Dying Light by D. Scott Meek

By SMW Staff

Dying Light by D. Scott MeekIn 2036, the world celebrated the death knell of the global jihad. The Islamist crusade against the infidel died as moderate Muslims rose up against the tyranny of corrupt mullahs and oppressive theocrats. The fundamentalists had not destroyed America or liberal Western democracy, nor had Islam swept across the planet. In a final desperate stroke, the dying movement unleashed what would be called “The Tears of Allah,” but in the West they simply called it the “Blood Virus.”

In 2412, a new world order mercilessly eradicates the last victims of the blood virus. In the bleak and brutal city of New Baltimore, vampyres, constantly in fear of discovery and persecution, live and walk among humans as ordinary people with an extraordinary reality…and a haunting past. A deal to save the last vampyres is struck, but intrigue, deception and betrayal ensure that while the sun will rise tomorrow, no one knows who will live to see it.

Read an Excerpt of Dying Light

Ahead the corridor ended in a simple door. He’d been within reach of the door when the visions slowed him down and led him here, leaning against the wall. He contemplated the door for a moment, considered the comforts beyond – the bed, the warmth of the sheets, a refuge against the chill of the subterranean complex. He felt renewed from the fresh infusion of blood, but he was still weary. It was early, but there never seemed to be enough time to sleep. There never seemed to be time to relax. Early mornings and late nights had been the rule since that fateful January 20th.

And the nightmares had followed.

He hadn’t heard the shot, sitting there holding Maryam’s hand, distracted by her voice in his ear. The morning had gone so smoothly, although it had started, he’d mentioned several times, entirely too early. The swearing-in for him was first. The Vice President was always sworn in first, according to tradition and in the event that there was a “problem” – no one liked to talk about the possibility of the President being shot during his inauguration. He’d been told that the schedule had changed a bit due to heavy ice forming on the platform the night before, and so, much to everyone’s chagrin and some major beef from the networks, the inauguration was going to be shortened considerably. The winter storm warning issued by the National Weather Service had proven true, and freezing rain followed by temperatures dipping into the teens coupled with occasional wind gusts reaching 35mph nearly washed out the entire event. It would prove to be the coldest winter on record, and the most memorable in the brief history of the United States of America.

The most important change of the day was that he would be sworn in in the Senate chambers. That had been the normal procedure up until 1937, a result of the 20th Amendment to the Constitution, affixing 20 January as Inauguration Day, and he and the President-Elect had agreed to follow some kind of tradition since the current normal procedure was not possible.

He’d been none too pleased getting up that early on that fateful morning, but there was little choice. The motorcade was coming at 7AM, and it was not the kind of day to be running late. He followed a frighteningly hot shower with a new razor to his face. The President-Elect was a tad younger and very sharp. The Vice President would be just as dashing if there was anything to be said about it. The crisp black two-button from Hart-Schaffner and Marx and a pale blue tie – Alex’s would be a darker shade of blue – fit perfectly and looked terrific in the mirrors in the elevator. Maryam’s dress was nearly the same color as his tie, but hardly anyone would see it today. She’d been almost as upset at the weather as anyone, and he’d held her hand all the way in the motorcade to soothe her and the fact that the dress was hidden underneath her greatcoat. Wasn’t this as big a moment for her as for him, she’d asked? And she’d been right.

The door to the inner chamber and his bedroom slid aside. He walked through unceremoniously, mind still wandering the paths of that frozen moment. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he kicked off his shoes, ignoring where they fell, his eyes still far away.

They’d stepped onto the platform together, Alex leading, Jennifer on his arm. The wind bit at exposed flesh, piranha seeking an unprepared and unsuspecting meal, and they all dipped their chins, pulling their coats tighter against them. His first thought had been to profanity, but this wasn’t the time. Still, he’d grumbled a vulgar word or two to Maryam in Farsi, knowing no one else would understand, and she’d giggled. She’s taught him all the inappropriate things to say, and it came in handy now and again when they were in mixed company.