Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 6
Day 87: The Last Ones
The fire crackled low, a gentle soundtrack to the easy flow of our conversation. We’d finished dinner a while ago—something simple with garden vegetables and a few of the fish we’d frozen—and now we were sitting side by side, legs stretched toward the fire pit, the last light bleeding out of the sky.
The air smelled like woodsmoke and salt. A breeze came in off the coast, soft and cool against my arms. Amara pulled her knees up to her chest, her sweatshirt sleeves covering her hands, and laughed at something I said—I couldn’t even remember what it was. Probably something dumb. But it made her smile, that full one that lit up her face and made my stomach do something it hadn’t done in years.
I’d been trying not to think about yesterday. The way her hand brushed mine. The look we’d exchanged. That moment that felt like standing at the edge of something big and a little terrifying.
But now ... now the fire was dancing in her eyes, and she was sitting close, and the quiet between our words was stretching just a little longer than it used to.
I didn’t decide. Not really.
I just turned toward her, lifted my hand, and gently touched her face—fingertips grazing the curve of her cheekbone, just below her eye. Her skin was warm. Softer than I’d imagined.
She stilled. Our eyes locked.
And this time, she didn’t look away.
There was something in her expression—an openness, a kind of quiet, unspoken yes—that made the rest of the world fall away.
So, I leaned in and kissed her.
It wasn’t a long kiss. It didn’t need to be. But it said everything.
When we pulled apart, I kept my hand where it was, thumb lightly brushing her cheek. She was watching me, something unreadable in her eyes, but her smile—quiet, sure—gave me courage.
“I’m in love with you,” I said, voice low, barely above the sound of the fire.
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
Instead, she reached up and covered my hand with hers.
“I know,” she said softly. “I think I’ve known for a while.”
And that was enough.
We sat there for a long time, letting the silence say the rest.
The fire had burned low by the time either of us spoke again. Now, we were lying on our backs, side by side, snuggled together, the stars overhead sparkling silently. It had been mere minutes since we kissed for the first time. Minutes, and it already lived on my lips like something permanent.
Amara’s hand was in mine. That was new. Not just the holding—it was the way we did it without thinking. Natural. Like breathing.
She broke the silence.
“You ever think about the endgame in all this? For us?”
I turned my head toward her. The firelight traced her cheekbones, warm and flickering. She wasn’t looking at me—just up at the sky, like she was asking the stars instead.
“All the time,” I replied honestly.
“I mean ... when one of us dies. What happens to the other?”
That hit harder than I expected. I sat up a little, watching her now, the mood shifting—tender but heavier, more real.
“You’re not dying anytime soon.”
She managed a small smile. “That’s not a plan. That’s a hope.”
I took a slow breath.
“I think about it more than I want to admit,” I said. “Like ... if something happened to you, if I lost you—what the hell would I even do?”
“You’d keep going.”
“Would I?”
She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sat up too, pulling the blanket over her shoulders.
“I’ve had nightmares about it. Being left. Having to go back to the silence, the empty streets ... but now with grief on top of it. I don’t know if I’d survive that.”
I reached over, tucked a loose curl behind her ear. My fingers lingered there, just for a second.
“You’re not alone anymore. And you won’t be. Not as long as I’m breathing.”
She nodded, but her expression was still distant. Contemplative.
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she said, rather abruptly.
I tensed a little; a reflex action. The way she said it made my chest feel tight. But I let her continue.
“When we were scavenging pharmacies a while back ... I took a few months’ worth of birth control. Pills. I hid them away.”
I blinked, surprised—but only for a second. It made sense. It made perfect sense.
“Of course you did.”
Her shoulders sagged a little with relief. Maybe she’d expected me to be upset. I remained quiet, affording her the opportunity to keep talking. I sensed that she wanted to.
“I just ... we didn’t know what this was going to be. We still don’t. I couldn’t bring a child into this. Into a world where maybe one of us dies, and the other is all that’s left.”
“You don’t have to explain it. I get it. A hundred percent.”
“I feel like it’s the right call. For now.”
I looked at her then—really took her in. Not just the woman in front of me, but the strength, the compassion, the sheer impossible beauty of her. I felt like I was standing in the presence of the last miracle on Earth.
“It might mean we’re the last.”
She nodded slowly.
“Yeah. Maybe we are.” The fire crackled softly beside us.
“If that’s the case,” I said, “I can’t think of a better way for the world to end. With you. With us.”
Her eyes glistened just slightly in the firelight. I’d never seen her cry up to this point, but I sensed she was close.
“We can always leave the door open,” she said, pulling herself together. “Who knows. Maybe one day we’ll wake up and the world will feel different. Safer. Maybe we’ll change our minds.”
“Maybe.”
“But no matter what happens, Charlie—I want this. I want you. In every version of the world.”
I reached out and took her face gently in my hands, pressing my forehead to hers.
“I’m yours,” I assured her. “Even if we’re the last. Especially if we’re the last.”
She smiled through the emotion, and we stayed like that for a few minutes—forehead to forehead, heart to heart—quiet, unbreakable. Then, our lips met again, this time with more intention. Our pent-up passion intensified, and we made love there on a blanket, in the backyard of the house we’d claimed as our own. Like Adam and Eve, in a post-apocalyptic Garden of Eden.
In that moment, the world didn’t feel like it was ending.
It felt like it had just begun.
Day 92: Vacation
We decided, on the spur of the moment, that we deserved a real vacation. So, we made it happen.
We treated it like a real getaway—like we were just two people in love, escaping work and chaos for a couple of lazy days on the coast. Not two survivors in a world emptied of everyone else.
We threw some food and water into the minivan, filled the cooler with ice packs and drinks, packed a beach blanket, the umbrella, sunscreen (more for me than Amara), and all the little comforts we could think of. Then we hit the road early, rolling down the windows and pretending the world hadn’t ended.
The beach house was still as we’d left it—musty and silent, but sturdy. No power, no running water, but the propane grill still worked, and we’d brought enough to make it comfortable. We dropped our stuff inside, did a quick check for anything that might’ve crept in during the time away, then got ready for the beach.
Amara stepped out from the tiny guest room with her towel over one shoulder and a smug little smile tugging at her lips. My eyes dropped and locked onto the bikini—bright blue, a bit retro, clearly scavenged from a high-end boutique or someone’s very lucky closet. I didn’t say anything at first because, frankly, my brain short-circuited.
“Found it last week,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just detonated something behind my ribs. “Figured today was the day.”
“It was definitely the day,” I said. “There’s never not a day for that.” She laughed, brushing past me with a confidence that knocked me sideways.
We made our way down through the open, ghostly lobby of a multistory condo building—once exclusive, now hollow. The glass doors to the beach were unlocked, just like everything else in this world. We stepped out onto soft, white sand that stretched wide and empty beneath a cloudless sky.
We staked the umbrella, spread out the blanket, cracked open cold drinks from the cooler. She lay on her stomach reading a sun-warped paperback, and I dozed beside her, listening to the rhythmic hush of waves. For a while, it felt almost like the old world was still out there, just behind the horizon.
By late afternoon, we’d wandered back for our fishing gear and walked down to the pier, working together in quiet harmony. We caught just enough to call it dinner. No pressure, no panic. Just satisfaction.
Back at the beach house, we built a fire pit in the backyard—more crude than clever—and got it burning. We lit four tiki torches Amara had found and set up citronella candles to keep the mosquitoes at bay. The soft golden light flickered against the house, against her skin, as we grilled the fish over the fire. We ate cross-legged on a blanket, our shoulders brushing occasionally, smiles lazy and unforced.
Afterward, we just ... snuggled. Watching the embers crackle. Enjoying the closeness. Talking about nothing important. The kind of conversation you have when you know there’s no clock ticking over your head.
Eventually, we doused the torches and the fire, letting the silence and darkness fold around us. She took my hand as we climbed the stairs inside, a flashlight providing illumination.
Before, we’d left a couple of sleeping bags in the house. Now, however, things had changed. We slipped under the covers on the clean queen-size bed upstairs. She spooned into me, and I wrapped her up in my arms. And we spent the night together. Not out of desperation, or loneliness, or fear.
But because it finally felt like love had carved out a quiet, solid space to live in—even here.
Day 93: Writing It Down
The second day at the beach had that timeless, syrupy quality—like time had melted a little in the heat and sea breeze. We spread out the blanket again beneath the umbrella, same spot as yesterday, drinks cold in the cooler, the air warm but not unbearable. The tide rolled in and out like it had all the time in the world.
Amara brought out a notebook she’d found somewhere—hardcover, the kind you’d see on the endcap of a fancy bookstore, probably meant for gratitude journaling, or maybe just bad poetry. She flipped it open and started writing while I lay beside her, tracing idle patterns in the sand.
“What are you working on?” I asked after a while, more curious than nosy.
“Chronicle of the end of the world,” she said, only half joking. “Just feels like ... I don’t know. Someone should be keeping track of this. Even if it’s only ever us who read it.”
I watched her for a moment, the way she frowned slightly when she concentrated, how her pencil tapped against her chin between thoughts. “Well, if it ever makes it to print, I’d like to be listed in the acknowledgments.”
She smiled without looking up. “You’re chapter one.”
We fished again that afternoon, just a quick run out to the pier to snag enough for dinner. We were getting better at it—not just the fishing, but the rhythm of things. Everything felt smoother, more like life than survival.
On the way back, cutting through a quiet stretch by the water, we spotted something new.
“Is that—?” I started.
“Yep,” Amara said, already veering off the path. A fishing boat, maybe twenty-five feet long, bobbing gently in the canal, tied to a weather-worn dock. It didn’t look looted or broken, just ... waiting.
We climbed aboard, half expecting an alarm or some ghost to shoo us off. Nothing. Just creaking fiberglass and the faint smell of fuel. The interior was tidy. There were even rods still clipped in place.
“I have no idea how to drive this thing,” I admitted, running my fingers over the throttle like it might whisper instructions.
“Me neither,” Amara said, kneeling beside the instrument panel. “But I bet we could figure it out. We’ve got the library.”
It wasn’t even about where we could go. Just the idea of it—of floating out past the breakers, lying on the deck with the sun overhead, maybe catching something big. It planted a seed of excitement that would be hard to shake.
Back at the house, the evening played out like déjà vu—in the best way. Firepit crackling, tiki torches dancing, the air soft and thick with salt and citronella. We cooked our fish and ate close together, her head eventually finding its way to my shoulder as the darkness of the night deepened.
It felt like something worth writing down. I hoped she would.
Day 94: Land Barons
We headed out early, the minivan rattling a little more than usual as we bumped our way inland from the beach. I already missed the sound of the waves. It had only been a couple of days, but that place had a strange gravity to it—lazy mornings, salty air, no clocks ticking. Still, it felt good to be driving home.
Amara had her feet propped on the dash, a half-eaten mango in her lap, hair still damp from her quick rinse with a jug before we left. “So,” she said, licking juice from her thumb, “if we do get that boat running...”
“When,” I corrected with a grin.
“Fine—when we get the boat running,” she continued, “I assume you will be in charge of engine maintenance?”
I laughed. “Absolutely not. I’ll learn to steer, you can be the mechanic.”
“Excuse me, I’ve seen you fix a garden hose with duct tape. You’ve got the touch.”
“Which exploded the second I turned the water on,” I said, shooting her a look. “If that boat has an engine, it’s probably carbureted. Or diesel. Or—I don’t know. Boats are a whole thing of their own.”
She shrugged, smiling. “We’ve got time. And books.”
There was a pause, a shared moment of thought, and then I said, “You know, I think we might be building a post-apocalyptic real estate empire.”
That got a laugh out of her. “It’s true. We’re up to six properties now. Coral Springs alone—we’ve got our house, the orchard house, the garden house, the prepper compound...”
“And the two beach houses,” I added. “One for gear, one for luxury.”
She smirked. “I always wanted to be a land baron.”
“Too bad the world ended before you could really cash in.”
“Eh, who needs money? I’ve got beachfront access and a guy who grills fish.”
“And I’ve got someone who journals our legacy and doesn’t mind my bad jokes,” I said, glancing over at her. She reached for my hand, laced her fingers through mine, and we just sat like that the rest of the way home.
When we finally pulled into the driveway, everything was exactly as we’d left it—no signs of raccoons breaking into our compost pile, no freak storm damage, no overturned planters. The place looked peaceful, lived-in. Ours.
“I’ll check the batteries,” I said, stretching as I stepped out of the van.
“I’ll check the avocados,” she replied, already halfway to the orchard.
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