Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 4
Day 31: Tennis, anyone?
We were sitting on the back patio, taking a break from what felt like hours of hauling around salvaged garden tools and digging new rows in the neighbor’s yard – the other next-door neighbor. We wanted to turn that yard into a garden as well. It was hot. The kind of muggy heat that makes you question every life choice that led you to a South Florida backyard in the middle of the apocalypse.
Amara tilted back in her chair, a glass of lukewarm water in hand, and asked, “So, were you ever into sports, Charlie? Before ... you know. The world turned into an empty stadium?”
I shrugged. “A little. I was never the team-sport type. Not a lot of football in my DNA.”
“No?” she grinned, eyebrow cocked. “You’ve got tall, broody wide receiver energy.”
I laughed. “Nah. I played tennis.”
She blinked, then gave a slow nod like she was calculating how many degrees of white-collar cliché I had just added to my profile.
I smirked. “Go ahead. Say it. ‘Tennis is for country club kids.’”
She surprised me. “Actually ... I’ve played. Not regularly, but I had a friend—she was really into it. Dragged me out onto the court more than a few times.”
I stared. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I wasn’t great, but I could hold my own. Kinda fun once I stopped overthinking everything.”
Something lit up in my brain like a floodlight. “We should play. Right now.”
Amara blinked at me. “What?”
“I’m serious. There’s a public court not far from here. I saw it one day when I was out scavenging. We’ve got bikes. There’s a Dick’s Sporting Goods a few blocks off our route—we can swing by, grab some gear...”
She gave me that squinty look she always did when she wasn’t sure if I was being serious or just bored enough to do something stupid. “You want to drop everything and go play tennis right now.”
“Exactly.”
She paused – and then grinned. “Hell yeah, let’s go.”
We scavenged two surprisingly high-end rackets from the sporting goods store—Amara found a bright purple one she liked, and I found one that felt decently balanced in my hand. The tennis balls were plentiful, though many of the containers had already popped their seals. We even found a pair of tennis outfits—hers was an old-school white tank and pleated skirt combo, mine was a polo that didn’t make me look entirely like someone’s dad. We got changed in the changing rooms, and thusly fitted, we were on our way. I kept it to myself, but I had to admit—she looked damn adorable in that tennis outfit.
The bikes wobbled under the added weight of our finds, but it felt like an adventure. A ridiculous, post-civilization sports date. Only it wasn’t a date. Probably.
When we finally reached the courts, the chain-link gate creaked open like it hadn’t been touched in months. The surface was a little dusty, some leaves scattered here and there, but otherwise perfect. There were a few cracks around the edges of the surface, with weeds poking through, but we could live with that. The net was in perfect shape.
Amara bounced a ball, tested the grip of her racket. “Alright, Federer. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“I’ll go easy on you,” I said, with a playful smile.
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t go easy. If I lose, I want to lose knowing you actually tried.”
I gave her a small nod. “Fair enough.”
She served first. It was a little wild—missed the box by a solid two feet—but she laughed it off and tried again. The second one made it in, and I returned it gently. Too gently, apparently.
“Are you toying with me?” she called across the net.
“Yes,” I called back. “But with love.”
She snorted and hit the next ball harder. It clipped the net, bounced awkwardly, and she made a face like a toddler who just dropped their ice cream cone.
“You sure you don’t want me to ease off?”
“I want you to sweat, Charlie.”
So, I did. I cranked up the pace a little. Just enough to give her a challenge, but not enough to showboat. To my surprise, she was quick on her feet. Her form was rough, but she had instinct—and determination in spades.
We volleyed back and forth, laughing, groaning, chasing balls that flew too wide. She was competitive, but surprisingly gracious. When I returned a drop shot of hers with a backhand cross-court shot that kissed the line, she ran up and offered a high-five. The sun was starting to dip when we finally called an end to the match. We’d stopped keeping score, but neither one of us cared. Both of us were panting, a satisfied kind of exhaustion, sitting on the edge of the court with our legs stretched out.
Amara wiped her brow with her wrist. “Okay ... that was fun. But you’re evil.”
“I gave you what you asked for.”
She tilted her head toward me. “Next time, I’m beating you.”
I smiled. “I look forward to it.”
We sat there for a moment, before heading off on our bikes to beat the approaching dark of night. We could hear the flocks of birds clamoring in the trees around us as they too prepared for nightfall. Except for us and the birds, the world was empty—but for that hour, it felt full. And maybe that was enough. For a brief period, we almost got to experience the world as it was.
Back home, we stored our bikes in the garage, to protect them from weather. Not to keep them from thieves; it was not necessary in this world. The house was quiet except for the hum of a small fan we’d salvaged from a nearby home, plugged into our solar-charged battery. The sun had long since set, and the leftover glow outside was rapidly dissipating, viewed through the wide sliding glass doors that opened to the backyard. I sat on the couch, a cold can of ginger ale sweating in my hand, and a damp towel draped over the back of my neck. Earlier, we’d tossed a couple of beverages into the solar-powered fridge in anticipation of needing them later. More and more, solar power was becoming our salvation; it allowed us – every so often – to savor pleasures from the world we’d lost. Pleasures like a cold drink, or the cool breeze from a fan on a hot Florida summer night.
From the kitchen, I heard Amara groan. “Okay, you were not lying about how much tennis works your legs.”
She hobbled into the living room, holding her own towel like a security blanket. “I feel like I did fifty squats and then got hit by a truck.”
“You’re just mad because you lost.”
She narrowed her eyes. “No, I’m mad because I almost won that last set, while we were still keeping score, and you did that thing—what’s it called—where you suddenly remember how to be a human cannon.”
“It’s called ‘having a decent backhand.’” I grinned.
She dropped onto the other end of the couch with a dramatic thud. “You sandbagged me.”
“I sandbagged you with affection and the appropriate level of sportsmanship.”
She took a swig from her own drink—lime-flavored sparkling water, if memory serves. Her nose wrinkled after the sip, like it was too fizzy. “Next time I’m bringing a whistle and penalties for smugness.”
I leaned back, letting out a low chuckle. “Fair warning: I’ve been penalized for smugness before. It only makes me stronger.”
She nudged my leg with her bare foot. “God, you’re lucky I like you.”
It was one of those offhand things people say, but something about it stuck in the air for a moment too long. Neither of us spoke right away. We just sat there, surrounded by the strange comfort of a house without conventional electricity, in a world without anyone else, sipping fizzy drinks and nursing sore calves.
Then, mercifully, Amara broke the silence with a smirk. “Okay, real talk though—you didn’t seriously think I was going to make fun of you for playing tennis, did you?”
I shrugged, half-grinning. “You’ve made fun of me for way less.”
She pointed at me with her can. “Only when you deserve it.”
“I just figured you’d call it a ‘rich boy’ sport or something.”
Amara tilted her head. “Yeah ... maybe before all this. But now? You like tennis. I like tennis. Who cares? Class warfare kind of lost its edge when the rest of the world disappeared.”
“I dunno,” I said, raising my can. “You’ve still got that revolutionary fire in you.”
She raised hers in return. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
We clinked the cans together, the tiniest, most satisfying sound in the quiet.
After a minute, Amara shifted and let her head rest against the cushion. “Today was a good day,” she said softly.
“Yeah,” I said. “It really was.” It seemed as though we’d actually had a few of those lately.
Outside, the wind rustled through the palm trees. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.
And for a moment, sitting there with her, surrounded by silence and the still of the night, I forgot the world had ended at all.
Day 39: Hair Care
Several more days passed. The Geiger counter continued to not pick up anything. We finished the second backyard garden. We did a little more scavenging, although to be honest, we were quite well stocked for now. We knew that the time would come when certain things that were plentiful right now would reach the end of their useful lives: gasoline, bottled drinking water, canned food. But we had plans in place to prepare for that.
It was early evening, and the sun was approaching the horizon. I was walking through a small strip mall, finishing up yet another solo scavenging operation. I knew it would be dark before too long, and I needed to get back home soon. Amara would start to worry. But something persuaded me to make one more stop.
The sign above the door read Crowned & Co. in soft gold script. Nestled between a check-cashing place and a bakery, it was one of those shops I’d probably passed a hundred times in the old world without ever noticing.
I almost kept walking. But then I remembered the night before—Amara, dragging her fingers through her hair with an exhausted sigh. “I swear, it’s turning into a whole ecosystem up there,” she had complained. “If I disappear in the night, it’s because my curls dragged me off into the swamp.”
I wanted to do something about that. Something helpful. Something ... nice.
The door was jammed, so I shoulder-checked it open. A bell above it jingled like I’d just walked into an old-school candy shop. Only this shop smelled like coconut oil and shea butter, and every shelf looked like a test I hadn’t studied for.
Hair butters, edge control, twist creams, hot combs, paddle brushes, silk bonnets, detangling sprays, oils—for growth, for sheen, for moisture (which seemed to be the holy grail based on the sheer number of labels that screamed about it). There were wigs on mannequin heads, each of them staring at me like I didn’t belong here.
Which ... yep.
I picked up a bright yellow jar labeled “Curls Unleashed” and turned it over. The ingredients read like a smoothie menu. What the hell was mango butter?
I grabbed it anyway.
Next: a bonnet. There were like twelve types. One looked like a shiny puffball, another like a medieval knight’s coif. I stared at them like they were explosive devices until I found one in deep purple that said “XL for volume & style.” That felt ... promising?
I tossed in a wide-tooth comb, a silk pillowcase, and a little battery-powered trimmer that looked like it belonged in a barber’s kit. It was probably more than she needed. But hell, it wasn’t like we had receipts to worry about.
I thought to myself... here goes nothing.
She was sitting on the porch when I got back, her legs tucked under her, reading a paperback copy of Beloved she’d salvaged from someone’s living room. The wind played with her curls, which were definitely starting to claim their own weather system.
She looked up when she heard me. “Welcome back, you intrepid explorer. Get anything good?”
“Define good.”
I dropped my duffel at her feet and started pulling out my haul like a magician doing a trick. First the bonnet, then the twist cream, the comb, the pillowcase, the trimmer.
Amara blinked in disbelief. “Wait ... is this—? Charlie, did you raid a beauty supply store?”
“I mean ... raid is such a strong word. Let’s say I liberated it. For the cause.”
She started cracking up. “What cause?”
“The ongoing battle of your hair versus the elements. I figured you’d want to fight with the right weapons.”
She picked up the jar of curl cream and turned it in her hands. Her voice went instantly quieter.
“You really went out of your way for this.”
“Well, I’ve been listening. You know ... even when you think I’m not.”
She looked at me then—really looked—and for a second I felt like I was standing too close to the sun.
“You picked out Curls Unleashed? That’s like ... actually a good one. Not just some random thing.”
“I judged by color. It was bright and confident. Kind of reminded me of you.”
She snorted. “Flattery via hair products. That’s a new one.”
“I’m versatile.”
She leaned back, still smiling, a little unsure what to do next. Like part of her wanted to tease me more, and part of her was trying not to melt.
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