The Savants

by Patrick Kendrick

  Harvey had become so isolated and ostracized by the other children, as well as by the caretakers, that eventually the decision was made to move him to some other place—at least during the day—where he could spout his gibberish and no one would mind. They took him to a nursing home for elderly people, most of whom had also been abandoned by their families. There, they believed he would find people who enjoyed listening to his shared stories, were patient with his speech and behavioral challenges, and appreciated the company. When he couldn’t find anyone willing to listen, however, he took to meandering to the common room where they parked patients with dementia, and he would converse with them for hours, even if they were just staring at the wall, folded over in their wheelchairs, drooling on themselves. In fact, he seemed to seek these people out as they were the easiest to talk to and didn’t seem to mind his “problems.”

  After several months, the driver who transported Harvey to and from the nursing home died in an automobile crash, and no one came to retrieve the troublesome boy. He didn’t mind. By then, he had befriended a few of the nurses and had free run of the place for the next two years. The old folks were almost constantly dying off, and he would find an empty room and sleep there. The cafeteria served a buffet style meal, and he helped himself to it whenever he liked.

  A kindly, old widow named Louise ran the cafeteria and felt sorry for Harvey. She made sure he got extra biscuits or pie or whatever treat she could find for him. He came to think of her as a sort of mother. He’d never known his parents, the couple who had abandoned him at the asylum after their family doctor had advised them that, “Harvey should be institutionalized as he will never be normal and, in all likelihood, will not live very long, anyway.”

  One day, he was in the cafeteria, waiting in line for food, when he saw a commotion unfolding in the back of the kitchen. He noticed several of the cooks and nursing staff looking at something on the floor, their hands clasped over their mouths, shaking their heads as if looking at a kitten that had been run over. Harvey, naturally curious, inched around the crowd to see what they were looking at and was surprised to find Louise lying on the floor, her usual ruddy cheeks pale; her lips blue. He pushed through the crowd of cafeteria workers, patients, and ill-trained staff, and felt her pulse. There wasn’t one, and she wasn’t breathing.

  Harvey looked up at a nurse who was standing by, and said, “She’s had a…a…damn, damn, he…heh…hell…heart attack. Go get the du…du…damn, damn, doctor, you twit!” The nurse blanched from his verbal assault, but ran off to find the facility’s singular attending physician. Harvey began doing CPR, having read how to perform the procedure in one of the many medical texts he’d perused.

  When the nurse could not find the doctor, she returned instead with other members of the staff and a medical crash cart. By then, Harvey was soaked with sweat from his resuscitation efforts, and panting and grunting more than ever. The nurses told him to back away, they would handle it now. Harvey did as he was told, but watched the nurses as they fumbled through the medical supplies and conversed about how to start the defib-ree-ulator. One of them kept trying to start an IV, but her inexperience crippled her and she kept missing the vein with the needle. They were taking so long.

  His breathing recovered, Harvey grew anxious and impatient. Wordlessly, he managed to push past the fumbling nurses and grabbed the defibrillator. He ripped open Louise’s dress—onlookers gasped—and told everyone to stay back as he charged the electric paddles of the machine. One of the nurses tried to stop him, so he held the paddles out in from of him, like shields, and told her to, “bu…bu…back away.” She did.

  Harvey placed the paddles on Louise’s chest. He watched the image on the screen; it showed a squiggly green line with fine bumps, which Harvey recognized as ventricular fibrillation—a severe, sometimes deadly rhythm, but one that could be reversed with an electrical shock. He recalled the initial jolt was supposed to be two hundred joules. He turned the switch on the machine to the mark that read “200,” placed the paddles where they would deliver an electrical shock that would transverse Louse’s heart (as indicated in the journals), and delivered the first defibrillation. When nothing happened, he turned the machine up to three hundred joules and delivered another one. This time, Louise’s eyes opened wide, and she gasped.

  “Ox…ox…y…gen,” Harvey stammered. Now, the nurses seemed to be listening—they were certainly more cooperative. One of them put an oxygen mask on Louise, while another finally got an IV started. Then, they seemed unsure of what to do. One of them yelled, “Call an ambulance!” But Harvey knew Louise was not out of the woods, yet. He turned and dug through the medical supplies until he found a syringe filled with Lidocaine. He remembered it to be what the medical books called an antiarrhythmic drug used to stabilize a heart that has returned to function. He also remembered the dose (one milligram per kilogram) and, even as some of the nurses told him to stop—he didn’t know what he was doing!—he drew up 70 milligrams and pushed it into the IV hub. Harvey told one of the nurses to follow up the Lidocaine bolus with a maintenance IV drip of one gram of Lidocaine to 250 milliliters of D5W. The nurse complied, and Louise stabilized.

  The ambulance arrived along with the police. Several of the nurses talked to them, pointing at Harvey, and a policeman eventually approached. “You’re going to have to come with me, young man,” said the policeman. And so, Harvey was arrested for the first, but not the last, time in his life. He was eleven years old.

  He was charged with loitering, as he was not supposed to be in the facility in the first place, and assault, which was downgraded to disturbing the peace. He was also initially charged with practicing medicine without a license, but that was downgraded as well, to “interfering with a medical professional” and, finally, thrown out after the judge reviewed what Harvey had done to save Louise’s life.

  Harvey was placed in a juvenile detention center where he was beat up almost every day. Sensing he would not last long in the hostile environment, he managed to check out every book he could on the subject of Aikido while on rare outings at the public library. Aikido is performed by blending one’s movement with the motion of the attacker and redirecting the force of the attack, rather than opposing it head-on. This requires very little physical strength, perfect for Harvey as he was physically weaker than most boys his age. As he was attacked daily, he had an abundance of opportunities with which to hone his new skill and became so good he was eventually left alone.

  After a few months, Louise recovered and found him at the detention center. She pleaded with the social director in charge of the center to let her take Harvey home. The director, by then frustrated and maddened by Harvey’s daily barrage of insults and profanity, was all too ready to allow Harvey to leave.

  At twelve years old, Harvey finally had a home and a family.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  In New York, as in most of the eastern seaboard cities, those who had not begun to evacuate were either at stores trying to buy essentials for survival, or hesitantly going to work, hoping it was all a hoax, an exaggeration, or some sort of colossal mistake. But, for those who were not in a full blown panic, it was difficult to do anything, go anywhere, and find any semblance of normalcy.

  Hordes of people, unsure whether to pick up and run, gather their loved ones, or just go to work, hovered like dementia patients, shuffling along sidewalks and locking on to any television set in public view that might give them some impetus to make a decision. Hundreds stood outside electronics stores, or sat drinking in sports bars, watching big screen televisions display minute by minute coverage of a nation succumbing to anarchy and fear.

  “Good Morning America, if I can truly say that. I’m David Reynolds. My co-anchor, Debra Holstein, is out today,” reported Reynolds, a noticeable look of worry on his face. His typically modeled hair was slightly askew, his impeccable suit appeared rumpled; his tie, loose.

  “Reports coming in from analysts of the impending disaster—and let
me add, there’s still no agreement as to when it will happen—claim New York is most likely the worst place to be right now. Gas supplies ran out within hours of the Vice President’s announcement yesterday morning, and highways and interstates are at a dead standstill. The National Guard has begun to respond, but there seems to be too few guardsmen to be effective in controlling the situation.” Reynolds paused to take a breath, his typically stoic and unbiased expressions appearing unusually difficult to manage. “There are widespread reports of looting already,” he continued, “and, while a press conference is scheduled for this morning, we still have not heard from President Cooper. Now, we turn to international field correspondent Stewart Cunningham in London, to hear what other countries are making of our dilemma and what, if anything, they plan to do to help. Stewart?”

  The television images switched to a correspondent standing in front of Big Ben in London, his hair mussed from the wind as he held a microphone to his mouth. “Thank you, David,” he began. “Just fifteen minutes ago, I spoke to Prime Minster Talbot, and he confirmed he has been talking with U.S. President Cooper throughout the night and has committed to send up to thirty thousand armed troops to the U.S. While he could not confirm details, Talbot stated the President has been talking to other world leaders who have offered assistance, including America’s neighbors, the Canadian and Mexican governments, and that a massive, worldwide rescue and relief effort is under way. Here’s a clip from that interview…”

  Prime Minister Alfred Talbot, a distinguished looking man in his fifties, was standing in front of the Parliament building as the correspondent conducted the interview. The Prime Minister had been trying to reach his waiting car, but was stopped briefly to calm the barrage of reporters who’d approached.

  “I’ve only a minute,” said Talbot, “but, well, yes, the United States has historically been first in line when disaster struck in virtually every country in the world. They have been steadfast allies with England. Damn right we’re going to help, and I hope every nation that has ever received help from the U.S. remembers we owe them…and it’s time to repay that debt. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  “Prime Minister,” asked an off-screen reporter, “can you speak to the subject of political unrest that exists between the President and the Vice President?”

  Talbot was almost in the door of his car when he twirled back to address the question. “Honestly, I can’t,” he answered. “It seems rather obvious the Vice President and the President are not on the same page, but I stand with President Cooper. He is a man I know and trust, and that’s all there is to that.”

  Stewart Cunningham turned back to the cameras. “There you have it, David. So, it seems the U.S. does have assistance on the way. But the question is: Will help arrive in time? David?”

  The scene returned to anchorman Reynolds as he continued his broadcast. “Thank you, Stewart, for that report. This just in, it has been confirmed that Canada has offered ten thousand troops, and they are already crossing the border into the New England area where President Cooper is believed to be…but, in the streets of New York, Baltimore, and Washington, D.C., the outlook is not as comforting as riots and looting continue…”

  The scene changed again, and videos, many of which were being sent in by citizens with camera phones, showed total bedlam. People everywhere were fighting—individually and in crowds—stealing cars, and pushing postal workers out of their trucks. Windows were smashed, and screams and shouting filled the streets. The sounds of gunfire echoed between buildings and through alleys. Policemen tried to stop the chaos, but were quickly overcome by mobs of people. Tear gas floated through the air like a blistering fog. Fire fighters tried to push the crowds back with high-pressure hoses, and the mobs overcame them, too, pushing them to the ground and stealing their fire trucks as anarchy grew. Civility had become a luxury that’d dissipated like spilled alcohol.

  ***

  Vice President Proger once again stood in front of a row of microphones, a cadre of reporters thronging the lawn in front of him. It was a bold move to stand in front of the White House—the President’s official home—but, he had gotten word the President’s family had been whisked away in the night. Besides, he’d had some of his own army move into D.C. to “help secure the growing unrest.” People noted the new soldiers didn’t wear traditional uniforms but, gripped by fear and anxiety, that was the least of their worries. Even the media didn’t seem to notice or care about the origins of these troops, perhaps because the general thinking was that international troops were on their way to help, and these men must be part of the relief and rescue efforts.

  This was Proger’s attempt to spoil the broth a bit more, create enough doubt among the citizens to make them want a new leader, someone with a plan, someone who could save them. Still, Proger appeared nervous as he began his speech.

  “These are troubling times,” he began, a somber expression upon his face. “While we continue to await word from President Cooper, we’ve heard what you’ve heard; that he is holed up at a research facility, working with mentally challenged patients who are trying to come up with a recovery plan. I want to assure the American people that we, myself and other members of Congress, are doing everything we can to mitigate this disaster. People are evacuating, and we are aware of multitudes of traffic jams and fuel shortages. We ask you to be patient. State militias are moving into the most affected areas, and assistance will be forthcoming. You might have already seen these groups of soldiers—our soldiers—moving in, and I ask that you let them do what they are trained to do. I say again, if you are fifty miles or more inland, you should be safe from the tidal surge. If you live in areas outside of the projected target areas, please assist your fellow countrymen as they make their way out to you. Keep tuned to your televisions and radios for additional information.

  “I will be leaving immediately for St. Louis to meet with members of the Senate and House to continue our mitigation and recovery plan. Please try not to panic. We are in this together, and we will help you. God bless and help us all.”

  Proger darted away before any of the news people could ask questions. He walked briskly out to a helicopter waiting for him on the lawn as the reporters first shouted after him, then looked confused and began to dissipate, their questions once again unanswered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The surface of the ocean bubbled, turning from turquoise to muddy brown, as six hundred feet below, a line of submarines steadily fired the specially-designed torpedoes into the crumbling continental shelf. Giant slabs of the underwater cliff fell away into the rise’s own crevice that dug into the earth like a deep scar. The shelf slowly decreased in size, its mass grew smaller, foot by precious foot. Massive shock waves rocked the submarines and their crews, but they continued their seemingly endless task.

  The water was so dense with rock, sand, and debris that operations were performed exclusively by sonar. Inside the SS Virginia, the crew was jostled back and forth like dolls tossed by an angry child. They were soaked with sweat, and most of them were scared witless. This was not a mission any of them had trained for, but they continued the job with intrepid doggedness. One of the seamen adjusted a picture of his girlfriend that had fallen onto his keyboard. The sub commander saw him and strode over. He could see the sailor was shaken.

  “I…I’m sorry, sir. I know we’re not supposed to keep personal items in the Ops room.”

  “S’okay,” said the commander. “A submarine’s got room for everything but mistakes. Let’s not make any today.”

  The seaman nodded and went back to adjusting controls at his station.

  The commander turned to his crew. “Keep at it, fellas. I think we’re actually cutting that monster down to size! Navigation?”

  Over the ship’s comm system, a tinny voice came through, “Navigation, sir.”

  “Stay with the plan,” said the commander, “but keep us back another five hundred yards. If we knock a big chunk off that thing, it could pull us
down with it. Understand?”

  “Understood, sir. The sonar, though, sir, is showing one of our fleet within one hundred yards of the precipice.”

  The commander frowned, looking into the sonar screen. “What the hell is he doing?”

  “Looks like he’s lining up for another shot, sir,” answered the navigator, his voice edgy.

  “Who is it?” the commander shouted, showing his agitation.

  “Uh, this is Comm, sir,” the intercom crackled. “It appears to be the Tennessee.”

  “Radio him, immediately. Tell him not to fire at that range!”

  “Sir,” the voice over the comm suddenly full of urgency, “I’m seeing their torpedoes are already in the tubes…wait…they pushed the launch!”

  “Command to engineering, reverse!” the commander bellowed. “I repeat, reverse all engines, hard.”

  The SS Tennessee fired its torpedoes at the wall of the shelf, and the impact was immediate and catastrophic. A gigantic wall of rock collapsed, some of it sliding downward, while a massive part the size of Mount Rushmore toppled forward. The wall fell slowly at first, but quickly picked up momentum that stirred the sea and created a sucking vortex akin to an underwater tornado.

  The Tennessee crew noticed their mistake, but it was too late. Even as their commander ordered a full reverse, the first “small” pieces of the wall—chunks as big as school buses—began raining down on the hull of the sub. Then, the rest of it came, like the giant hand of an angry God, and slammed down on the SS Tennessee, crushing it and pulling it into the bottomless crevice, as if it were nothing but a plastic, bathtub toy. As it descended, rapidly, its hull crushed, and explosions belched from the ship as air squeezed out. Within seconds, it spun out of sight.