A puddle of drying blood crept across the hallway’s wood flooring.
Meda was careful not to step in it as she approached Mr Jacobs and knelt at his side. Pulling off her glove, she felt for a pulse. The old man’s dark skin felt like wax paper. His eyes and mouth were still open as if gasping in surprise. A broken pair of glasses lay nearby, crushed into shards and twisted gold wire. There were dark, bloody holes in his chest, which didn’t rise and fall. No pulse at all.
“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling a great weight settle into her chest. It felt like guilt and incredible distress. For a moment she nearly panicked. She wanted to call 911 but no one was coming. Not anymore. The only place to go was the Inner Harbor. Continue reading
The mass graves were all alight.
Meda Ahachik stared at them through a tear in the newspaper covering the windows. From her tenth-story apartment, she could see the ash dancing in the street lamps. It swirled in the warm, spring breeze and collected in piles on the streets of Baltimore. Blue and red lights flashed in the distance but there were no sirens and the lights did not move.
The ambulances stopped coming yesterday, the death toll from the disease was too high to keep up with. The National Guard no longer patrolled the streets. Things were taking a turn. The radio told everyone who was feeling ill to make their way to the FEMA hospital set up in the M&T Bank Stadium but the message was pre-recorded and left to loop since last week. Meda doubted anyone still went there. Continue reading
The apocalypse began on a Tuesday.
In the heat and humidity of September in Mumbai, a small, white organism grew inside the walls of The Sahil Hotel on Behram Road. The walls were made to resist mold and most fungal growth, yet this persisted. It concentrated most heavily inside Room Two-Twenty-One which had gone unused and uncleaned for a week before being given to Joseph Patel, a business man out of New York in the United States. When he’d gotten the room, he complained that it smelled musty.
That morning, three cleaning women went in while he was out at a meeting and aired it out. They did not notice the spores that floated in the sunlight, mistaking them for dust. Laboring for nearly an hour, they managed to mask the smell that had offended Joseph Patel. When he returned that afternoon, the whole room smelled of lavender and pine and he slept soundly all night.
On the third morning of his stay, Joseph woke in the middle of the night with a headache and he felt like his sinuses was packed with cotton. He took an aspirin and went back to bed. He woke again before dawn and felt a cold coming on. Cursing his luck, he listed every person he met with this week and decided to lay the blame on Andil Vuschel, the salesman from Eramal. Andil had been sneezing through his entire presentation and didn’t cover his mouth once.
Joseph packed his bags and made an early start for the airport. Continue reading
Three months ago a man got on a plane in India thinking he had a cold. What he carried inside of him was a disease that was highly infectious and resistant to most known forms of medication. Within weeks, the disease has spread across the globe and there is no cure.
The world calls it The Pale Horse.
For twenty year-old Meda Ahachik, her vacation should have been spent worrying about upcoming finals. Instead, the pandemic reaches the city of Baltimore, and Meda finds herself relying on the teachings of a family she’d left far behind.
Over the last few years I’ve started using Twitter as a way to promote and keep in touch with readers and writers all over the world. I’ve met some pretty swanky people (you all know who you are my friends), more than I ever thought I would. Most of those are writers of almost every genre I can think of. It’s an amazing tool and I’m overjoyed to have found it and all of you.
One of those awesome people tagged me recently to answer questions. Technically I’m supposed to tag 10 more writers to answer questions of my own. We’ll see if I can grab all ten. For those of you who have been reading my blog and wondering “Where the heck has he been?” I’ll answer that first.
So let’s get started. Continue reading
A long time ago, I posted a novella called “36 Hours,” a story about 4 friends caught in the horrors of war. It takes place in an alternate version of the Civil War and the final 36 hours of the conflict.
Read it here!