Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 12
Day 365: Anniversary
One year since the world vanished. One year since I stepped outside and realized I was alone. And then ... not alone.
I stood at the kitchen counter, staring at the slightly lopsided pancake I’d just flipped. It was a little burned around the edges and shaped like a deformed amoeba, but I’d declared it a win. We hadn’t exactly mastered open-flame cooking, but after a year, I’d like to think we’d achieved “survivable chaos” levels of competence.
I balanced two of the pancakes on a tacky green and yellow plate, added a dollop of scavenged jam on top (strawberry, from a dusty jar we found in the prepper’s stash), and carried the whole thing out to the back patio.
Amara was wrapped in a light blanket, her feet up on an old ottoman we’d dragged outside. She was almost back to normal now—less pale, the usual sparkle in her eyes. Her hair was tied up in that loose knot she defaulted to when she didn’t care about impressing anyone, which, frankly, was when I found her most impressive.
“Happy not-dead day,” I said, setting the plate in front of her with a flourish.
She smiled and raised a brow. “That supposed to be a heart?”
“It’s Florida,” I replied. “Protozoan-shaped pancakes are very in this season.”
She snorted softly and picked up a fork. “You made these just for me?”
I took the chair beside her and tapped my fork to hers like a toast. “To one year of not going totally feral.”
“To one year of putting up with each other,” she said, smiling, “and learning how to do a garden patch, how to gut a fish, and how not to poison ourselves with questionable mushrooms.”
“Hey. That mushroom looked safe.”
“It glowed in the dark, Charlie.”
“Okay, bad example.”
We laughed quietly and dug in. The pancakes were chewy, a little overdone, but we ate them like they were fine cuisine. Because they were ours. Because we were still here.
After breakfast, we walked (slowly—Amara still tired easily) down to the lake behind the house. We’d cleared a little path, ringed it with stones. The water shimmered in the morning light, calm and mirrorlike. Dragonflies hovered. A heron glided low across the surface.
She leaned on me as we sat, her head resting on my shoulder.
“I keep thinking about what this year’s been,” she said. “Like ... I still don’t know why it happened. Or how. But I know I wouldn’t have made it without you.”
I swallowed hard, nodding. “Same goes. I would’ve fallen apart. Or turned into some weird swamp hermit. You saved me. Again and again.”
“I was so scared that first day,” she murmured. “And now here we are. One year in. Still scared sometimes, but ... not alone.”
I kissed the top of her head. “Not alone.”
We sat in the quiet for a while, watching the sunlight ripple on the water, the occasional breeze catching the trees like the world was exhaling.
Then she said, “I have a present for you.”
“Oh?”
She pulled something from the pocket of her blanket. A tiny, folded piece of paper.
I opened it carefully. It was a crude drawing—stick figures of us, holding hands under a little cartoon sun, surrounded by smiling trees. At the bottom, she’d written:
“One year down. Forever to go.”
I smiled so wide it almost hurt. “I didn’t get you anything,” I said sheepishly. “Unless you count that amoeba-shaped pancake.”
“I do,” she said, snuggling closer. “And I loved it.”
Later that day, we slow-danced in the living room—no music, just the rhythm of memory and a few hummed tunes. And later that night, for the first time since she’d gotten sick, we made love – tenderly and sweetly.
We’d made it through one year in a world that was sometimes paradise, sometimes hell, and sometimes purgatory. One year of survival, of growth, of us.
And neither of us had any inkling that very soon ... everything would change again.
Day 369: Road Trip
She wanted to do something ridiculous when she felt better. So, here we were.
Over the last couple of months, we’d occasionally been wondering about the situation down in Miami. We’d reminisced fondly about our jobs and our lives down there. I confessed that I wished I had my old laptop in my possession, for a variety of reasons. I had some photos saved on it with sentimental significance. Amara also had left an item or two on her desk that was important to her.
Driving down there in a car with a fully-charged battery would not be a problem. But ... there was the lingering concern of radiation, from the Turkey Point nuclear plant that we believed had gone through meltdown back near the beginning.
But we still had the Geiger counter, didn’t we?
Research had told us that the Miami area should be borderline safe nearly twelve months after a meltdown event at Turkey Point. To be sure, we’d bring the Geiger counter with us and take measurements as we headed south. If we saw that the radiation level was starting to spike, we’d abort and turn around.
The drive into Miami was like floating through a dream.
We cruised down I-95 with the windows down, warm wind causing Amara’s hair to fly around as she sang bits of songs half-remembered. The sun was just climbing, soft gold on the high-rises and scattered palms. The world was still quiet, unclaimed. Ours.
Even better, the Geiger counter showed nothing more than background radiation as we left Broward County and headed into Miami-Dade.
Neither of us had bothered with clothes. It wasn’t a statement—it was just who we’d become. We were sun-kissed, devoid of self-consciousness, and free.
I reached across and squeezed her hand. “You sure you wanna do this?”
She smiled and nodded. “Yeah. I want to see it one last time. My desk. I want to take my silly little turtle figurine as a memento. You get your laptop, I get my closure.”
“Deal,” I said,
She was in the mood for teasing. “What about you? Are you sure we’re not driving all this way just so you can show me your middle school haircut?”
I chuckled. “Among other treasures. Baby Charlie was a sight to behold.”
We both laughed. Soon, we approached the city. At this point, the Geiger counter picked up evidence of radiation slightly above background level, but well below the danger threshold. Perhaps when the meltdown occurred, the wind had kept the worst of the radiation from affecting downtown Miami.
We decided to go ahead with our plans. We wouldn’t be there long anyhow.
From afar, our work building looked exactly as we remembered. Sleek glass, glinting in the light. Up closer, we could see weeds in the cracks. Birds nesting in the awning. Dead quiet. Our old second home, abandoned for a year, frozen in time. I pulled up right in front of the building and slipped the car into Park.
Amara stepped out first, arms stretched overhead, totally unbothered by her full nudity. “Feels weird,” she said. “Like visiting the grave of someone who turns out to still be alive.”
We joined hands and walked together to the revolving door, bare feet padding over the cool concrete. I hesitated with my hand on the glass. We exchanged a look—something reverent. This is where it began.
Still pushing the Edenic theme, I asked her, “You ready, Eve?”
“Let’s go, Adam.”
We pushed through the door.
The world snapped.
In a single blink—no lights, no warning—the air shifted. Cool and sharp against my skin. The air conditioning unit whirred. Muzak played softly through ceiling speakers. The scent of industrial-grade lemon cleaner hit my nose.
Voices. Footsteps. The hum of fluorescent lights. The distant ding of an elevator.
And I was freezing. Absolutely, nakedly freezing.
“What the—”
Amara gasped beside me, eyes wide. “We’re back. We’re back!” She grabbed my arm, pulling me close. “This is the lobby. It’s today. Look!” She pointed to the wall clock. 5:15 PM — the exact moment it all began.
Somehow, impossibly, we’d stepped through the door and been deposited back at the precise instant we left. The shift had undone itself!
“But we’re—” I started.
“—naked,” she finished.
We scrambled across the marble floor like action-movie stars dodging laser beams, racing for the bathrooms just off the lobby. I slid into the men’s room like my life depended on it, and just caught a glimpse of Amara disappearing into the adjacent ladies’ room. She was laughing and mortified all at once.
My heart pounded as I caught my breath. I peeked through the crack in the door—thankfully no one had seen us. It was a miracle. Or dumb luck. Probably both.
Then I remembered something — the receptionist desk.
I knew there was a lost-and-found bin stashed under it, a catch-all for misplaced phones, forgotten gym clothes, mystery Tupperware. I peeked again. The lobby was still empty, but I could hear footsteps approaching; high heels clacking on the floor. I caught a glimpse of my co-worker Nadia walking across the lobby, leaving for the day. Damn. The last thing I needed was for her to see me in the altogether.
Out she went through the revolving door. I counted to twenty. I looked again; the coast was clear.
I sprinted out, feeling every chilly inch of polished tile underfoot, and dove under the desk.
Jackpot.
I grabbed the plastic tub and ran it back to the men’s room, holding it like a sacred artifact. Amara cracked open her door when I passed and gave me a double thumbs-up.
Inside the bin was a variety of items. There was a crumpled but clean T-shirt, with some tech company logo. There was a pair of joggers, two sizes too small for me, but better than nothing. I had what I needed. I quickly threw on the clothes and then took a chance. I brought the bin straight into the ladies’ room.
For Amara, the assortment was more challenging. A pair of black high heels, a folded floral scarf, and a tailored blazer that clearly belonged to someone petite.
“You’ve got shoes, a top ... and a skirt,” I grinned, holding the scarf against her lower half.
“Seriously?”
“Beggars can’t be choosers. It’ll look cute on you,” I teased.
But it was a few other items that really caught our attention.
Both of our smart phones — which had travelled with us to the other world — were mysteriously in the bin. And lo and behold, so was Amara’s journal, its cover a little bent from use. I recognized it instantly. So did she.
“Oh my God,” she whispered when she caught sight of her treasured journal. “I would have expected this to be gone forever. We get to keep it.” She opened the journal and squealed when she saw more keepsakes that somehow had been slipped inside. One was the anniversary drawing she’d made for me just a few short days ago. Also there was the handwritten note she’d left at Walgreens on our second day following the shift — the one I’d seized after she stormed out of the store, crumbled up, and unceremoniously stuffed into my pocket. Miraculously, it was now un-crumbled. And on top of that, the Polaroid pictures we’d taken were there — all ten of them.
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