by Judd Vowell
He straddled it, his legs stretching widely over each side. He laid down with his chest and stomach against the bark to balance himself. From that position, he was able to paddle with his arms.
The current was steady but not fast, allowing him to guide the log sideways. He passed by the first concrete support, then the second. As he neared the third one, he slowed the improvised boat down. Once he was beside the support, he sat up and reached for it, stopping his forward motion. He looked up to the bottom of the bridge. The support was at least thirty feet tall, maybe more.
He took his backpack off of one shoulder, then the other, and placed it on the log in front of him. He unzipped the bag and removed the blanket. Then he unwrapped the two separated explosives. On one timer, he set the number to “16:00.” He took the C-4 compound and pressed it against the concrete. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. As he exhaled, he opened his eyes and pressed the button that started the timer. “15:59...15:58...”
He quickly wrapped the other explosive and placed it back inside his pack. He slung it over his shoulders and started paddling toward the fourth support. He counted to himself all the while. His mouth moved continuously, “1-one-thousand, 2-one-thousand, 3-one-thousand...” By the time he floated up to the next concrete brace, he was three minutes into his count.
At the fourth support, he moved with precision, performing the same motions as he had at the third one. He set the second timer for “12:00” to synchronize with the first, ensuring that the blasts would be almost simultaneous. He apparently didn’t need the deep breath again. Instead he started the timer as he placed the explosive on the concrete. “11:59...11:58...”
Backpack secured, he turned the log south and laid flat. The river took him with it, underneath the bridge and then downstream. He remained still as he rode, hoping his dark clothes would blend in with the wet bark and camouflage him. His face was turned toward Camp Overlord as he floated by, and he saw the carnage continuing unabated. He muttered something before he was beyond the battle at the Lefty camp.
“I’m sorry, guys. I’m sorry for everything.”
18.
T here was no distinction between the two explosions. Henry had set the timers with near perfection. He watched from a safe distance south, turning and riding the log backwards to grant himself a full view as he drifted.
The fireballs shot out and up, creating a singular shockwave that made the bridge drift a foot higher and then back down. The air surrounding the highway seemed to vibrate from the explosions’ sound and energy. The ANTs on the bridge were knocked to the concrete, deafened and dumbed.
One of the supports buckled immediately. It shifted once and then snapped with a screech. The ANTs and their vehicles slid in that direction as the bridge above it crumbled. The other support held for a moment, then gave way just like its counterpart. The section of suspended highway that existed in between them fell to the river dramatically, carrying ANTs and jeeps and humvees with it.
The explosions had created such an extreme level of heat that the vehicles remaining on top of the bridge soon caught fire and began melting. A few ANTs ran from them blindly, their clothing consumed by flames, until they stumbled over a mangled edge and plummeted to the water.
After a minute or so, other portions of the bridge began to crack. ANTs who had come to the rescue of their comrades found themselves atop a dissolving structure, with no time to correct their mistake. Huge chunks of concrete dropped like giant boulders into the water, crushing men and vehicles underneath. From Henry’s distant vantage point, they appeared to fall in slow-motion, and the splashes they created looked like gigantic geysers shooting steam and vapor high into the atmosphere.
The fighting at Camp Overlord appeared to subside as the bridge slowly collapsed. Both Leftys and ANTs turned to the distraction, forgetting for a moment the battle they had been waging. The ANTI- vehicles that were positioned along the entrance road that ran alongside the river retreated back to the highway. And some of the ANTs at the camp’s south wall followed.
The river’s current carried Henry further away, and I went with him. Soon the partial bridge and Camp Overlord were specks on the landscape, only discernible by the plumes of smoke rising from them. Henry turned himself around on the log so that he was facing forward again. Facing the journey back home. He had a look of resolve and satisfaction, but also of sadness. He had just committed mass murder. But maybe he had also saved the lives of countless Leftys.
19.
H enry wouldn’t reach the fork in the river before nightfall. He had pulled out his map and realized that. With some time left before sunset, he paddled with one arm and guided the log to the western bank. There were dense woods all around him, which would make sleeping easier.
He pulled the log out of the water and secured it with the rope he had, looping it on both ends and tying it to a large standing tree. He walked into the woods and found enough space to set up a small camp. He gathered wood and leaves and built his fire for the night. He opened a can of beans and ate. Before he tried to sleep, he went to his pack and unwrapped his mother’s medicine. He checked the bottles for dampness and placed them back into his backpack. Then he spread his blanket on the ground and went to sleep peacefully.
◊◊◊
I went to Meg while Henry slept. She was in her bed still, but awake and fearful. She held the pistol that we had left for her in her hands.
There were noises coming from downstairs. Sounds of rummaging and damage being done. Doors opening and closing, shelves being cleared of their contents, drawers being pulled and dumped. There were crashes and shatters. There was breaking in and busting open. Meg’s fragile body was trembling.
I could follow the intruder through the bottom floor of the house based on the rise of fall of destruction as he went from room to room. Then I heard his footsteps begin the climb upstairs.
As the sound of his approach to Meg’s bedroom grew louder, I had to decide something. Whether I would stay with her or not. I could only watch what was going to unfold. Her beating, her rape, her murder. It might have been too much to bear, but fortunately I never had to watch any of it happen.
The intruder opened the door to the bedroom and stood frozen. He was dirty and disheveled, with matted hair and beard. His surprise at finding Meg was obvious.
She lay still, playing dead as we had planned so long ago. She had put her arms and hands under the sheet covering her body, along with the gun. Her breathing was shallow and only visible to me because I knew that she was alive. “Go away,” I said into the ether. “Leave her alone.” But he couldn’t hear me.
He approached the bed slowly. He stood at its side and watched her for a while, holding a smile on his grimy face. Then he reached one of his hands into the front of his pants as his breathing got deeper. He took his other hand and reached over the bed toward Meg’s stomach. His fingertips had just begun pressing into the sheet on top of her when I saw her open her eyes. The gunshot was abrupt, and it echoed throughout the bedroom. The intruder grabbed his midsection, then fell to the floor beside the bed. He writhed there, grunting and moaning in pain, for many minutes. Then he grew pale and quiet, a large stain of blood forming around his body.
I stayed with her through the rest of the night, although I could do nothing but just be there. She was surviving, but barely. “Hold on, Meg. Just a little while longer...”
◊◊◊
As the morning approached, I had to leave her. I needed to be with Henry. He had packed up camp when I got there, and was untying the log. Making the most of the daylight hours, just as I had taught him on our earlier journey.
I couldn’t inspire or influence him. And I couldn’t speed him up. But Meg wouldn’t make it much longer. There was too much cancer and too many desperate humans.
Henry eased the log into the river and slid his left leg over it, climbing into his now-familiar paddling position. “Hurry, Henry. Get yourself home,” I wanted to say to him, but I had no
way to express it. “If only I could push you.”
Suddenly, a wind picked up from the north. The river’s current began to build, enough that Henry looked over his shoulder with question in his eyes. But there were few clouds in the blue sky. He turned his head back around and leaned his body down, like he was the driver of a racing motorcycle. And the mysteriously powerful current carried him swiftly down the river.
20.
H enry arrived at the fork in the river at midday. It was a tributary that fed from the west, adding water and pushing the larger river to the southeast. He had tried to stay close to the west bank all morning in anticipation of it. When he saw the change in current approaching, he leaned to the right and turned the log to the river’s edge. He floated up to the bank and reached out for a tree branch. Once he was confident in his grasp, he loosened his legs’ grip and let the log go. It drifted to the middle of the river and flowed with the current, dipping in and out of Henry’s sight. He watched gratefully until it was gone, then pulled himself over to steady ground.
He walked a few steps and sat. Time for rest and food and planning. The map showed the tributary meandering from the west and passing by a medium-sized city about fifteen miles from where he sat. I watched him trace his finger along a path to avoid it, then northwest, lining him up with the farm. It would lead him home in six days’ time if he didn’t meet any obstacles. I hoped that Meg could hold on that long.
◊◊◊
The landscape Henry had to traverse was much like the first part of our journey to the camp. Thick woods and underbrush. He walked close to the river, using it both for guidance and because the vegetation alongside it wasn’t as difficult to move through. His left leg’s limp was almost unnoticeable. He was driven.
He made it to the city’s outskirts before sundown the following day. He set up camp and went hunting. He wouldn’t make it on the few cans of food he had left. Using the rope, he created a small animal trap by looping it in the middle. He tied one end to a tree and dragged it flatly across the ground. Near the loop, he placed a bit of tuna from a can he had packed. He went to the loose end of the rope and waited.
He heard the animal before he saw it. It crept slowly from a low-growing tree that had limbs hanging to the ground. It was a raccoon, much larger than what his improvised trap had been made to hold. The raccoon circled the tuna, then edged up to it. One of its hind feet stepped into the loop, and Henry yanked his end. The animal squealed as the rope tightened around its leg. It jumped about and tried to run, but Henry held the rope firmly. He approached the animal from behind and slit its throat.
The raccoon’s meat, plus his canned provisions, would get him through the rest of his trip. He cooked the entire animal and ate. Then he packed the leftover meat deep inside his backpack and laid close by the fire so that he could stoke it throughout the night. He slept restfully again, with a full belly and one concern allayed.
◊◊◊
The city he passed the next morning was deserted like most. There was no ANTI- grid in it, and therefore no ANTs. He stopped on a rise just north of it and took out his binoculars. He spent a brief time gazing into different sections of the city. Then he lowered the binoculars and stood solemnly above the decrepit buildings and empty streets. He had changed. He was no longer fifteen years old, because he was no longer defined by age. He was experience. He was confidence. He was my son, and he had become a man.
21.
H enry’s walk became routine-like. One step after another. He would refer to his map every few miles, matching landmarks to maintain his direction. Meals were necessary, as was rest. The monotony of the trek was gratifying to me. It meant that he was avoiding conflict, in whatever form it might come.
There were a few close-calls. On the fourth morning, as he was putting out his fire, he heard human voices. A group of them. He steeled himself and listened intently. They were close. And they sounded like hunters. Like before. But they passed without discovering him, and he never saw them again.
That same day, in the afternoon, he crossed the path of a bobcat. He saw its fresh tracks in the dry dirt. Through his binoculars, he could see the animal in the distance. Creeping away from him. He adjusted his direction slightly and kept walking. Henry the journeyman.
◊◊◊
As the sun set on his last night, he appeared disgusted and frustrated. He was only two miles from the farm, but he couldn’t dare walk any further. The darkness would remove all advantage he had against the animal world.
He didn’t sleep well that night. So close. “She’s alive, son. Just get to her tomorrow.”
He was packed as the first rays of sun broke through the treetops above him. He looked at the map one more time, but he knew where he was going. His surroundings had become familiar. He set off, walking faster for the final leg of his trip. So much had gone wrong since he had left home, but at least he could save his mother. At least he would have that to keep himself alive.
22.
H enry stood later that morning at the farm’s gate, as if to absorb his accomplishment before it might be ruined if his mother was not still waiting. But she was. I went to her for the last time, and saw her lying in her bed, as she had been for so long. Frail and weak, but waiting. Her will was a marvel. I felt calm wash over my being.
Then I was gone again. And this time, I was gone forever.
EPILOGUE: STILL ALIVE
M y head hurts. Not a sharp pain. Dull, but all over. I can hear a voice. A woman. She’s saying my name, but she’s quiet about it. I’m dreaming. I know it because I can see my mother. But it’s not her voice. Even though it’s so familiar. I try to connect the two. The image with the sound. But they don’t. They won’t. God, my head hurts. Maybe I can just keep sleeping and the pain will go away...
The one constant in my dream-state is sunlight. A lot of dreams happen at night. Like when you’re being chased by someone. For me, that’s always at night. But not lately. Everything has been during the daytime.
One was a picnic, with some of my school friends from so long ago. My brother was there, too. We were by a river that flowed so much faster than any river I’d ever seen. The boys started daring one another to jump in. To see if they could swim back to shore. I knew I could do it, so I stepped to the edge. Before they even knew I was there. I was getting ready to jump when someone else ran past me, splashing into the water. I thought it was him, but the scene faded away before I could tell for sure.
“Hey!” It’s a man’s voice this time. Hushed and wispy, but definitely a man. “Hey! Wake up!” I try to open my eyes. They feel like they’ve been sewn shut. And my head still hurts.
Then I hear the familiar woman’s voice again. “What are you doing here? Leave her alone.”
“I’m here to help,” the man answers. “But I’ve got to make sure she’s ok first. Got it?”
“Yeah, ok, got it. You’re here, right now, to help us. I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says.
Who is that? Someone recent. I’m searching my ailing brain. If I could just open my eyes, everything would become clear.
I start to hear whispers from close by. The two of them are talking about something. Come on, eyes, open!
Footsteps. Hard boots echoing through a long hallway. Then the creak of a door opening, and the crash of it slamming shut.
I’m falling again. Another sleep. More daytime dreams.
The door is creaking back open. It wakes me up. It didn’t before. Hey, my eyes are open. I blink rapidly to make sure.
I’m in a gray room. The first thing I see is the ceiling. It’s painted cement, cracked in places. The walls are made of cinder-blocks, stacked and cemented on top of each other.
I raise my head. It’s not hurting anymore, but my body screams in defiance at my movement. I look to one side, toward the noise of the door. There are horizontal bars, like our room at the camp. Camp Overlord. A sense of relief comes over me.
I try to sit up, fighting my body’s instin
ct to remain still. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before. Sharp pains in the middle of my body. I’m on my hands, struggling to inhale, but breathing. He appears outside the bars, in my peripheral vision.
“Good!” he says excitedly, but still in a quiet tone. “You’re awake!”
He pulls out a key and unlocks the cell door, sliding it sideways.
“Take it slow with her,” the woman’s voice says from across the corridor. It’s Anna – that’s who it is. I open my mouth to say her name, but my throat stiffens and I can’t speak.
The man sits at the foot of my bed. He puts his hands in the air. The classic “I mean no harm” signal. This is not Camp Overlord. This is somewhere I don’t want to be. I guard myself against him.
“Hello, Jessica,” he says, disarmingly. “I’m Jacob. And I’m going to get you out of here.”
About the Author
Judd Vowell is a writer and musician who studied history and religion at Auburn University. He lives in Huntsville, Alabama, with his wife and son. Overthrown: The Great Dark is his debut novel.