Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
Day 10: Reunion
It was early in the evening. It had been another long, boring day, spent fixing up the interior of the house. I was halfway through sorting batteries in the garage when I heard the knock—two short, hesitant raps. Not a sound I’d expected to hear again.
I opened the front door and there she was. Wearing the same jeans she’d left in, now streaked with dirt and torn at the knee. Her arm was wrapped in a makeshift bandage, and she was leaning slightly on her left leg like she was trying not to show pain. Amara.
“You look like hell,” was all I could manage to say.
“Nice to see you too,” she replied with a faint smirk.
We stood there for a moment. Her eyes looked past me, into the house. I could see her take in the stocked shelves through the foyer, the solar panels leaning against the dining room window, the cans stacked by label in the kitchen. She raised her eyebrows.
“You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you,” she remarked.
“What can I say. I had some time on my hands.”
A pause followed. I didn’t ask why she was here. I didn’t want to give her a reason to turn around.
“I fell,” she explained. “Slipped on some stairs at the apartment. Wasn’t bad, just ... stupid. Scared me more than anything.”
I nodded, swallowing the dozens of things I wanted to say. “Come back,” being first among them.
“Are you hungry?” was what came from my mouth instead.
“Yeah,” Amara replied quietly.
I stepped aside and let her walk in. She didn’t look at me as she passed, but her shoulder brushed mine on the way in. I wondered whether it was by accident.
I reheated some canned chili on the electric stove; it was still functional. She sat at the counter, watching. She didn’t ask how I’d gotten all of it—how I’d managed to clean, organize, settle.
“I was wrong,” she said. “About the Walgreens ... about everything.”
I stirred the pot a little too forcefully. Trying to keep my voice level, I told her, “You don’t have to say that.”
“No, I do. I still think it’s weird, taking stuff in that way. But I also didn’t want to admit that I was scared ... that you were right. We do need to focus on survival. Period.”
I turned to face her. Her arms were crossed, and her jaw was tight—but her eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them.
“I wasn’t exactly charming about it,” I acknowledged.
“Now that’s the understatement of the year.”
We both cracked the smallest of smiles.
“I think,” I said, “that I didn’t know how else to be. I thought being cold was the same as being prepared.”
“I didn’t expect you to be soft. I just wanted to know you saw the world we lost. That it mattered.”
“It did. It does. I just ... I was good at the old world. I knew the rules. This one? I have no idea what the rules are.”
“There aren’t any. We write them now.” I smiled at that statement of hers, for she understood after all. Plus, there was a strong implication in the word “we”.
“So ... what now?” I asked her, holding my breath.
She looked down at her lap for a second, then back up. “I don’t know. But if it’s okay ... I’d like to stay here. Just for a while.”
“Yes. Of course you can,” I replied, trying not to sound too relieved.
She nodded, eyes turning toward the windows, where dusk was bleeding into night. I poured the chili into two soup bowls.
She took one bowl, I took the other, and we headed outside.
We ate on the back patio, under a sky that was starting to shimmer with stars. I lit a citronella candle to provide illumination and ward off insects. It was one of those Florida evenings where the heat finally lets up, and the air feels like it’s wrapping you in something gentle instead of pressing down on you like it usually does. I didn’t say much, and neither did she. But it didn’t feel like silence was a problem.
After dinner, I rinsed the bowls in the big sink inside—still amazed that the plumbing hadn’t failed yet—as Amara wandered around the living room like she was in a museum. Not touching anything. Just looking.
She stopped in front of the bookshelf display I’d scrounged together—paperbacks from various homes and stores, a little dusty, alphabetized more out of boredom than purpose.
“So tell me ... are you always this organized?” she inquired.
“Only when there’s no one around to watch me do it.”
She pulled out a copy of Slaughterhouse Five and held it in her hands for a second before putting it back.
“I’ve missed books,” she said. “I didn’t realize it until now.”
I handed her a flashlight. She raised an eyebrow.
“The power still works, but I don’t trust it. I’ve gotten used to using these at night.”
She took it, giving a tiny nod. Then, she told me, “I’ll take the couch.”
“You can have the guest room,” I offered. “It’s clean. Sheets are fresh. Not ... weird or anything.”
“You calling me weird?” said Amara with a half-smile.
“Not yet.”
She hesitated, then gave me a quiet, grateful look. Like this—this whole interaction—was more than she could have ever expected.
“Thanks, Charlie. For letting me come back,” she said softly, sounding almost like a little girl.
I didn’t know what to say. That I’d been looking down the road every morning like some sad golden retriever? That I’d nearly driven out to look for her on two occasions, but couldn’t figure out if she’d throw a can at my head or not?
“Yeah. Anytime.” I told her instead.
Later that night, I passed by her room before heading to mine. The door was cracked open, and I could see her curled on her side, blanket up to her chin, flashlight off. Just a soft little pool of moonlight stretched across the bed. I stood there for a second longer than I should’ve. Just ... taking in the sound of another human breathing, again.
It shouldn’t have meant as much as it did. But it did, and more.
A few minutes later, there I was in my own bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning, powered by the still-functional electric grid. Outside, insects chirped, wind rustled the hedges. It all sounded a little different tonight. Less empty. Less hollow.
Here, in this strange, broken world, I wasn’t alone anymore.
Day 11: Suburban Pioneer
I woke up before the sun cleared the rooftops. Old habits die hard, I guess—even in a world where time doesn’t matter anymore. I moved quietly through the kitchen, barefoot, still in yesterday’s shirt. The air smelled faintly like canned coffee grounds and lemon-scented cleaning spray. Familiar. Almost normal.
I didn’t expect Amara to be awake yet, but when I turned toward the fridge, I saw her sitting at the table, arms folded on its surface like she’d been there for a while. Her curls were a little wild, her eyes still heavy with sleep.
“Good morning,” I told her simply.
“Barely.”
She yawned, then gave me a sleepy smile. It was the first smile I’d seen from her that didn’t feel like it came with conditions. I poured water into the French press—another one of my scavenging wins—and set it on the stovetop.
“I found some real coffee last week. Not the instant stuff. Figured it was worth saving.”
Amara appeared to perk up slightly. “Okay, you might be more useful than I thought.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Might?”
“Don’t push it.”
I started putting together breakfast—canned peaches, a couple of energy bars, and half of a baguette I’d managed to freeze and toast. I did mess up the coffee – I couldn’t figure out the French press, so I made another batch using a traditional coffee pot. She watched, still not saying much, but her eyes lingered on the little systems I’d created—utensils in neat rows, a makeshift spice rack made from old candle jars.
“You really went all out with the domestic prepper vibe,” she finally said.
“Yeah, well ... you get tired of staring at the wall after a while. Might as well make the place livable.”
She looked down at her hands, which were fiddling with the corner of a napkin.
“I didn’t really make much of a home where I was,” she said. “It never stopped feeling like a waiting room.”
“Yeah. I get that.”
I set her plate down in front of her. She looked at it like it was a five-star meal.
“You didn’t have to go full hospitality mode,” she said.
“You came back. I figured that was worth celebrating.”
She blinked, caught off guard, and paused before speaking.
“I didn’t come back for this, you know.”
“I know,” I assured her.
A long, pregnant pause ensued.
“But I’m glad it’s here,” she finally offered.
We finished breakfast with the sort of mutual understanding that didn’t require a conversation: it was time to get things done.
It was me who verbally addressed the topic. “You want the indoors or the outdoors?”
I saw Amara’s brow arch slightly. “Is this your way of giving me a choice, or are you trying to get out of cleaning the bathrooms?”
“ ... Maaaaaybe.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the ghost of a smile. “Fine. I’ll do inside today. You get to play pioneer in the wild suburban frontier.”
After we’d cleaned up, I grabbed the solar-powered walkie-talkies I’d found at the military supply store and handed her one.
“If you get bored organizing canned beans, radio me. I’ll be around.”
She clipped it to her belt with a salute. “Don’t die out there, Indiana Jones.”
I smiled broadly. Her walls were continuing to crumble. Mine too.
Outside, the neighborhood was still eerily pristine. Nature was creeping in—grass breaking through sidewalk cracks, vines climbing the fancy gated walls—but it hadn’t taken over yet. The sprinkler systems had died a few days ago, and everything was a little dry and faded. But it was quiet, and weirdly peaceful.
I hopped a fence and cut through backyards, passing over homes I’d already searched through. Some houses were already showing signs of neglect—overgrown grass, weeds taking over, pool water turning green, mailboxes still full from the last delivery. I made mental notes of houses that seemed particularly well cared for. Resources. Possibilities.
I came upon a two-story place with a full garage and a full kitchen. The pantry was well stocked — nothing expired yet. I tossed a few items into my pack—rice, olive oil, canned veggies. There was a stash of rechargeable batteries and a weather radio in a junk drawer. Another win.
As I stepped back out into the sun, the walkie-talkie crackled to life.
“Charlie?” came Amara’s voice.
I pressed the talk button. “Still breathing. You?”
“Barely. You didn’t tell me how filthy this place was. Pretty sure I just killed a spider with a toothpick.”
“That sounds like a personal growth moment.”
“Oh, I’ve grown. Grown to hate you, specifically.” But the slightest tinge of soft humor in that remark informed me that it was just Amara being Amara.
I smiled, walking back down the driveway toward the sidewalk. “Want to take a break soon?” I suggested. “There’s a park a couple blocks over. I passed it earlier. You can bring a couple of cold drinks if you like.”
“Park, huh? Are we having a playdate now?”
“Only if you promise not to push me off the swings.”
Amara paused before replying. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds ... nice.”
I gave her directions. A short while later, we met at the park entrance. She had her sleeves rolled up, a little smudge of dirt on her cheek. I handed her a lukewarm bottle of sparkling water like it was a peace offering.
We sat on the swings for a while, sipping slowly. Kids’ toys were still scattered in the grass. A soccer ball lay there, half-deflated. A plastic slide, faded to pale blue, seemed to cry out from disuse. The world was still broken. Still quiet. But it didn’t feel so heavy, sitting beside her.
“You ever think about what’s going to happen to all of this?” said Amara.
“All the houses? Or the swing set?”
“All of it. The world. Us.”
I looked up at the sky, where clouds moved without anyone to notice.
“Honestly? Not as much as I did just a few days ago. Lately, I’ve just been thinking about today. About now.”
She nodded, slowly. Then, she gave a little push with her foot, the chain creaking as she gently rocked.
“Okay. Today’s good.”
Day 13: Off the Grid
It felt good to have another pair of hands in the dirt.
We were quiet for the most part, heads down, clearing more space in the backyard to expand the little garden plot we’d started. The silence wasn’t awkward exactly—more like a careful truce. Still guarded, still navigating the edges. But she was here again. And that mattered more than either of us was saying.
Amara wore one of my old T-shirts knotted at the side, her jeans streaked with soil, hair tied up in a lopsided bun that kept slipping loose. I stole glances while pretending to focus on raking mulch. She caught me once, smirked, didn’t say a word.
We’d laid out rows for beans, squash, carrots—most of it guesswork, cross-referenced with a book from the library and a seed packet that had a cartoon rabbit on the front. I was just finishing a line of small mounds when Amara looked up from where she was wrestling with the overgrown tomato vines near the fence.
“You know,” she said, brushing sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, “Home Depot sometimes carries fruit trees. The garden center, back near the pallets of mulch. We could haul back a lemon tree. Maybe something more exotic.”
I leaned on my shovel and grinned. “Is this your way of admitting that I’m rubbing off on you?”
“No. It’s my way of saying I’m smarter than you and full of good ideas.”
She had a point. “You got me,” I said, nodding. “Credit where it’s due. That’s a legitimately great idea.”
We didn’t check the time again until our stomachs reminded us we hadn’t eaten since morning. The sun had shifted, hanging lower, casting long shadows across the grass. We raided the pantry and ended up eating out of cans again—canned beans, canned corn, canned ... well, peaches.
“I swear,” Amara said around a spoonful, “I will die with canned peaches in my system. That’s all I ate while I was ... away.”
“That’s the name of your autobiography,” I replied. “A Life in Syrup.”
She choked on a laugh. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll write it.”
We sat at the little outdoor table on the patio, paper plates balanced on our laps, breeze stirring the damp edges of our shirts. After lunch, we brewed some coffee, savoring the ritual more than the taste. It had gone slightly stale, but neither of us cared. We drank slowly, like the moment was more important than anything else we could be doing. Neither of us said much for a while. But our knees brushed once, and neither of us pulled away.
It wasn’t everything. But it was a start.
We could hear birds chirping in the thick silence that only a world without humans could create. Somewhere down the block, a windchime clinked softly. Then came the click.
The fridge hummed to a stop.
I looked up. “That was...”
“Yeah,” she said, looking toward the kitchen window. “That was it.”
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