Today Mark is walking up and down a snowy New York street, circa 1935 or so, knocking on doors. He's already heard from other transmissions that all of the worlds are empty, but he wants to verify it for himself. "This is the neighborhood where I grew up," he says, panning the camera over the unmarked sidewalk. "I've never seen it so empty."

Later ( Read more... )

I should've known something was fishy when I came home to a dark apartment. Cindy waits up for me some nights--don't have the heart to scold her--and there's usually a light on.
But I wasn't thinking. If there were any prints on the doorknob I wiped them clean off coming in. Took my sweet time putting my piece away, too--by the time I thought to ( Read more... )

For those with a suspicious nature and knowledge of Mark Meltzer's habits, the main sign that there's been a switch is his complete absence from the network ( Read more... )

Mark stands facing the camera, deliberately filming himself. It isn't something he's terribly comfortable with, but he's guessed that he's more approachable this way than as a disembodied voice on the radio. There's a world map tacked to his wall, a box of pins and a ball of yarn at the ready on his desk. He clears his throat and begins, a little ( Read more... )

There's a click and a whir, and a round-faced boy in a starched white shirt appears on the screen. He doesn't seem aware that the comm unit is recording him; the feed shakes and spins disorientingly as he turns the device over and over, examining it with a steadily widening smile.

"It's really broadcasting? Gosh.He clears his throat and speaks ( Read more... )