there in a couple years unfortunately, but at least my mother’s family is making it their home, unlike our other residences, which remain empty ever since we discovered old family friends bugged our condo to try to discover Death-Cast’s secret method for predicting deaths.
We’re fortunate enough to put the money back into the community too. My family has donated and invested so many millions that
my father was famously downgraded from billionaire to millionaire. Everyone celebrated him even though it was my mother who
started the charity Give-Cast, but she doesn’t have my father’s ego. She works hard to ground me in this lavish life so I’ll
one day inherit the company but not the ego.
That’s why we live by a very important rule: never accept anything for free that we can pay for ourselves. No comped dinners, no matter how gracious the chef is that Death-Cast allowed her to have a beautiful End Day with her husband, who would’ve died unexpectedly otherwise. No Super Bowl suites compliments of the coach who last year put his tight-end superstar in the game despite a doctor’s warning of a potential fatal injury, only for that player to score four times, including the winning touchdown that broke the tie. And no free tickets to this past Met Gala, even though the legends at Saint Laurent wanted to dress us for the carpet, so I begged my parents to go because I’ve loved fashion forever and this was the honor of a lifetime. I don’t ask for much, so they said yes and bought my ticket. I got to stun on the carpet in a dark sequin blazer suit with a white silk necktie blouse and forge a relationship with their creative director, who is dressing me again for the Decade Gala.
The pay-for-everything rule has applied to college too. I was offered a scholarship to Harvard because of my 4.0 GPA, but
everyone believed my family bribed the admissions committee since I was homeschooled (as if homeschooled students can’t qualify
for scholarships) and that my parents bribed my private tutors to manipulate my grades (as if I’m not naturally brilliant).
It didn’t help when I rejected the scholarship as a goodwill courtesy. The only way I could get everyone to stop accusing
me of being an unworthy cheat was showing up to the first week of classes last fall knowing everything the professors were
teaching after I spent the entire summer studying the textbooks front to back, all while vacationing in Ibiza, where the vegetarian
paella at La Brasa is to die for. (Not literally. No food is worth dying for, but I would have that paella flown in on my
End Day.)
I had to quit college after that first semester. I couldn’t focus on my studies as people tried cozying up to me, if not outright badgering me, for company secrets despite telling everyone who asked how Death-Cast can predict the deaths that my father isn’t sharing that information with me until I’m older. No one believed me. But I mainly left for safety reasons. On Monday, December 2, 2019, we all returned from Thanksgiving break and I was immediately attacked by a student, Duncan Hogan, whose mother died at 12:19 a.m. on Thanksgiving before the heralds could alert her at 12:35 a.m. Duncan understandably hated being caught off guard and felt robbed of a goodbye and grieved by beating me bloody in Burden Park. He then started a pro-natural club on campus that harassed me all month. My bodyguard attending classes didn’t make things better, so I didn’t come back after the holiday break. It’s a shame because I loved my professors and a taste of a normal student’s life, but it’s not as if university would ever truly prepare me to become CEO of Death-Cast anyway.
I’ve been so committed to this role that I was promoted to executive assistant on Wednesday, July 1, and I now attend every
meeting and I’m on every call, whether it’s with the board of directors, business owners, security, grant recipients, politicians,
or even the president of the United States.
“Your job is to know everything possible,” my father said upon giving me the promotion. “Until it is time for you to know
the once impossible.”
The Death-Cast secret.
I’ll know my training has been completed when he sits me down for that talk.
For now, we all return to my father’s corner office, where there are monstera trees in front of the windows that overlook Times Square, a grand seating area for the rare guests invited inside, a bookcase wall full of nonfiction where I regularly borrow books—most recently biographies about President Reynolds, Ada Lovelace, and Vincent van Gogh—a desk modeled after the Resolute desk in the White House except it has the company’s hourglass logo carved into the face instead of the presidential coat of arms, and a bronze globe where my father’s bar cart used to be before he went sober on Tuesday, February 11, for his fiftieth birthday after suffering blackouts.
“Your eleven thirty with Mr. Carver got pushed back to one o’clock, so you’ll be meeting with Aster instead,” I remind Pa.
His chief of staff has a long list of items to go through before next week’s gala and before Pa will meet with his manufacturer
to receive production updates for his exciting new creation. Code name: Project Meucci.
“I think it’s time, Alano.”
I double-check my watch. “You have another twelve minutes.”
“Not that.”
Ma looks confused too. “Then what is it time for, Joaquin?”
“Time for Alano to get proper fieldwork at Death-Cast,” Pa says. He stares at me, preparing to ask me to do something I’ve
been avoiding for years, and I would be happy to continue doing just that for the rest of my life. Something my father has
only ever done once himself. “Tonight, you will call your first Decker.”