Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 2
Day 3: The Library
I’d crashed out on the bed in an upstairs bedroom. Before hitting the sack, I got out my laptop. I plugged in the memory stick, downloaded my Excel spreadsheet onto the hard drive, and brought it up. I checked off the items I’d already procured and made a few additions.
I actually slept better that night than I had since “the shift” had occurred.
And now it was morning. I trudged downstairs, modifying my game plan in my mind. If I had intentions of surviving, I need to act right away. When I thought about all that needed to be done, it was overwhelming.
One step at a time, I told myself.
I looked out one of the front windows, wondering if I’d see Amara walking up, asking me to stay there after all. I shook my head, chasing that thought from my mind.
The house had three bedrooms and one full bathroom upstairs. Downstairs, there was a living room with a sofa and a comfy recliner. There was a dining room, and a TV room with nearly one entire wall converted into a bookshelf area. There was a large collection of books, but more than half of the available shelf area was unused. Still, the occupants of this house must have been voracious readers.
Adjacent to the dining room was a spacious kitchen. Of course, the kitchen had a stove, oven, refrigerator, freezer, and microwave, all of which were currently operational. I knew that wouldn’t last, and I’d have to improvise with food preparation and storage.
There was a sliding glass door that led from the kitchen to a spacious patio with a table and deck chairs. I took a good long while to inspect the garden out back. There were tomatoes, peppers, onions, lettuce, green beans, carrots and zucchini. There were also herbs such as basil, oregano and rosemary. Options, I thought. I couldn’t live on what this garden produced, but there were ways to supplement it. It was a good start. And in the short term, I could continue to raid supermarkets.
I wanted to expand the garden if possible. For that, I looked at the adjacent properties on either side. I decided to make the three properties “mine”. Why not? No one was around to object. Unless Amara wanted to come and fight me for them.
There was also a garage with no cars inside. Apparently, the occupants of this residence had not been at home when the shift occurred. The garage contained a variety of tools, neatly arranged on hooks on the wall. There was also a small work bench, with drawers that contained a variety of hardware. There was also an extra-large ice cooler. There was a long, narrow piece of clear plastic tubing—something I’d been on the lookout for. I was now able to siphon gasoline, thought I still hoped to get my hands on a siphon pump of some kind.
I drove the Odyssey into the garage. It would be my main car for now. However, I wanted access to a variety of vehicles. The neighborhood was full of them, and as of now, they were all available for my use if I could get them started. I wanted both electric and gasoline-powered. I knew that gasoline degraded after about six months. And of course, electric vehicles needed charged batteries to run. Also, oil and tires degraded over time. I’d have to figure out ways around those problems. I saw a Mercedes across the street. I vowed to claim it for my own—I knew that diesel stayed good for longer than gasoline.
I wondered what Amara would think if she saw me hungrily eyeing cars like they were fresh fruit, ripe for the picking.
However, with it being Florida after all, something arrived on the scene to temporarily bring a halt to my outdoor resource gathering activities. Rain. Lots of it. It came down in sheets for the better part of two hours. In the meantime, I remained inside impatiently—arranging the books alphabetically on the shelves, by author’s last name. Hey, if I didn’t find things to do, I’d go crazy.
Finally, the rain stopped, and it was time to get out and about once more. I jumped into the Odyssey. I didn’t know the area at all, and right now, the only means I had for learning about it was to drive around and explore. It was late afternoon by now, and I knew that I’d better get moving if I wanted to be back at the house by nightfall.
About a mile down the road, I saw a sign for a library. Perfect! I parked the car and went inside. The smell hit me first—musty, damp, and spread around by air conditioning that was still going strong and probably would remain on until the power went out. This branch library was eerily untouched. Rows of shelves stood like silent sentinels, still alphabetized, still organized, like they were waiting for the kids to return from summer break.
I wandered until I found the survival section. I took a few titles—well, more than a few, actually. Then I grabbed a couple of gardening books, for good measure. Those would come in handy. After that, I seized a whole bunch of other books for general reading material. More stuff to alphabetize if I got bored. I found a local road map—man, did I ever need one of those!
But I also took a romance novel—several of them in fact. And one of those big glossy cookbooks with pictures of elaborate meals no one would ever cook again. Why? Well, if Amara came back ... naah. Wasn’t happening.
I threw everything into the car. Darkness was falling as I headed back home. Pulling onto the street where I now lived, something caught my eye. Parked in the driveway of a house down the street was a police cruiser. A police officer’s residence! I was willing to bet that house was chock-full of useful items.
I now knew where I’d be heading first thing in the morning.
Day 4: The Police Officer’s House
In the a.m., the cruiser was still there—not that I’d expected it to drive off by itself. Upon closer inspection, it was half-tucked into the driveway of that stucco single-story halfway down the block. The driver’s door was cracked open. No signs of movement since.
Mid-morning light slanted across the pavement as I crossed the street, quiet but not exactly stealthy. Nobody left to be stealthy for.
The cruiser looked just like any other: black and white, with the Coral Springs Police Department emblem flaking slightly near the rear quarter panel. My pulse quickened as I stepped up to the open door.
Driver’s seat empty. No blood. No gear bag. But the trunk...
I found the release under the dash and heard the satisfying thunk as the trunk popped open. Jackpot.
Emergency medical kit—sealed. I cracked it open just long enough to glimpse field dressings, bandages, tourniquets, burn gel, gloves, a trauma shears set. This thing could save a life. I took it. Also, there were road flares, a neon reflective vest, a collapsible traffic cone for some reason. I took those, too.
Then I spotted something tucked into a compartment near the spare tire: a box of nitrile gloves, a compact fire extinguisher, and a small lockbox. I pried it open with a tire iron and found a spare sidearm—standard issue Glock—plus two loaded mags wrapped in a soft cloth.
Inside the house was less orderly.
The door was unlocked, swinging a little. Not ominous. Just... sad.
I called out once, just to be sure.
“Hello?”
Nothing.
The living room was a time capsule: throw pillows fluffed, a TV remote resting neatly on the armrest of a recliner. Whoever lived here had probably been on duty when it happened and never came home.
The den was more revealing. Badges in a shadow box on the wall. A framed certificate of commendation. Family photos on the mantle—a guy in uniform with two young kids. I felt like a trespasser, even now. Maybe especially now.
I moved through the house with purpose. The bedroom closet had a gun safe, half-open. Inside were a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun and a .38 revolver, both clean. Two boxes of shells and another of .38 rounds sat on the shelf above a stack of board games.
Kitchen drawers gave up multitools, a headlamp, spare batteries, and—bless them—a fully stocked junk drawer with duct tape, zip ties, and matches. The garage yielded a heavy-duty flashlight, a telescoping baton, and an older police scanner with a handwritten list of local frequencies rubber-banded to it.
In the study, I found a corkboard map of Coral Springs and surrounding neighborhoods, marked with Post-its and pushpins. A stack of laminated area maps sat nearby, along with what looked like a hand-drawn evacuation plan. I grabbed them all.
I made three trips to haul everything back down the street, using a plastic bin from their garage as a makeshift crate. By the last trip, I was sweating through my shirt, paranoid every time a breeze rustled the trees.
Back inside my temporary sanctuary, the house had gone from echoingly empty to feeling borderline crowded with gear. My makeshift command center—formerly the dining room table—was now covered in firearms I hadn’t dared load yet, a medical kit I didn’t quite know how to use, and the police scanner, which sat dead center like it was in charge.
I stared at it for a while, then finally gave in and turned it on.
A crackle of static greeted me. I twisted the dial slowly, hunting for something—anything—that wasn’t just white noise or dead air.
“Coral Springs ... channel two ... dispatch...” As if I was a real police officer.
Nothing.
“Broward County tactical...”
Nothing.
I flipped through each frequency listed on the rubber-banded notepad I’d found with the scanner. One after the other: silence, static, the occasional high-pitched whine like a dial-up modem in a haunted house.
I tried adjusting the squelch. Then the antenna angle. Still nothing.
For a second, I actually wondered if everyone really was gone. Like, everyone. But then I thought: no, not everyone. Amara’s out there. And I’m still here. So maybe there’s someone else, too.
Maybe they’re just ... quiet. Or dead.
The silence weighed on me, heavy as a wet blanket. I leaned back in the chair, fingers laced behind my head, watching the scanner glow soft orange in the dim room. It felt like waiting for a ghost to speak.
I thought about the cop who used to live in that house. About the photos of his kids. I wondered if he’d been at the station when it happened, or maybe out patrolling. I wondered what he would’ve done if he were still here. Probably a lot less sitting around.
I tuned through the channels one more time before giving up. Still no voices. Still no hope of outside contact.
But I didn’t turn it off. I left it on, humming low and steady, just in case something slipped through while I slept. In case the world decided to speak again.
I went to the kitchen, opened a can of beans with my new multitool, and ate them straight with a spoon, standing by the window. A streetlamp down the block flickered once, then blinked out for good. The sky was darkening, but I could still make out the cruiser in the driveway of the house I’d looted earlier.
For some reason, I whispered into the quiet room, “Thanks, man.”
I didn’t know if the cop’s name was Frank or Steve or Jorge. But I felt like I owed him. Him, and whoever stocked that scanner with hope.
Back in the living room, the scanner crackled once—just static. But for a second, my heart jumped.
I left the thing running all night.
Day 5: Road Trip
The map said West Palm Beach was about forty-five minutes away, and under normal circumstances, that would’ve meant an hour of traffic and rubbernecking. But there was no traffic now—just open roads and the occasional car frozen in time mid-errand.
I’d found the mention of the military supply store in a local business directory I pulled from the library—yellowed pages, half of it ads for locksmiths and shutter installers. But the name Coastal Tactical Outfitters stood out, and the listing had an address.
I figured if it even half-delivered, it’d be worth the gas.
I loaded the minivan with some basic supplies—water, snacks, a flashlight, the handgun from the cop’s house, just in case—and headed north. The roads weren’t bad. Some intersections were blocked by abandoned vehicles, but I had room to weave through. A couple of times I got out to move a trash can or piece of fencing out of the way. Mostly, though, it was just me and the pavement.
It started to feel a little like a road trip. Only, without gas stations. Or radio. Or people.
When I pulled into the parking lot, I sat there for a second, looking at the building. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry. Just a low, squat, windowless fortress of a store that looked like it’d sell survival knives and conspiracy theories in equal measure.
I pushed the door open. It was unlocked.
And ... it appeared that I’d hit the mother lode.
Rows of shelving stacked with gear. Camo everything. Tactical boots, field radios, flashlights, solar chargers. Shelves of MREs in tan plastic. Boxes of water purification tablets. Vacuum-sealed pouches of food—jerky, rice, pasta, freeze-dried fruits. I filled three carts before I started getting picky. On the back wall, I even found two Geiger counters. Hallelujah. One digital, one analog. I took both.
Then, without meaning to, I imagined Amara’s voice in my head: “You seriously think you’re gonna radiation-scan your way out of this mess?”
On some level, I missed that voice, even when it was giving me hell. At least it was coming from another human being.
By the time I got everything loaded into the back of the van, the sky had gone that strange Florida gray. Rain fell fast and warm, drumming on the roof like fingers tapping out Morse code. I sat in the front seat and listened to it for a while, just appreciating the fact that I still had a windshield to keep it out.
I needed gas before I could head back.
Behind the building, I found an old work truck with a full tank. I pulled the plastic tubing from the minivan’s side compartment—the garage find—and started siphoning. The taste was awful, but I knew I’d have to get used to it. Foul chemistry needed to be part of my skill set.
The rain had stopped by the time I turned onto the home stretch. The wet road shimmered in the low sun, and everything smelled clean and sharp. For a second, I forgot I was the last man alive.
Back at the house, I made four trips to haul everything inside. The living room was starting to look like a FEMA staging area. I sat down cross-legged on the floor, sorting everything into piles: food, gear, tools, meds.
I opened the spiral notebook I’d been using as a running inventory and started listing everything I’d brought back. Then I added a new section: What we still need. Right away, I noticed that I’d written the word “we”. I didn’t bother to change it. The list read as follows:
-Long-term power solution (solar? generator fuel?)
-More meds—antibiotics especially
-Fishing gear, maybe nets
-More feminine hygiene stuff
-Manual tools—axe, hand drill, wire cutters
-Weather radio (if I can find one)
-Seeds for the garden
And beneath all that, I scribbled:
Amara.
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