They Both Die at the End

by Adam Silvera

  Aimee touches her heart, choking on her next words. “It hurts so much, Rufus, to think you won’t be around for me to call or hug and . . .” She stops looking at me; she’s squinting at something behind me, and her hand drops. “Did someone call the police?”

  I jump out of my seat and see the flashes of red and blue in front of the duplex. I’m in full-on panic mode that feels insanely brief and mad long, like eight forevers. There’s only one person who isn’t surprised or freaking out. I turn to Aimee and her eyes follow mine back to Peck.

  “You didn’t,” Aimee says, charging toward him. She snatches her phone from him.

  “He assaulted me!” Peck shouts. “I don’t care if he’s on his way out!”

  “He’s not expired meat, he’s another human being!” Aimee shouts back.

  Holy shit. I don’t know how Peck did it because he hasn’t made any calls here, but he got the cops on me at my own funeral. I hope Death-Cast calls that bastard in the next few minutes.

  “Go out the back,” Tagoe says, twitches running wild.

  “You have to come with me, you guys were there.”

  “We’ll slow them down,” Malcolm says. “Talk them out of it.”

  There’s a knock on the door.

  Jenn Lori points at the kitchen. “Go.”

  I grab my helmet, walking backward toward the kitchen, taking in all the Plutos. My pops once said goodbyes are “the most possible impossible” ’cause you never wanna say them, but you’d be stupid not to when given the shot. I’m getting cheated out of mine because the wrong person showed up at my funeral.

  I shake my head and run out the back, catching my breath. I rush through the backyard we all hated because of relentless mosquitoes and fruit flies, then hop the fence. I sneak back around to the front of the house to see if there’s a chance I can grab my bike before having to book it on my feet. The cop car is parked outside, but both officers must be inside, maybe even in the backyard by now if Peck snitched. I grab my bike and run with it down the sidewalk, hopping onto the seat once I get enough momentum.

  I don’t know where I’m going, but I keep going.

  I lived through my funeral, but I wish I was already dead.

  MATEO

  2:52 a.m.

  The third time was not the charm. I can’t even tell you if Elle is actually a Decker, but I blocked her without investigating because she spammed me with links to “funny snuff videos gone wrong.” I closed the app afterward. Have to admit it, I feel a little vindicated in how I’ve lived my life because people can be the worst. It’s hard to have a respectful conversation, let alone make a Last Friend.

  I keep receiving pop-up notifications for new messages, but I ignore them because I’m on the tenth level of A Dark Vanishing, this brutal Xbox Infinity game that has me wanting to look up cheat codes. My hero, Cove, a level-seventeen sorcerer with fire for hair, can’t advance through this poverty-stricken kingdom without an offering to the princess. So I walk (well, Cove walks) past all the hawkers trying to sell off their bronze pins and rusty locks and go straight for the pirates. I must’ve gotten lost in my head on the way to the harbor because Cove steps on a land mine and I don’t have time to ghost-phase through the explosion—Cove’s arm flies through a hut’s window, his head rockets into the sky, and his legs burst completely.

  My heart pounds all through the loading screen until Cove is suddenly back, good as new. Cove’s got it good.

  I won’t be able to respawn later.

  I’m wasting away in here and . . .

  There are two bookcases in my room. The blue bookcase on the bottom holds my favorite books that I could never get myself to purge when I did my monthly book donations to the teen health clinic down the block. The white bookcase on top is stacked with books I always planned on reading.

  . . . I grab the books as if I’ll have time to read them all: I want to know how this boy deals with a life that’s moved on without him after he’s resurrected by a ritual. Or what it was like for the little girl who couldn’t perform at the school talent show because her parents received the Death-Cast alert while she was dreaming of pianos. Or how this hero known as the People’s Hope receives a message from these Death-Cast-like prophets telling him he’s going to die six days before the final battle where he was the key to victory against the King of All Evil. I throw these books across the room and even kick some of my favorites off their shelves because the line between favorites and books that will never be favorites doesn’t matter anymore.

  I rush over to my speakers and almost hurl them against the wall, stopping myself at the last second. Books don’t require electricity, but speakers do, and it can all end here. The speakers and piano taunt me, reminding me of all the times I rushed home from school to have as much private time as I could with my music before Dad returned from his managerial shifts at the crafts store. I would sing, but not too loudly so my neighbors couldn’t overhear me.

  I tear down a map from the wall. I have never traveled outside of New York and will never get on a plane to touch down in Egypt to see temples and pyramids or travel to Dad’s hometown in Puerto Rico to visit the rainforest he frequented as a kid. I rip up the map, letting all the countries and cities and towns fall at my feet.

  It’s chaos in here. It’s a lot like when the hero in some blockbuster fantasy film is standing in the rubble of his war-ravaged village, bombed because the villains couldn’t find him. Except instead of demolished buildings and disintegrated bricks, there are books open face-first on the floor, their damaged spines poking up, while others are piled on one another. I can’t put everything back together or I’ll find myself alphabetizing all the books and taping the map back together. (I swear this isn’t some excuse to not clean my room.)

  I turn off the Xbox Infinity, where Cove has respawned, all limbs together as if he didn’t just explode minutes ago. Cove is standing at the start point, idly dangling his staff.

  I have to make a move. I pick up my phone again, reopening the Last Friend app. I hope I step over the people who are dangerous like land mines.

  RUFUS

  2:59 a.m.

  Wish Death-Cast called before I ruined my life tonight.

  If Death-Cast hit me up last night, they would’ve knocked me out of that dream I was having where I was losing a marathon to some little kids on tricycles. If Death-Cast hit me up one week ago, I wouldn’t have been up late reading all the notes Aimee wrote me when we were still a thing. If Death-Cast called two weeks ago, they would’ve interrupted that argument I was having with Malcolm and Tagoe about how Marvel heroes are better than DC heroes (and maybe I would’ve asked the herald to weigh in). If Death-Cast called one month ago, they would’ve killed the dead silence that came with me not wanting to talk with anyone after Aimee left. But nah, Death-Cast called tonight while I was pounding on Peck, which led to Aimee dragging him to the duplex to confront me, which led to Peck getting the cops involved and cutting my funeral short, which led to me being one hundred percent alone right now.

  None of that would’ve happened if Death-Cast called one day sooner.

  I hear police sirens and keep pedaling. I hope something else is happening.

  I give it a few more minutes before I take a break, stopping between a McDonald’s and a gas station. It’s mad bright, maybe kneeling over here is stupid, but staying in plain sight might be a good hiding spot. I don’t know, I’m not James Bond, I don’t have some guidebook on how to hide from the bad guys.

  Shit, I’m the bad guy.

  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 fi
nal 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:

  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.

  Rufus E. (3:19 a.m.): Good call. A Luigi hat isn’t exactly a baseball cap, right?

  Mateo T. (3:19 a.m.): Exactly.

  Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Wait. You haven’t left your house yet?

  Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Nope.

  Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Did you just get the alert a few minutes ago?

  Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Death-Cast called me a little after midnight.

  Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): What have you been doing all night?

  Mateo T. (3:20 a.m.): Cleaning and playing video games.

  Rufus E. (3:20 a.m.): Which game?

  Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): N/m the game doesn’t matter. Don’t you have stuff you wanna do? What are you waiting for?

  Mateo T. (3:21 a.m.): I was talking to potential Last Friends and they were . . . not great, is the kindest way to put it.

  Rufus E. (3:21 a.m.): Why do you need a Last Friend before starting your day?

  Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Why do YOU need a Last Friend when you have friends?

  Rufus E. (3:22 a.m.): I asked you first.

  Mateo T. (3:22 a.m.): Fair. I think it’s insane to leave the apartment knowing something or SOMEONE is going to kill me. Also because there are “Last Friends” out there claiming they have the cure to death in their pants.

  Rufus E. (3:23 a.m.): I spoke to that dick too! Not his dick, exactly. But I reported and blocked him afterward. I promise I’m better than that guy. I guess that’s not saying much. Do you wanna video-chat? I’ll send you the invite.

  An icon of a silhouette speaking into a phone flashes. I almost reject the call, too confused about the suddenness of this moment, but I answer before the call goes away, before Rufus goes away. The screen goes black for a second, and then a total stranger with the face Rufus has in his profile appears. He’s sweating and looking down, but his eyes quickly find me and I feel exposed, maybe even a little threatened, like he’s some scary childhood legend that can reach through the screen and drag me into a dark underworld. In my overactive imagination’s defense, Rufus has already tried bullying me out of my own world and into the world beyond, so—

  “Yo,” Rufus says. “You see me?”

  “Yeah, hey. I’m Mateo.”

  “Hey, Mateo. My bad for springing the video chat on you,” Rufus says. “Kind of hard to trust someone you can’t see, you get me?”

  “No worries,” I say. There’s a glare, which is a little blinding wherever he is, but I can still make out his light brown face. I wonder why he’s so sweaty.

  “You wanted to know why I’d prefer a Last Friend over my real-life friends, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Unless that’s too personal.”

  “Nah, don’t worry about that. I don’t think ‘too personal’ should exist between Last Friends. Long story short: I was with my parents and sister when our car crashed into the Hudson River and I had to watch them die. Living with that guilt isn’t something I want for my friends. I have to throw that out there and make sure that you’re okay with this.”

  “With you leaving your friends behind?”


  “No. The chance you might have to watch me die.”

  I’m being faced with the heaviest of chances today: I may have to watch him die, unless it’s the other way around, and both possibilities make me want to throw up. It’s not that I feel a deep connection or anything to him already, but the idea of watching anyone die makes me sick and sad and angry—and that’s why he’s asking. But not doing anything is hardly comforting, either. “Okay, yeah. I can do it.”

  “Can you? There’s the whole you-not-leaving-your-house problem. Last Friend or not, I’m not spending the rest of my life holed up in someone’s apartment—and I don’t want you to either, but you gotta meet me halfway, Mateo,” Rufus says. The way he says my name is a little more comforting than the way I imagined that creep Philly would say it; it’s more like a conductor giving a pep talk before a sold-out performance. “Believe me, I know it can get ugly out here. There was a point where I didn’t think any of this was worthwhile.”

  “Well, what changed?” I don’t mean it to sound like a challenge, but it kind of is. I’m not leaving the safety of my apartment that easily. “You lost your family and then what?”

  “I wasn’t about this life,” Rufus says, looking away. “And I would’ve been game with game over. But that’s not what my parents and sis wanted for me. It’s mad twisted, but surviving showed me it’s better to be alive wishing I was dead than dying wishing I could live forever. If I can lose it all and change my attitude, you need to do the same before it’s too late, dude. You gotta go for it.”

  Go for it. That’s what I said in my profile. He’s paid more attention than the others and cared about me the way a friend should.