2070: Alone on Earth – Day Five

The morning begins not with silence, but with sound.

A bark—short, sharp, insistent. Echo stands by the front door, ears perked, tail still, staring through the dusty glass. I approach slowly, unsure of what he’s reacting to. The street beyond remains still. No movement. No noise beyond the distant rustle of wind.

But something has changed. Echo feels it. And now, so do I.

I note the moment in my journal: Day Five. 06:12. Unidentified trigger behavior in dog.

I open the door cautiously. Echo doesn’t bolt. He just stands, watching. I step out beside him. The city breathes around us, unaware or uninterested in our presence. Still no sign of life. Yet something lingers in the air—an energy, faint but undeniable.

Back inside, I prep for a deeper search. Yesterday gave me companionship. Today demands pursuit.

I gather gear with increased precision: two days’ worth of supplies, extra water, fire-starting tools, portable solar charger, backup radio. Echo carries a small pack too—light but useful. We’re not just surviving anymore. We’re scouting.

We move toward the southern grid of the city, an area I’ve barely touched. It’s older—less glass, more stone and brick. Denser. As we walk, I explain things to Echo. Out loud.

"This was the warehouse district. People used to work here. Shipments. Logistics. Noise everywhere."

He trots beside me like he’s listening. Maybe he is. Maybe voice matters even when words don’t.

Mid-morning, we reach a collapsed overpass. Navigating it is slow, deliberate. Debris litters the road. Beneath it, shadows gather like secrets. We pause to drink. Echo drinks first. I watch the skyline, noting where vines have overtaken metal.

Then—the radio chirps.

Just once. A small burst of static. A click. Then silence.

I freeze. Did I imagine it? I check the device. The battery is full. Frequency unchanged. I listen longer. Minutes pass. Nothing.

Then again: crack—click—pop.

Three pulses. Rhythmic. Intentional.

Someone is transmitting.

My breath catches. My hands shake slightly as I lower the radio. I write it down: Day Five. 10:46. Triple burst static ping on open channel.

I scan the area. Buildings rise around me, skeletal and looming. Rooftops? Underground signal? Directional antenna? I don’t know. But it was real.

Echo stares at me, tail wagging faintly, as if sensing my energy.

We spend the next hour sweeping the block. I raise the antenna and switch between frequencies. I record every channel. I speak again.

"This is Alex. I received your signal. Please respond. I am with a dog. We’re friendly. We’re mobile. We’re listening."

No reply.

But the silence now feels different. It’s not absence. It’s anticipation.

We continue south. Every few blocks, I repeat the message. The city offers no answers but doesn't push us away either.

We find a gas station partially intact. I take batteries, wipes, cans of soup. Echo finds a torn stuffed animal near the back office. He nudges it but doesn’t take it.

In the afternoon, the clouds shift and the sun breaks through in shafts. It’s warm on my face. I sit on the hood of an old car and eat while Echo naps in the shade.

Then I hear it again.

Click—crackle—pop—pause—pop.

Five bursts. Different rhythm. A reply?

I scramble to the radio and check the log. The pattern is unfamiliar. Not Morse. Not binary. But structured. Deliberate.

"If you can hear me," I say into the mic, "send three bursts again. If yes. Send two if no."

I wait.

Pop—pop—pop.

Yes.

I exhale slowly, stunned. I speak again, slower now, deliberate.

"Are you north of the river? Send one if yes, two if no."

Pop—pop.

No.

I adjust my map, heart racing. West? South? I don’t press further. I don’t want to overwhelm. I just say:

"I will return to this channel at sunrise tomorrow. I will broadcast again. You are not alone."

Echo whines softly. I look at him and smile.

“We’re not alone.”

We head back before nightfall. The air feels charged. The city less indifferent. Every shadow, every doorway now holds potential.

Back at base, I record everything. I even sketch the burst patterns. My notebook is half full already, and every page now feels historic.

At dinner, Echo sits closer than usual. He knows something shifted.

Before sleep, I sit at the window. I imagine someone else doing the same. Looking out into a broken world, wondering.

Maybe tomorrow, we’ll speak more. Maybe we’ll meet. Maybe we’ll build something from what’s left.

But tonight, for the first time, I sleep with real hope.

Day Five ends not with silence, but with signal.