Overthrown II: The Resurrected (Overthrown Trilogy Book 2)

by Judd Vowell

  ΔΔΔ

  My physical strength had instantly returned when I heard the dog’s pleading bark. I stood up and started walking delicately out onto the pile of wood and sheetrock and bricks, taking time to choose my steps. Soon enough, I was nearly on top of the animal’s sound. I picked up the mangled 2-by-4s covering the muffled barks, tossing them aside as best I could. The rubble was deep and my progress seemed slow at first. Then I heard Henry behind me.

  “Mom?!?” He had come back through the undamaged portion of the house and was standing in the kitchen’s doorway. He was angry with me, but astounded at the same time. “What in the world are you doing out there?”

  I raised up from my work and glanced over my shoulder at him. “Henry, come help me.” I was out of breath, exhausted from the digging. It was difficult to speak, and I began coughing, so much so that I couldn’t tell him why I was doing what I was doing.

  “This is ridiculous, Mother.” He was making his way toward me as he was saying it. I hated it when he called me that proper maternal name, meant to belittle me.

  “Son, stop! You don’t understand.” I had regained my composure and a bit of my spirit. “There’s a dog under here. Trapped. She’s begging for help, Henry.”

  He must have recognized the overpowering sympathy I was feeling. And maybe he felt some of it, too. As if on cue, the dog let out a desperate yelp after a few seconds of our silence. Without any more words of resistance, Henry came to my side and began to help.

  With Henry’s assistance, we were able to remove the garage’s wreckage swiftly. When the imprisoned dog finally saw us, I think that she had a smile on her face. Dogs can do that, show emotion. Maybe that’s why people love them so much. It was impossible to see what color or breed she might be, as she was caked in mud and soaking wet from the storm. Henry carefully laid on his chest and reached into the hole that held her. She whimpered when he grabbed hold of her midsection, but she didn’t fight back. She was a medium-sized animal, but small enough that I was able to grasp her when Henry placed her in my arms. She began licking my face with joy, whining from the back of her throat while she did it.

  “It’s okay, baby,” I told her. “You’re alright now.”

  “Safe to say she’s happy you found her, Mom. You’re a lucky girl, did you know that?” Henry said as he put his hand on the dog’s head.

  “I think we all needed a little luck today, didn’t we, girl? Everybody could use a second chance.”

  “Not a bad name for her, Mom, all things considered.”

  “Henry, I think ‘Lucky’ is a little cliché, don’t you?” But then it hit me, the name he was thinking. It wasn’t ‘Lucky’ at all. And neither was this dog. Instead, she was like me, gifted something from somewhere or someone greater than either of us. We were both given a chance to do more.

  I looked down at the rescued dog, who was beginning to calm herself against my soothing body, and I named her right then and there. “We’re gonna be alright, Chance. Because you and me – we’re survivors.”

  9.

  C hance was a puppy when the afternoon tornado brought her to us. We realized it after we bathed her. Just like Streak so many years before, her paws were much too big for the rest of her. And I knew she was a Lab once the storm’s mud and dirt were washed away, the kind they called yellow, even though her fur was more of a creamy butterscotch color. She was too lean for her frame but not yet malnourished. We fed her rabbit meat when she was clean, and she fell into a peaceful sleep afterward on my lap. I was in love.

  Henry worked to clean up the tornado’s aftermath for the next few weeks, while I refocused on my healing. I offered to help him every day, but he refused. “What else have I got to do, Mom?” he would ask. “Save your strength for yourself,” he would advise. He reminded me so much of Gordon, and he made me so proud.

  Chance followed me everywhere I went, always on my heels. She was full of energy, as much an inspirational playmate as a loyal companion. Instead of sitting on the back porch whenever I made my outdoor journeys, I found myself playing with her, barefoot in the grass. Throwing a stick or an old tennis ball, watching her run laps around the farm’s endless lay of land. As the temperature cooled with the onset of fall, I started spending more time outside, even practicing my yoga in the fresh air. Chance would watch me while I did it, sitting with a curious look on her face and tilting her head at me in bewilderment.

  Autumn passed quickly and colder weather soon settled over us. Henry had drawn out a homemade calendar for the remainder of the year when he got back from his journey, and we marked off the days as they came and went. It helped, giving us a sense of control over time. And although the days were repetitive and monotonous, time still moved by swiftly. Thanksgiving came, with my birthday only two days after. Henry wanted to celebrate with a special meal. He cooked the dish that his father had perfected before their journey: rabbit stew. It was as good as Gordon’s. Henry’s skillset continued to grow with independence and necessity.

  It snowed three days before Christmas, a date that I had been dreading. My twins had been born on a white Christmas morning sixteen years before, although the memory of their birth felt so much closer than that. I missed Jessica every day, but her sixteenth birthday was going to be harder than the others. And I knew Henry would be hurting as well, with an extra reminder that his closest connection to humanity was still gone.

  I woke up on Christmas morning with Chance cozied up next to me, something that had become commonplace since she arrived. But we had another bedmate that day: Henry, sleeping soundly even though the sun’s reflection off the snow was piercing through the windows and illuminating my bedroom brighter than normal. I stared at him in his slumber, not wanting to disturb him. But soon he stirred, still in a dream but fighting to get out. His mouth began to form words, his voice making noises. “No! Wait...wait!” And then he was awake, startled and disoriented.

  “It’s alright, baby,” I soothed him, reaching over Chance and putting my hand on his face. “You’re ok. You’re with me, at the farm.”

  He laid back without a word and closed his eyes, falling asleep again without trouble. I never asked him about his nightmare that morning. I just prayed that he would never remember it.

  ΔΔΔ

  The spring brought hope with its warmer temperatures and blooming flowers. I had felt the tumor loosening its hold on my spine ever since Chance’s arrival, but I didn’t say anything to Henry. I didn’t want to jinx it. And then, one morning with a bright sun waking me from a deep sleep, it was gone. I knew it. I could feel it. I had won again, defeating a cancer that was somehow more powerful the second time around. I was elated, but I lay in bed to savor the moment before I told Henry. My body was finally without disease again. I cried tears of true happiness.

  When I was done quietly celebrating my personal victory, I jumped to my feet. “C’mon, Chance.” She perked up, ready to follow me wherever I might go. “Let’s go tell Henry the big news.”

  I smelled the eggs mixed with tomatoes and corn cooking as I walked down the stairs. Henry had become an expert at making our food taste and smell good without the flavorings of butter and salt and pepper. His breakfast specialty was what he called “veggie eggies” – a scramble with canned vegetables of his choice from the basement stock. I realized as I entered the kitchen that I was starving.

  “Morning, Henry,” I said gleefully as I put my arms around him and squeezed. Chance, jealous of the attention, whined at my feet.

  “Whoa, Mom. What’s with the touchy-feely stuff?” He raised his arms as he said it, pulling away from me like a typical teen.

  “What? Your mom can’t give you a hug every now and then?” I backed away and went to the table, pulling out a chair and sitting. I stretched my legs and put my hands behind my head. I felt more at ease than I had in more than a year.

  “No, no, no. I didn’t say that. Of course you can. It just surprised me, that’s all. What’s got you so happy anyway?”

/>   “Oh, I don’t know,” I said playfully. “Could be the spring weather. The sound of life waking up from hibernation.”

  “What are you talking about?” He smiled, catching on to my whimsical answer. “What’s going on?”

  I couldn’t hold out any longer. I straightened in my chair, grinning as I said it. “It’s gone, Henry.”

  He knew without explanation. “Are you serious?” he asked. I nodded rapidly in reply. He ran over to me and picked me up in a bear hug, lifting my feet from the ground. “I can’t believe it! You did it, Mom, you really did it!”

  “Not without you,” I told him.

  He set me down, a look of disbelief overtaking his face. My stomach began to growl, loud enough that we both could hear it.

  “Now, get me a plate of those eggs,” I said, laughing. “I feel like I could eat a horse.”

  10.

  W ith my cancer beaten, I was finally able to help Henry with our survival. One early spring morning, I walked the entire farm with him, retracing paths that I hadn’t traveled since I was a child. It was a difficult task in my still weakened state, but it felt necessary. I needed the little accomplishments more than ever.

  He showed me the giant garden he had prepared for planting that year. He took me to the traps he kept set for the wild animals we regularly ate. And he revealed the destruction left by the tornado from months before, a swath of barren ground and uprooted trees that ran through the middle of our land.

  “I want to work the garden,” I told him, as we walked back to the house that day. “I want to focus on growth. And I’m not sure that I could handle killing an animal right now.”

  “I understand, Mom.”

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn how to shoot,” I said. “Will you teach me?”

  “Of course I will.” A smirk suddenly ran across his mouth. I could see it out of the corner of my eye.

  “What’s that about?” I asked.

  “Oh, nothing.” He hesitated for a few seconds before he spoke again. “I was just thinking to myself...if Jessica was here, you and I wouldn’t have to worry about shooting anything. She could handle that all on her own.”

  Henry had told me before about Jessica’s shooting prowess on their journey, even though it was against his will. I was pleased to see him finally smiling at the memories instead, letting his hardened emotions soften a little. “She was that good, huh?” I asked.

  “She was a natural, Mom. Just flat-out flawless. She saved me, more than once. And if it hadn’t been for a bit of bad luck, she would’ve saved herself.”

  “About that,” I said, deciding I was strong enough to hear the details of our new global enemies. “I think it’s time you tell me more about the people who did this to us. The people in the grid. And especially the people who killed her.”

  Henry thought for a moment. “Yeah, ok. But you have to stop referring to them as ‘people,’ Mom.” He stopped walking, turning to look at me. “They don’t qualify.”

  ΔΔΔ

  To me, the scariest aspect of ANTI- was their determination. Henry described the hours he and Jessica spent under their control, followed by what they saw while they escaped the ANTs’ powered grid. Apparently, ANTI- was using military-grade weapons and tactics to defend their territories. And they were sinister in their protection, destroying anything and anyone who threatened their new way of life without question or consideration.

  And then there was the woman who killed Jessica. She sounded like a psychopath. A bitch filled with the purest sort of evil. She treated my children like hardened soldiers when she captured them, then tricked them into almost certain death. Henry said that Jessica had shot her, in the face no less. But that the woman had probably survived. I had never felt such scorn for another person like I did as he described her.

  “The thing I don’t understand though, Mom, is ‘why’?” Henry said, obviously struggling to understand ANTI‑’s motives. “The ‘how’ is hard enough to believe: tens of millions of people across the planet secretly organizing to take over the world. But what I’ve been grappling with is the ‘why’. With so many good people in this world, so many innocent people at stake, how could they possibly justify what they’ve done?”

  I tried to conjure up some parental wisdom. “Henry, there’s one thing that life has taught me, from Grandma dying to Jessica’s and your prematurity to this Great Dark: sometimes logic goes out the window. And some things just can’t be explained, especially the ones that hurt the most.” Then I said something that I had never put into words, but that made so much sense out of so many problems, whether it helped or not. “No matter how much good there may be in this world, Henry, there will always be a powerful evil trying to extinguish it. Don’t ever forget that.”

  11.

  I spent mornings tending the large garden Henry had prepared, Chance at my side while I worked. The daily task gave me purpose and focus, two things I had desperately craved while fighting the vicious tumor that was trying to kill me. We grew giant stalks of corn, sweet potatoes buried underground, and vines full of orangey-red tomatoes. There were beans and peppers and turnips with leafy greens. There was something to do every day, even if it was something as basic as checking for bugs and worms trying to steal the health from our crops. I loved it.

  Henry handled securing the meat we ate. He had become quite accomplished at trapping wild game, from rabbit and raccoon to animals as large as coyotes. I know that may sound like questionable choices, but choice becomes secondary in times of survival. We learned to not discriminate when it came to protein, and our taste buds adjusted without much defiance. The better meals came after he hunted and killed bird or deer. He even trained Chance to retrieve the animals he shot. It was the only time she would leave my side.

  Henry taught me to shoot a rifle and shotgun, as promised. He would set up targets for me, just like his father had done for him and Jessica before their journey. Empty vegetable cans proved difficult to hit, especially as Henry moved me further away from them. He was a stickler about wasted ammunition, so whenever I could hit five targets in a row, he would move me back ten feet. After just a few weeks, I had gotten pretty good. But I still refused to shoot for our food. For good reason, I thought. I had taken life once before, in frantic self-defense, and though I hadn’t told Henry, the memory still haunted me.

  One day after our afternoon gun practice, I broached the subject of the man I had killed in my bedroom while I was sick and alone. My memories from that period were sparse and vague, but I remembered killing the intruder clearly.

  “I need to talk about something, Henry,” I told him as we sat on our back porch, drinking fresh spring-water. “I need to say something aloud that’s very hard for me.”

  He sat in silence, which was the right thing to do.

  “I killed a man,” I continued. “While you and your father and sister were gone, I was attacked. It was all I could do. I shot him.”

  Henry looked down at the wood-planked floor below him. “I know, Mom,” he said. “What do you think happened to the body?”

  I hadn’t even given it that much thought. I should have, but I didn’t. Henry had done so much before I even knew he had returned. Of course he had taken care of the man’s corpse. And then never mentioned it to me at all.

  “Why didn’t you say something?” I pleaded. “Henry, you should have said something.”

  He looked at me the way he had so many times since he had been back. With a deep look of maturity far beyond his age. “I was hoping you had forgotten it ever happened, Mom.”

  I wished I had forgotten, too. But I wasn’t so fortunate. And what I didn’t know then was that the man in my bedroom wouldn’t be the last person I would ever kill. Not by a longshot.

  12.

  T he three of us existed by routine for a long while. Working, providing, staying alive. It was instinct. No longer moving toward a better life, as humans had done for many generations. We just focused on maintaining
, never knowing what the next day or week or month might have in store. I imagined centuries-old Native American tribes existing the same somewhat peaceful way, long before European invaders forced them to live otherwise.

  On top of his hunting and trapping duties, Henry had tasked himself with cleaning up the destroyed garage as best he could. Little by little, he transferred the debris to an area a good distance away from the house, organizing it into tidy stacks based on their material. Wood, brick, and sheetrock each had their place, with the more meaningful items separated and salvaged if possible. There was the old board game called Life that had been mine when I was a kid, somehow still intact when Henry discovered it beneath the rubble. And there was the scrapbook full of pictures from Christmases past, just barely water-damaged from the storm. Each year, we would celebrate the traditional holiday in the morning, then hurriedly take down decorations so that Jessica and Henry could have their separate birthday recognition that same evening. The day Henry found those pictures was a good one.

  I stayed committed to my yoga, and my physical strength returned much faster than I thought it would. Yoga also kept my mind eased, and the stresses of our new life at bay. I continued to read voraciously from the farm’s vast selection of books. I found myself completing two or three books a week, something I had always dreamed of doing but never imagined I could. If our lot in life was destined to remain stagnant, at least my spirit and mind would continue to grow. That was something I leaned on when the sadness crept in.

  We still didn’t see people. There had been sightings when we first escaped to the farm, as the darkness enclosed us all for good. People had approached the gate at the end of the long driveway in the first months. Some had even attempted to climb over. But Gordon had been vigilant, manufacturing an archaic but effective security system with ropes and bells. Only once had we been alarmed, and Gordon was able to chase off the intruder with a shotgun blast. And then there had been the man who made it all the way to my bedroom.