All language subtitles for Life After People S03E05 720p WEB H264-JFF[EZTVx.to].en

What would happen

if every human being on earth...

Disappeared?

No matter how we might vanish,

this is the story
of what could happen

to the world we leave behind.

Now,

life after
people hits home.

The buildings we live
in are our castles

and they say, "Home is
where the heart is."

But when we're gone,
what comes knocking?

In vast suburbs, modern
houses are under assault

from the outside and
from the inside out.

It looks like the entire city

was put in the
microwave on high.

This house has
turned to Swiss cheese.

Condominiums
everywhere get new residents

by the thousands.

Cockroaches will eat
literally anything.

It's the home invasion
of your worst fears.

No matter how well-built,

every home would be
swallowed by decay.

It shows you how delicate
paradise really is.

And in the heartland,

farmsteads that were
once the cornerstone

of the American dream
become beastly nightmares.

It's pretty incredible

how quickly domesticated
pigs go feral.

They look almost unrecognizable.

In a world
without people,

the places we lived are
taken over, taken down,

and our most precious
memories are erased.

Welcome to Earth.

Population,

zero.

All around the globe,
homes are abandoned.

From major cities like
Paris and Chicago

to the suburbs and rural
areas that surround them.

In Mesa, Arizona, the biggest
suburb in the United States,

no children play in backyards,

no parents stroll the sidewalks,

the houses sit empty,

every room is silent,

every hallway eerily still.

But one sound remains:

the low hum of what once made
life in these homes possible,

even in the brutal heat
of the Sonoran Desert:

air conditioning.

These deserts shouldn't
be fit for human life,

but somehow, people
call them home.

Air conditioning
is absolutely crucial

in places as hot as Mesa.

Lifeless and
scorched by the sun,

humans rolled the
dice on the desert

and forced it to
bend to our will.

Most of these large houses

are built with
black shingle roofs

and giant picture windows.

They look great
from the outside.

Without air conditioning,

those roofs suck up
heat from the sun

and turn those upper
floors into a heat sink.

Then, those picture windows
act like panes in a greenhouse,

letting in sunlight and
trapping the heat inside.

In the time of people,

air conditioning was the
lifeblood of every home.

Now, there's no one left
to adjust the temperature,

no one to enjoy the cool.

But 70 miles away,

the electric heart of the
biggest nuclear power plant

in the country still beats,

powering the
surrounding suburbs:

the Palo Verde Nuclear
Generating Station.

Palo Verde is the only
desert nuclear plant

in the Western Hemisphere

and the only one in the country

that's not located next to
a natural body of water.

Most plants are built near
rivers, lakes, or oceans,

so they can use that water
to cool their reactors.

In the parched and
sweltering Arizona desert,

humanity found another way to
cool Palo Verde's fuel rods,

one that flows not through a
riverbend or along a coastline,

but through the sewers.

Instead of a
natural water source,

Palo Verde has an
automated system

that pulls treated sewage water

from cities like
Phoenix, Mesa, and Tempe

and pumps it into reservoirs
and cooling towers.

Going to the bathroom in Mesa

is almost like
performing a civic duty

because every time
you flush your toilet,

you're helping to cool
a nuclear reactor.

The reactors
still hum with power

not because of human hands,

but because of the
systems they left behind,

a web of automated fail-safes

designed to keep the
unimaginable at bay.

We all know the
names Chernobyl,

Three Mile Island, Fukushima.

'Cause they were
unbelievable disasters

with far-reaching and
long-lasting consequences.

Palo Verde Nuclear Plant

was designed to prevent
exactly that kind of disaster.

The Chernobyl disaster

caused nearly 200,000
homes to be evacuated,

many of them
eventually destroyed.

Two days after people,

there's no one in Palo
Verde's controller room,

no technicians keeping watch,

and the plant's automated
systems rely on human oversight.

The system is constantly
monitored by operators

who can make adjustments
and respond to alerts.

If the system senses that
nobody is responding to it,

it immediately
triggers a shutdown.

Before a meltdown happens,
a mechanism is triggered.

That drops a control
rod into the core,

halting, or at least
dramatically slowing,

the nuclear reaction.

As it
was designed to do,

the system shuts
the reactors down.

But even then, the
danger doesn't die.

Spent fuel rods still
radiate an unholy heat

powerful enough to melt
through steel, concrete,

and anything that
stands in its way.

Used-up fuel rods

stay dangerously hot and
radioactive for years.

That's why they're stored
under water in cooling pools

to prevent them from
overheating or catching fire.

The cooling pools

are the plant's last
line of defense.

But to keep the simmering
rods from overheating,

pumps have to constantly
move cold water in

and hot water out.

The cooling pump system
would still be working

because there are
backup generators

that work on diesel fuel.

In a world
without people,

there's no one to
maintain the generators,

no one to refill their tanks.

What will happen when the power
eventually grinds to a halt?

Far from the sprawling
desert suburbs

lies one of the condominium
capitals of the country:

Miami.

Once, more than
half a million units

were alive with laughter,

the sound of shared
meals and music.

Now, all that remains
are empty tables,

echoes of people who will
never come home again.

Almost 1/3 of Miami's
housing stock is condominiums.

That's the highest percentage

of any major city in
the United States,

which goes to show
that the ideal

of the white picket
fence in the suburbs

isn't always what the
American dream looks like.

One week after people,

something has been
hiding in plain sight,

lingering in the air,
and already hard at work.

Miami has what's called
a tropical monsoon climate.

Basically, because of the
surrounding warm ocean,

Biscayne Bay, and
regular afternoon rain,

it's humid all day, every day.

Most of the older
condos in Miami Beach

were built out of
porous materials.

Not only would
humidity and moisture

get into the buildings quickly,

they would start to do
damage almost immediately.

Miami's power
grid has been down for days

and every condo in the city
is sizzling in the heat.

Without ventilation
and air conditioning,

the temperature could
spike up to 100 degrees.

Within a few days,
food would rot,

condensation would form
on counters and walls,

and all that heat and humidity
would start to warp the wood.

The scent
of rot fills the air;

decay spreads like fog through
condos across the city.

It's an unspoken invitation
to nature's perfect pest.

Cockroaches
would waste no time

finding all the little cracks
and crevices to get inside.

Roaches would love to eat
exactly the kind of trash

that would be festering
in the heat and humidity:

moldy cheese, spoiled meat,

they even like to drink the
garbage juice as it decomposes.

Once they've gotten
through all the trash

and the rotten food left behind,

they'll move on to other
things like book bindings,

old mail, the carcasses
of dead house pets,

even things like old skin
cells, hair, and nail clippings.

Americans actually used
to spend millions of dollars

on exterminators,

trying to keep
cockroaches in check,

but those defense
systems are gone.

After people, there's
no one to lay down traps,

no one to spray pesticide.

And cockroaches aren't just
devouring everything in sight,

they're multiplying.

Cockroaches love the
heat and the humidity,

especially the American
and Asian species

that you find in Miami.

Cockroaches are cold-blooded.

Warmer temperatures
give them more energy.

That means they
fly more, eat more,

and make more roaches more.

Cockroaches are
disgusting nightmare fuel.

A single pair of can produce
up to 400,000 descendants

in a single year,

and it only takes babies
about 35 days to mature.

Without pest control,

just a few cockroaches can
become a full-on infestation

in no time at all.

Inside
abandoned homes,

the cockroaches are sheltered
from natural predators,

and they're spreading.

Cockroaches have no problem

traveling between units
with shared walls.

That's because they can compress

their flexible exoskeletons down

to at least half
their normal size,

and they splay their legs out,

making them able to go through
even the tiniest of cracks

without slowing down.

Once home
to a family of four,

this condo is now a
kingdom of cockroaches.

They're burrowed
beneath the floorboards,

pulsing behind the walls.

With the power off, they
ride and feast in the dark.

But one thing still
glows, small, forgotten,

a pilot light burns,

waiting to turn
infestation into ignition.

The Arizona suburbs

were once home to
millions of people.

Now, the streets are silent,
every house abandoned.

And just weeks after people
at the nuclear power plant

that used to power
these neighborhoods,

backup generators

are now the only thing keeping
emergency pumps pumping

and spent fuel rods
from melting down.

There's enough diesel on
hand to keep the pumps running,

but only if there's someone
there to refill them.

With no one
to refuel their tanks,

the generators choke on
the last fumes of diesel.

The pumps sputter and die.

Slumber and fuel
rods begin to stir

not to supply power to
the surrounding suburbs,

but to bring annihilation.

The water would start to
evaporate slowly at first

and then faster.

The water in the
cooling pools boils off,

exposing the fuel rods to air.

To put it mildly, this is bad.

The fuel rods are
coated in zirconium,

which is stable under water,

but is dangerous when
it's exposed to the air.

Because once zirconium
is out of the water,

it can react
chemically with steam,

releasing hydrogen gas.

And hydrogen gas is explosive.

Like,

hydrogen gas is what caused the
Hindenburg to explode.

Hydrogen gas hangs
in the air, growing thick,

until it meets a spark.

And all at once, it explodes.

This isn't a nuclear
explosion, it's a chemical one,

but the damage is catastrophic.

Once a fire takes hold
in a spent fuel pool,

it's nearly impossible to stop.

The smoke can carry radioactive
material hundreds of miles.

The power plant is
being consumed from within;

radiation spilling out of
every new breach of its walls.

The toxic clouds spit out by
the fire rises on the wind,

moving toward the
nearby suburbs,

killing anything living,

blanketing block
after block of houses

in corrosive isotopes
and gamma radiation.

How long before the
homes of Mesa, Arizona

are nothing but dust?

In rural Pennsylvania,

there are no pickup trucks
traveling the dirt roads,

no shoppers at
the general store.

On a small farm,

there's a homestead that
stood for nearly 200 years,

but now, no one calls it home.

The key to making
these homes long-lasting

is using old growth lumber,

which comes from
trees grown naturally

for hundreds or even
thousands of years.

The natural growth process
makes old growth wood sturdy

and resistant to rot.

Not only were the
houses meant to last,

but the homesteads themselves

were meant to be
self-sustaining.

You'll find pens
for livestock,

wells to access fresh water,

and root cellars to
store vegetables.

And in the right conditions,

foods like potatoes, squash,
and pears can last for months.

This homestead
has housed and fed families

since decades before
the Civil War.

But just one week after people,
some crops are withering,

others are growing unchecked.

And it ends in paddocks,

livestock is
neglected and hungry.

A pig eats about 4% of
its body weight a day,

and they can weigh as
much as 800 pounds.

So basically,

a pig would need to eat
a large bag of dog food,

enough to last a big dog about
a month every single day.

Pigs aren't picky eaters.

They'll eat just about anything:
roots, bugs, other animals.

They've even been known to
eat an entire human corpse,

bones and all, in
less than eight hours.

The pigs have devoured
everything in their pen,

including the wooden
fences themselves,

relics of farmers
now gone forever.

Pigs are among the top
five smartest animals around.

Some studies suggest

that they're about as smart
as a three-year-old human.

Between their size
and their smarts,

it wouldn't take much for them

to find a way out of their pens.

They can just dig up fencing

and break down just about
anything in their way.

Two
weeks after people,

the pigs have eaten through
crops like a disease,

but their hunger is insatiable.

And now, they have a
craving for fresh meat.

Chickens have
been domesticated

for more than 10,000 years,

so one would think that
without people around,

they'd be helpless.

But remarkably, without
people, they do quite well.

With no one to feed them,

they're gonna revert to
their primitive instincts,

pecking for ants, and grubs,
and any seeds they can find.

Even without human
hands to care for them,

the chickens are
plump and healthy.

They're also locked
in their coop,

a perfect target for pigs,

ravenous and on the prowl.

Over 1,000 miles to the
south, months after people,

Miami's abandoned condominiums
are being remodeled,

with new carpets and wallpaper

made of wriggling cockroaches,

gnawing through
everything they touch,

burrowing into every
crack and crevice.

And here's where it gets ugly.

Cockroaches, they
leave their droppings,

molted shells, and
even their bodies.

The power's out,

but some old gas stoves still
have a flickering flame.

That's the pilot light,

which doesn't need
electricity to burn.

It's fed by a tiny,
steady stream of gas

designed to keep flowing
for months or even years.

The mess builds up
around a pilot assembly,

jamming the valve that
controls the gas flow.

The result is a
stuck open gas line.

Now you've got gas spreading
throughout a condo unit.

It's going under the doors,

out into the hallway,
into other units.

In the time of people,

simple maintenance
and routine inspection

would eliminate the threat.

Now, gas is seeping
through condo units

like poison through veins.

What will happen when it
finally touches the pilot light

flickering in the dark?

Two months after
people, Miami is a ghost town.

A fire caused by a gas leak
and a flickering pilot light

has engulfed a condo,

threatening all the units
people once called home.

Remember, in a
high rise like this,

everything's connected.

That means shared walls,

shared ventilation,
shared gas lines.

So now that initial explosion
cracks open even more lines,

releasing even more gas,
it's a chain reaction.

Boom, boom, boom.

Always become fire tunnels.

In minutes, a big part of
the building is in flames.

And just like that,
it's a flowing inferno.

Just as the flames

threaten to leap across
blocks and engulf the city,

something shifts in the air,

and the very humidity
that helped cause the fire

gives rise to the only
thing that can stop it.

In the summer, Miami
often gets heavy rain,

often in the form of brief,
but intense, thunderstorms.

A single storm can unleash
two to three inches of rain

in mere minutes.

The heavens rain down

what looks like salvation,

but it's a wolf hidden
in sheep's clothing,

eager to infiltrate and attack.

Now imagine that
kind of downpour

slamming into a building already
cracked open and crumbling.

Torrents of rain crashed
through broken windows,

soaking the carpet
walls and wiring.

The rain pours
through every crack,

soaking drywall,
pulling on floors.

The rain puts out the fire,

but brings its own
kind of destruction.

Just
months after people,

condo buildings all over Florida

are cracking, leaking,
bending, and buckling.

But there's one building
that towers above the rest,

resolute and unbowed.

It's 84 luxury condos'
indoor infinity pool

and private helipad,

where once home to
the richest elites,

now it lies as silent as a tomb,

a monument to the wealthiest
members of a dead civilization.

One Thousand Museum was
designed more like a yacht

than a condo,

using marine-grade wood, stone,
glass, and minimal carpet.

Plus, the triple-sealed
hurricane windows

and thermal insulation

will prevent it from
getting too hot in there.

It might get a
little uncomfortable,

but its materials
were handpicked

to deal with those conditions.

While most
of Miami festers,

this residential
tower refuses to rot.

But father time is patient.

How long before this
tower succumbs as well?

Six months after people,

at a farm that was once home
to a hardworking family,

the ravenous grunting of pigs

fills the air outside
the chicken coop.

No longer fed by humans,

the pigs are starving
and aggressive,

and fresh poultry
is on the menu.

Chicken coops are designed
to keep out coyotes,

raccoons, and other birds.

Your garden-variety,
lightweight predator.

Pigs love to root,

and they can easily
get their snouts

two to three feet
deep under the soil.

And chicken coop foundations

are typically only a foot
to a foot and a half deep,

so pigs would have no trouble
working their way inside.

Once they're under
the foundations,

there is nothing
to stop these pigs

from entering the coop
and wreaking havoc.

They would eat what's
left to the chicken feed,

they would eat any
eggs in the coop,

and then they would
eat the chickens.

The most
accessible food

has now been gobbled up,

and the once-docile pigs
turn their attention

to the farmhouse itself.

But while the home has barely
changed in hundreds of years,

the pigs are quickly
transforming,

shedding domestication like
a snake sloughs off its skin.

It's pretty incredible

how quickly domesticated
pigs go feral

and start to resemble the wild
boars that they descend from.

This can start to
happen within weeks.

And by the time a
year has gone by,

they become almost
unrecognizable.

Their hair starts to grow
coarser and darker in color,

the males start to
grow prominent tusks.

They get leaner
and more muscular

with increased
foraging and rooting.

Their behavior starts
to change as well.

As they get wilder,

the pigs' snouts elongate a bit

and their sense of
smell gets even better,

which is saying something

because even domesticated pigs

can smell food buried
25 feet underground.

As they go feral, pigs
start to become nocturnal.

And feral pigs are known to
become highly aggressive.

This is no
longer a sounder of swine.

It's a beastly-wrecking crew.

Food inside the old farmhouse

is beckoning to them
like a siren song.

Can this sturdy home
keep the hogs at bay,

or will they bring
it all crashing down?

Six
months after people,

this small family
farmstead is in disarray.

Once neat rows of crops have
been ripped from the soil

and devoured by
ravenous feral pigs.

The farmhouse has been
home to generations

standing strong through 40
presidents, countless blizzards,

and two World Wars.

Now, hooves scrape the doors,

snouts root at foundations,

the hungry hogs are
desperate to get inside.

The pigs would be lured

by the smells coming from
inside the farmhouse.

If they get hungry
and desperate enough,

they will try anything
to get inside.

They may look like
lumbering wrecking balls,

but pigs are surprisingly fast.

They can run up to
11 miles per hour.

So, if one takes aim at
the front door of a house,

it's like launching
a bowling ball at it.

The pigs
break in like thieves,

but they don't
bother with stealth.

They're brazen, remorseless,
and destructive.

Pigs bite with enough force
to break some human bones,

so it'd be easy work to tear
off cupboard or closet doors

to get at what's stored inside.

These pigs would devour any
dried goods left behind:

flour, oat, cereals,
you name it.

And if they were able to
crack open that fridge door,

I'm sure they would
be happy to eat

whatever year-old biohazard
they would find inside.

If anything kept in
jars fell off the shelves,

they'd eat it,

probably sucking up some
broken glass at the same time.

And I don't know if they
could bite open canned food,

but they would sure as hell try.

And let's just be
clear about one thing.

Pigs are not polite.

They're pigs.

Even the trace smell of old food

is gonna drive
them into a frenzy.

They will destroy furniture,
they will tear up floorboards,

they will smash
holes in the wall.

If they find any
possible weak spot,

like water damage
or rotten siding,

they're just gonna plow
right through that.

Once home to the
family who fed and kept them,

the feral pigs have
turned this farmhouse

into a splintered husk.

Now, they leave it behind to
maraud through the countryside.

In Mesa, Arizona,

the biggest suburb in
the country is quiet,

but looks almost unchanged.

Cars are still
parked in driveways,

water ripples in backyard pools.

But just like in the Chernobyl
and Fukushima disasters,

an invisible toxic wind from
the Palo Verde nuclear meltdown

has blown over 100
miles from the plant.

It's touched every surface,

found every crack
and open window,

sparing nothing in this
once-peaceful suburb.

These homes may look
picture perfect from the curb,

but they're actually saturated

with a poison that you
can't see, smell, or escape.

Gamma radiation rains
down on everything

alongside hot isotopes, like
Caesium-137 and Strontium-90,

coating the landscape
and every house in sight.

To give you a sense of scale,

just 1/30 of an ounce
of Caesium-137,

that's a single sunflower seed,

can make a whole square
mile uninhabitable.

Now imagine several
pounds of this stuff.

The fallout seeps into lungs,

wrecking organs
almost immediately.

Within hours, the
smallest animals,

like squirrels and
rabbits, start to drop.

Faster metabolisms mean they
soak up the most the quickest.

By day two, bigger animals,
like deer and coyotes, follow.

Over time,

radiation eats away at
these big suburban homes,

corroding metals,
breaking down plastics,

and the air inside becomes
dangerously radioactive.

The radiation
gnaws at these homes

from the outside,

but deep beneath the
suburban concrete,

something else lurks
hidden from the poison.

They're tiny,
resilient, and hungry.

The biggest
suburb in the world

is being consumed by toxic dust.

But there's something else
crawling and burrowing

beneath the homes that
line these streets,

something that survived the
initial wave of fallout.

Not a cockroach, but
its much smaller cousin.

Termites are extremely
common in Mesa,

and there's a good chance

they would've
survived the radiation

from the Palo Verde plant.

A lot of termites live in
nests several feet underground,

which would provide protection

from that initial
blast of toxicity.

Insects like
cockroaches and termites

are famously resistant
to radiation,

much more so than
humans or other mammals.

Now, organic cells are most
susceptible to radiation

when they're dividing.

And in the human body,

we've got millions of cells
dividing every single day.

But a termite, it only divides
its cells when it's molting.

Couple that with
their extremely rapid

reproductive cycles,

and termites could
very well adapt

to a post-meltdown environment

just like scientists
have witnessed

in the area around Chernobyl.

The termites
bide their time,

then they creep from
their nests like a plague,

swarming toward the
wooden foundations

of Mesa's suburban homes.

Their diets consist mainly

of decaying plant
materials and wood.

And one particular species,
a subterranean termite,

is so ubiquitous it's better
known as the Arizona termite.

It also happens to be
the species of termite

that is most
destructive to homes.

All it takes is a tiny,
tiny crack in the foundations,

less than 1/16 of an
inch, and they're in.

The termites
feast on support beams,

frames, and foundations.

And without human exterminators
to keep them in check,

their population skyrockets.

A termite queen

lays approximately
40,000 eggs per day

and has a life expectancy
of nearly 20 years.

The colony never sleeps
and never stops eating.

The biggest
suburb in the world

is decaying from the outside
and being consumed from within.

How long before there's
nothing left but dust?

20 years after people, in Miami,

One Thousand Museum is now
dirty, aging, worn down.

But the building itself
still stands proud.

A minor hurricane is
roiling the skies offshore,

but this tower, once
home to the ultra-rich,

has a secret weapon humanity
left behind to defend it.

The building is tailor-made
for Miami's harsh environment.

There are 5,000 pieces of
glass-fiber-reinforced concrete

that form kind of an
exoskeleton around the building,

like a giant brace that can
resist the force of wind

during major storms.

One Thousand Museum's
aerodynamic shape

breaks up wind pressure,

the kind of turbulence

that can shake and
rattle a tall building.

And every unit has special
impact-resistant windows

that can withstand something
like a two-by-four hurled at it

at up to 100 miles an hour.

Other condo
buildings aren't so lucky.

They're cracked and sagging;
bones already weakened.

Now there's no seawall,
no flood control,

no first responders,

just a 12-story building
weakened by fire,

teetering on soggy ground
as the storm slams into it.

There will be a
sickening crack from below.

The foundations,

already stressed from
rising groundwater,

start to literally shear off.

Concrete snaps, rebar buckles,

one floor pancakes
onto the next,

and dust and debris shoot
out like a volcanic blast.

12 stories crumple like a
tower of wet playing cards,

each floor crushing the next.

As the condo
crashes into the sea,

there are no people left
to mourn its demise,

no crews to rebuild it,

only a twisted metal
and concrete corpse

reclaimed by the sea.

In Arizona, decades
of radioactive fallout

and the hungry termites
who survived it

have turned the suburb
into the lifeless ruins

of a lost civilization.

They don't devour
large chunks of wood.

Instead, they burrow
tunnels into the wood,

which weakens its
overall structure,

compromising the structural
integrity of the entire home.

One by one,

the once sprawling homes,

prized symbols of a
safe middle class life,

have been reduced
to piles of rubble.

This house has been made
brittle by nuclear fallout.

It's turned to Swiss cheese
by ravenous termites,

and now it's just too fragile
to hold its own weight,

so gravity deals the final blow.

100
years after people,

the houses that were once home

to hundreds of
thousands of people

in the biggest suburb in
America have crumbled into dust,

leaving behind a
barren wasteland.

But even here in the parched
silence and toxic soil,

new life emerges.

Nuclear radiation once
made this place a dead zone.

But now, the worst
isotopes are gone.

Even Caesium-137 has
lost most of its bites.

So if you look carefully,

you might see cracks in the
pavement blooming with weeds,

you might see lizards
scurrying through the ruins.

The streets
are buried under sand,

but mesquite and scrub
are growing again,

tumbleweeds roll
down the highways

like a scene out of
a forgotten western,

except this one's set in a
weird post-apocalyptic suburbia.

In place of manicured lawns,

towering saguaros now
rise like desert kings

staking their claim,

where once porch swings and
garden gnomes used to sit.

After a century without people

under that unforgiving
Arizona sun,

it would almost feel like
humans never existed at all.

150
years after people,

the Pennsylvania farmhouse

that saw generation
after generation thrive

and grow beneath its
roof is now broken;

its bones laid bare.

These old fieldstone
foundations can be very strong,

but time is taking its toll.

For years,

the foundations of the farmhouse

have been sitting wide
open to the elements.

The house is
dismantled bit by bit.

Most of
the home is gone,

but its foundation remains,

anchored in the earth like
the roots of a great tree,

a monument to the farmers
that once worked this land.

In Miami, what was once the
condo capital of the country

has been lashed by
wind, inundated by rain,

and pounded by waves.

What's left in the city
is nearly unrecognizable.

But above the curling,
gripping vines of new growth,

One Thousand Museum
still stands.

One Thousand Museum has
weathered decades of storm,

heat, and rising seas,

thanks to its reinforced
concrete exoskeleton

and cutting-edge design.

It was built to last;
and so far, it has.

But even this,

the crown jewel of
beachfront homes

can't escape the slow
march of father time.

The glass panels are cracked,

and salt is crusting the facade.

The rain is seeping into seams

that were never meant
to go unmaintained.

The rooftop pool would
be a murky swamp,

by now likely covered
in vegetation.

But, the futuristic
exoskeleton

did exactly what
it was built to do:

absorb stress, flex with
the wind, hold its ground.

The outer shells scarred,

yes, there's cracked glass,
there's twisted metal panels,

there's salt-stained concrete,

but the core structure is sound.

It looks battered,
but it's not broken.

Eventually, perhaps
centuries from now,

the saltwater will
finally eat away

at the building's mighty
cement foundations

and corrode the
steel reinforcements.

500
years after people.

With a massive
crack nobody hears,

the last survivor of Miami's
skyline gives up the fight

and surrenders to her fate.

For millennia, the homes
we built kept us safe,

sustained us, and kept
the elements at bay.

But without us,

nature finds a way to reclaim
everything we once built.

No matter how
well-built, every home,

whether it's nestled
in the suburbs,

built of the strongest stone,

or rising above the sea,

they were built to exist
in a world with us.

And without us, even the
strongest will, in time,

return to the earth.

If alien archeologists
come digging someday,

they might find a few clues:

a warped metal patio chair,

maybe sun bleached,
but still intact.

Just like the tools
found in Egyptian tombs,

bronze chisels,

copper blades buried
for thousands of years,

untouched by moisture,
still recognizable.