Echoes of the Empty Earth
Copyright© 2025 by Art Samms
Chapter 8
Day 164: Thanksgiving
A few weeks passed. It was now late November, and the weather had grown oh-so-slightly cooler and drier in a South Florida sort of way. Mother Nature, for the most part, took mercy on us—no more hurricanes. We kept up our routine. We’d taken the boat out on the ocean three more times. We played tennis often. We continued to scavenge—we’d created a fortress covering three adjacent houses, plus the prepper home a short distance away. We’d found an electric Toyota SUV that was now our primary source of transportation. No more relying on gasoline. We checked daily for radiation with the Geiger counter, never detecting any. We believed that threat had passed.
We’d been keeping track of time on a wall calendar salvaged from an office supply store—X’s through each passing day, tiny notes for storms and milestones. And this morning, I marked the square with “Thanksgiving” in all caps. No parades. No football games. No turkey. But still—something about the date made me pause.
I found Amara in the kitchen, rummaging through one of our boxes of canned goods. “So,” I said, stretching. “Thanksgiving. Should we cook up something ... festive? I’m thinking Spam casserole. Maybe dress it up with canned pineapple.”
She turned to me with a cryptic smile. “Actually, I have an idea,” she said, brushing off her hands. “But I need to go scavenge something first.”
I blinked. “You’re going out?”
“Just for a little while. I won’t be long.” She kissed me on the cheek and was out the door before I could ask another question.
I busied myself with starting a fire in the pit outside, chopping some root vegetables from the garden, and roasting them slowly over the coals. I figured maybe I’d crack open the emergency chocolate stash later—nothing said “holiday” like making questionable choices with our food rations.
A few hours later, I heard the SUV rumble back into the driveway.
And then I saw her.
Amara stepped out of the vehicle wearing a deep green cocktail dress that hugged her in all the right places, a pair of matching heels, and makeup that looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine. Her hair was curled and pulled back in a half-up style. She looked radiant. Elegant. Outrageously out of place in the middle of our post-apocalyptic hideaway—and absolutely stunning.
My mouth opened but no words came out.
She did a slow spin, like she was on a runway. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she said with a smirk.
“I—” I gestured vaguely. “You look ... unbelievable. Like ... did you time-travel back to a gala?”
“I found a boutique not too far away,” she said casually. “Figured if we’re doing a holiday, we’re doing it. Your turn.”
“My turn?”
“Go find something nice to wear,” she said, plucking an imaginary speck of dust off her dress. “It’s Thanksgiving dinner, Charlie. You can’t show up in cargo shorts and a T-shirt.”
“Wait—you’re not coming with me?”
She laughed. “Nope. You’re a grown man. I believe in you. Aim for not embarrassing.”
I groaned but grabbed the keys. I was being tested, big time.
It took me a solid hour of digging through racks in a high-end men’s store before I found something that wasn’t two sizes too small or weirdly shiny. I settled on a crisp white shirt, navy blazer, and a pair of dark slacks that mostly fit. I found a belt that wasn’t horrible and a pair of brown loafers with minimal scuffing. I even trimmed my now-substantial beard, ran a comb through my hair, added a touch of cologne, and drove home trying to feel like someone who had his life together.
When I walked through the door, Amara looked me up and down, her arms crossed, one eyebrow raised.
“Seven point five out of ten,” she said, grinning.
I clutched my chest in mock pain. “Ouch. That’s the best I could do under end-of-the-world circumstances!”
She stepped forward, took my face in her hands, and kissed me softly. “Still the best-looking guy left on Earth,” she whispered. “By default, but still.”
I laughed. “I’ll take it.”
We lit the tiki torches, served up roasted vegetables, some preserved duck meat from a can we’d been saving for a “special occasion,” and opened a bottle of wine we’d found in a deserted gourmet grocery. We ate by firelight, dressed like we were at some exclusive outdoor restaurant, toasting each other and everything we’d survived.
It wasn’t the Thanksgiving either of us grew up with—but it was ours. And it was perfect.
Later in the evening, I was cleaning up the kitchen, when I heard Amara’s voice coming from upstairs. “Chaaaaarlie...”
I ran to the staircase, wondering what was going on. Upon reaching the bottom of the stairs, I stopped and stood there, transfixed. There was Amara, standing at the top, curling her index finger toward me in a come-hither fashion. And she was wearing nothing but a sheer pink babydoll negligee. She’d done more scavenging for clothes than she’d let on.
I bolted up the stairs.
Day 172: Attack of the Spores
We were in the prepper’s house that afternoon, inventorying supplies—something we did every few weeks, just to make sure we hadn’t overlooked anything useful. Amara was upstairs going through one of the closets, and I was in the basement, checking the far corner where we’d stashed some of the bulkier gear—tarps, jugs of water, one of those heavy-duty camping toilets I hoped we’d never actually need.
That’s when I smelled it.
It was faint at first, but unmistakable. Musty. Sour. The kind of smell that makes your throat itch before you even figure out what it is.
I stepped closer to the back wall, where the concrete foundation met the old wood paneling. That’s when I saw it—dark patches creeping up the drywall, blotchy and irregular, like ink bleeding through paper. The light was dim, so I grabbed the flashlight hanging from my belt and clicked it on.
The beam hit the wall and my stomach dropped.
Black mold. Thick, fuzzy streaks of it. Some places already turning greenish-white around the edges. The drywall was warped and soft to the touch. Probably soaked after the hurricane—there must’ve been a leak we didn’t catch in time.
“Amara!” I called, louder than I meant to.
She was down the stairs in a heartbeat. “What is it?”
I stepped aside and pointed the light. Her eyes narrowed.
“Oh, hell no,” she said.
“Yeah. We’ve got a problem.”
We both backed away instinctively. I covered my mouth and nose with the crook of my arm. Amara did the same.
“Bleach?” I asked.
“Maybe for a surface clean, but this is deep. We’ll need to tear out the drywall.”
“Fantastic.”
“Do we even have masks?”
“We’ve got a few N95’s left in the first aid stash,” I said, already thinking through the prep. “Goggles too.”
We got to work quickly—suited up, gloved, masked. Amara tied a bandana over her curls for good measure, looking like a post-apocalyptic surgeon. I couldn’t help but grin at her for a second before she gave me the don’t you dare look.
Using a crowbar and a hammer, we started tearing out the infected drywall section by section, carefully bagging and sealing everything in heavy plastic contractor bags. The mold went deeper than I thought—around the baseboards, behind the paneling. We opened every window we could and set up a fan we powered from a battery pack to keep the air moving.
After all that, we scrubbed the exposed studs and floor with a bleach solution until the air practically burned our lungs. Then we left everything to dry, sealing off the rest of the basement in the meantime.
Hours later, back at the main house, we were both exhausted and reeking of mold and bleach. We sat on the front steps in silence, sipping from our water bottles.
Amara leaned her head against my shoulder.
“Add it to the list,” she said.
“Which one? Disasters survived? Or stuff we never thought we’d be doing to survive?”
She smiled. “Both.”
The prepper’s house, looming down the street like a wounded animal, had always seemed indestructible to us. But we’d just learned that like everything else in this world, it had its vulnerabilities. It was still useful, and still ours—but a little less invincible now.
Day 180: Holiday Decorations
We were about two weeks out from Christmas—according to our diligently marked-up wall calendar, anyway—and Amara decided we needed to decorate.
“It’s our first Christmas together,” she said, brushing a hand across my arm as we sat on the patio with our coffee. “And probably the quietest Christmas in human history. So, we should at least make it festive.”
“I hate to break it to you,” I said, “but I’m not sure Home Depot was stocking much tinsel in June.”
“Then we don’t go to Home Depot,” she replied with a smirk. “We go to the people.”
Which is how we found ourselves driving slowly through Coral Springs neighborhoods, looking not for supplies or equipment this time, but wreaths, boxes labeled “XMAS,” or plastic candy canes peeking out from garage clutter. It was oddly sentimental—like peering into lives paused mid-sentence. Having been on our own for so long now, we’d gotten past the whole “invasion of privacy” hangup.
The first few houses yielded nothing. Just beach chairs, pool noodles, and neglected patio furniture. But finally, a few blocks east of our place, we struck gold: a small two-story with a dusty attic full of labeled storage bins and—miracle of miracles—an artificial tree still in its original box, only slightly water-stained.
“Bingo,” I said, dragging it out. “Six-foot spruce. Pre-lit, but we’ll skip the lights.”
“Energy conservation,” Amara nodded. “Very noble of us.”
We kept hunting. In the end, we cobbled together a decent haul: some shatterproof ornaments, garland that didn’t smell too musty, a few nativity figurines missing only a camel, and a charmingly ugly felt tree skirt with “Merry Christmas Y’all!” embroidered in gold thread.
We found a small assortment of yard decorations as well, most notably a couple of small Santa hats which were soon adorning the heads of our treasured plastic flamingos.
Best of all was a wreath we found hanging—faded but intact—on a front door that had clearly not been opened in months. Amara plucked it down gently, as if it might wake someone.
By the time we got back to the house, the sun was setting and everything glowed amber. We set the tree up by the front window and decorated it together—no lights, no electricity-sucking inflatables, just the quiet click of ornament hooks and the occasional laugh when we found something truly bizarre, like a shrimp-shaped bauble wearing a Santa hat.
Later that night, sitting on the couch in the warm candlelight, the tree standing proudly in front of us, Amara leaned against me and sighed contentedly.
“It’s not bad,” she said. “Not bad at all.”
I looked at our handiwork—totally mismatched, salvaged from a dozen lives we’d never know—and realized she was right. It wasn’t just not bad.
It was home.
Day 193: Christmas
Early morning, and Amara’s calendar told us it was December 25th.
It was already warm outside—Florida never got the memo about cozy winter holidays—but inside the house, it was full-on festive chaos. I looked down at myself and shook my head. The red fleece onesie I’d found the day before had a giant reindeer face on the front and little white snowflakes scattered across the sleeves. It was also at least one size too small. The footies were tight around my ankles, and I felt like a stuffed sausage. But Amara had insisted we wear pajamas for the gift exchange, and she’d kept a straight face when she handed me mine, so I had to play along.
She, of course, looked ridiculous and radiant. Her green pajama onesie had Christmas cats all over it, complete with jingle bells sewn into the hood. But even in that, even with her hair still wild from sleep and her feet shuffling across the tile, she managed to carry herself like she was stepping onto a runway.
We sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the tree we’d decorated from other people’s attics and memories. It was probably the tackiest, sun-faded Christmas tree that had ever existed, but it was ours. And in this world, that meant everything.
“Okay,” she said, bouncing a little, “gift time.”
We’d both gone out yesterday to scavenge separately. The only rule had been “nothing practical.” No flashlights. No canned goods. Nothing useful.
She handed me my gift first—a small, neatly wrapped box with a bow she clearly took her time on. I peeled it open carefully. Inside: a vintage paperback of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and a battered Polaroid camera with one unopened pack of film.
“I found it in someone’s den,” she said. “The book felt ... right. And I thought maybe we should start taking pictures of this strange little life we’ve built.”
I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. “I love it. Really.”
My gift for her was sloppier in presentation—duct tape and crumpled wrapping paper I’d found in a bin—but inside was a delicate gold necklace with a simple little heart charm and a small glass bottle of expensive perfume, almost full.
She gasped. “Charlie—where did you find these?”
“Department store in Margate. And I climbed over a collapsed shelving unit to get to the jewelry counter, so I hope that’s worth something.”