by LeVar Burton
Rene stopped the video and shook her head. “I promise you that Irene McDaniels is no actress. If you look in the folders you will find complete medical reports from four of Atlanta’s top doctors. If Mrs. McDaniels is an actress, then she’s good enough to fool all four of them. She’s also talented enough to fake blood tests, X-rays and lab work. And as you can see by the reports, not only has she been cured of Parkinson’s disease, she has also been cured of colon cancer. Even the melanomas on her arms and the back of her neck have disappeared.”
She paused to allow the information to sink in. Several doctors flipped through the folders given to them, reading the day-by-day progress of five of Rene’s patients. The others stared intently at the charts displayed on the projection screen.
In the back row sat a large Caucasian man, powerfully built, his face and arms covered with a patchwork of dark brown skin grafts. Rene recognized the man, having seen his picture in numerous scientific journals. He was Dr. Randall Sinclair, one of the nation’s foremost authorities on the treatment of skin cancer. Dr. Sinclair made worldwide headlines three years ago when he invented “skin fusion,” a process of grafting skin from African-Americans, and other dark-skinned ethnic groups, onto Caucasians in order to increase skin pigmentation to stop the spread of skin cancer. The process was often effective, but it was very expensive and only the very wealthy could afford it.
The Neuro-Enhancer, on the other hand, was affordable and would be available to everyone. It was a cheap cure-all for the masses. With so many poor and dispossessed people dying from lack of even minimal health care, the Enhancer would go a long way toward bringing the country back together. If Rene never did another thing in her life, the Neuro-Enhancer would have made her existence meaningful.
It was Dr. Sinclair who finally broke the silence. “So you’re claiming that this device of yours”—he glanced at the papers in his hand and cleared his throat—“a Neuro-Enhancer, also attacks cancer cells?”
Rene shook her head. “Unlike chemotherapy and other common treatments, the Neuro-Enhancer does not directly attack cancer cells. Instead it stimulates the neurons of the human brain, activating regions not normally used. Those regions have a direct effect on a person’s health by not only increasing the body’s natural ability to fight off infection and disease, but promoting a process of regeneration as well. In other words, the Neuro-Enhancer allows the body to heal itself.”
She turned and aimed the laser pointer at the monitor displays on the projection screen. “This is the EKG and biorhythm of a normal mind at rest. Note the level of alpha, beta, theta and delta waves being produced. The alpha waves indicate the readiness of the cerebrum to respond to stimuli.”
Turning back around to the examination table, she switched on the Neuro-Enhancer. A soft hum could be heard, like the humming of a lazy bee. On the projection screen, the EKG showed a noticeable rise in the level of alpha and beta waves being produced inside Irene McDaniels’s head.
“The increase in alpha waves means that Mrs. McDaniels is now entering a deep state of mental relaxation, similar to the state one reaches right before going to sleep or while in deep meditation. At the same time, the rise in her Beta II waves indicates she is experiencing an intense period of mental activity.”
Rene faced the audience. “Obviously, one cannot be both relaxed and mentally active at the same time, not under normal circumstances. What is happening is that the electrical impulses passing between the neurons are now operating at three times their normal speed. The brain compensates for this overload by bringing more neurons and neural regions into play. In effect, Mrs. McDaniels is now using more of her brain, and technically has more brain power, than she did only moments before. Since she is not taking a test, reading or doing anything where mental power is required, the energy is directed to the areas where it is needed most: healing the body.”
“Are there any side effects?” asked a tall man with scarecrow-thin arms.
“None that we know of,” Rene lied. A few people had in fact experienced some rather peculiar side effects from using the Neuro-Enhancer. But since none of the effects were dangerous, she had chosen not to mention them in any of her reports.
She continued, “Doctors, I understand your feelings of doubt. In the past few years there have been a lot of so-called miracle cures, everything from herbal enemas to megadoses of vitamin C. Those cures were ineffective because they relied on an outside substance being introduced into the body. With the Neuro-Enhancer there is no outside element. It is not a vitamin, chemical, gas or radioactive isotope.” She glanced at Dr. Sinclair. “Nor does it require donor skin grafts. It uses one thing and one thing only: the power of the human mind.
“Mind over body is not a theory. It’s a fact. The Chinese have been incorporating it into their medicine for years; so have the American Indians and many South American and African tribes. Only Western cultures have ignored this important truth. We have lived in a world of prescription medicines and needless operations, closing and locking the door on the one true cure.” She pointed at the Neuro-Enhancer for effect “But now we have the key to unlock our minds, and rid society forever of sickness and disease.”
“So what’s the catch?” someone asked.
“Catch? There is no catch.” Rene set the pointer down. “But there is a problem. The Hawkins Neural Institute operates on a very limited budget. We need financial backing to finish development on the Neuro-Enhancer, which includes patent applications, seeking government approval and the production of additional models. For a modest investment sum your company will receive copies of all records concerning the project, including patient test data. You will also receive one fully functional, ready-to-use Neuro-Enhancer.”
“What exactly do you call modest?” asked an auburnhaired woman sitting in the front row. Rene wasn’t sure, but she thought the woman was the director of a cancer care clinic.
“I’ll be happy to provide price information to those who are interested,” Rene replied, setting the hook in a potential customer. “But I must add, this exclusive offer is for a limited time only. In six months we plan to go public with our findings.”
“How many Enhancers do you have now?” the woman asked.
Rene pointed at the prototype lying on the table. “Just the one.”
Chapter 3
Amy Ladue could not remember her parents. Nor did she know her exact age. She thought she was ten years old, but maybe she was only nine. She did remember, however, the earthquake that destroyed the city of St. Louis; she had been about three years old at the time. It was her earliest childhood memory.
On the morning of May 16, 2013, the New Madrid Fault in southern Missouri had shifted, sending shock waves racing in all directions. The first of those waves hit St. Louis at 4:32 in the morning, a time when most people were still in bed. Those that were up and about recalled a strange stillness, which settled over the city just prior to the earthquake. In the downtown area cleaning crews and police officers watched in awe as thousands of pigeons suddenly took flight, leaving behind statue and ledge. They circled the city once and then flew to the east, crossing the Mississippi River, seeking safety in the Illinois countryside. In the suburbs surrounding the city, crickets and tree frogs fell silent, their nocturnal serenades replaced by the eerie howling of hundreds of dogs. A few minutes later a deep rumbling could be heard, like the sound of distant thunder, as the first of the shock waves reached the area.
In the early morning darkness, the ground rippled and shook like a giant serpent flexing its muscles. Houses were tom from their foundations and smashed flat, while towering apartment buildings and gleaming high-rises collapsed upon themselves like giant stacks of cards. In the first thirty seconds of the earthquake over twenty thousand people died as their homes and apartments crumbled on top of them. Those not trapped beneath tons of concrete, wood and steel fled onto the streets.
There was no safety to be found in the streets, however, as hundreds of underground gas
lines exploded like artillery blasts, sending billowy clouds of orange flame high into the sky. Driven by the wind, the fire spread quickly through the residential areas. With water mains broken and the streets blocked with rubble, the fire departments could do nothing to stop the raging inferno. They could only stand by and watch as entire neighborhoods burned to the ground. Thousands of people trapped inside their homes perished in the flames.
The earthquake was no less devastating in the downtown area. Built upon a network of underground caverns, the city of St. Louis was unable to withstand such violent tremblings. As the ground shook and rolled, the roofs of several of the caverns collapsed, causing giant fissures to suddenly appear. People, automobiles, even entire buildings were swallowed up, never to be seen again.
While the land rose and fell, the mighty Mississippi—father of all American rivers—abruptly reversed its course and flowed north instead of south. The river overflowed its banks, the raging water roaring into the city and sweeping away everything in its path.
Only once before had the river reversed its course. On December 16, 1811, an equally powerful earthquake had rocked the area, causing the Mississippi to change direction and flow north for over one hundred miles. The epicenter of that quake was also the New Madrid Fault, located about 150 miles south of the city of St. Louis.
Seismographic records show that the earthquake of 2013 lasted only for a few minutes, but the damage and destruction it left behind would last forever. Gone were the museums, fine restaurants and historic buildings the city was known for. Even the Anheuser-Busch Brewery was no more. Gone too were the public utility buildings, police stations and fire houses. There was no electricity or fresh water, and the few hospitals still standing quickly filled to capacity with the injured and dying.
In the St. Louis area alone, fifty thousand people died and more than a million were left homeless. Broken and charred bodies were stacked in the streets like cordwood. Others were left to rot where they lay. The stench was incredible. Flies, rats and starving dogs fed on the bloated bodies, spreading sickness and disease throughout the city. Makeshift shelters were set up in some neighborhoods, but with shortages of food, water and medicine, and a complete lack of sanitary facilities, they became little more than places of pain and suffering, places to die.
Two days after the quake, a rescue team found Amy wandering alone through the streets, a naked little white girl with a fractured right arm. She was taken to a Red Cross field hospital, where she was given food and clothing and treated for her injuries. Not knowing her real identity, one of the officials at the hospital gave her the name Amy, for the nurse who found her, and Ladue, for the subdivision where she had been wandering. Amy didn’t remember what her real name had once been.
St. Louis, St. Charles, Little Rock, Memphis and several other cities were declared federal disaster areas; the government, however, was unable to cope with devastation of such magnitude—especially coming only six months after the riots that followed the assassination of President-elect Lawrence Everette. Too little, too late, that was the story. Frustrated and angry, many of those left homeless by the earthquake turned to looting in order to survive. Riots broke out, with the call of “Remember Everette” becoming the battle cry of the destitute.
While she didn’t recall her real name, Amy remembered the riots and the war. Sometimes, when she closed her eyes to sleep, she could still see the tanks and the bloody bodies of dead soldiers, could still hear the explosions of artillery rounds and the screams of women and children caught in the crossfire. She didn’t know why the black people and white people were fighting, couldn’t understand why they hated each other so much. All she knew was that mommies and daddies, even little babies, were being killed and that was a bad thing.
Now, standing on the bank of the Mississippi River, Amy felt her stomach rumble and tried to remember when she had eaten last. She thought it was yesterday, but it might actually have been the day before. If she went to one of the shelters for homeless children she might get something to eat—a sandwich maybe, or a bowl of soup. But she hated the shelters and even the thought of food could not get her to go there. The people who ran the shelters didn’t want to let the children leave once they fed them, locking the windows and doors at night so they couldn’t get out. They said that it was for their protection, to keep the little kids safe, but that wasn’t true. It was a whole lot safer sleeping on the streets than at the shelters.
Nighttime at the shelters was bad, real bad. The big kids, especially those in gangs, always picked on her and punched her when she didn’t do as they said. Some of them hit her for no reason at all, just to watch her cry. Amy didn’t belong to a gang, didn’t have anyone to protect her, so she had to do what she was told or get beat up. The big kids also made fun of her because she’d sometimes wet the bed when thunder shook the room. Amy couldn’t help it; she always thought the thunder was another earthquake, or a bomb going off.
Amy did learn how to swim at one of the shelters, which was a good thing. And she learned how to read. She wondered what Tom Sawyer—a character from a book she had read—would think about the Gateway Arch sticking up out of the middle of the river like a giant, twisted pretzel. The Arch had once stood on dry land, but that was before the earthquake made the Mississippi change its course. It now stuck up out of the water and boats had to be careful not to hit it
In the book, Tom Sawyer and his friend Huckleberry Finn had built a raft out of logs and sailed it down the Mississippi. One day she too would build such a raft and let it carry her far, far away. Maybe she would ride it all the way to Hawaii. She heard it was nice in Hawaii: sandy beaches, palm trees, lots of things to eat. They even had schools.
Amy had never been to school, but she had seen a picture of one. The school in the picture was a big gray building, with trees, green grass and a flagpole. She dreamed of one day going to school, riding on a big yellow bus, carrying her book bag and lunch box. She wondered what school kids had for lunch. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches were her favorite. They probably had real milk too, not the nastytasting powdered stuff they gave you at the shelters.
It would be so wonderful to go to school. She’d sit in the front of the classroom in her new, clean clothes and raise her hand whenever the teacher asked a question. Maybe the teacher would walk her home after school, or let Amy live in her house.
The little girl’s dreams of happiness faded as a dead cat floated past her, its swollen body bobbing along in the muddy river like a furry fishing cork.
With a heavy heart, Amy knew that she would never get to go to school. There were no schools. No classrooms. No teachers with bright smiles and happy eyes. All there was were dead cats, garbage, broken buildings and homeless people. God had raised his fist and punched the city flat, smashing forever her dreams. She would live on the streets and beg for food until she grew very, very old—if she didn’t get murdered or die of cancer first.
She watched the cat float away and felt tears form in her eyes. In another time, another place, the cat might have been loved, maybe owned by someone like her. Now it was just a dead thing, floating away to the sea. She wished she too could float away … far, far away.
Amy heard a cough and turned. A short, bald-headed man walked down the hill toward her. He was a white man, but on top of his bald head were several patches of black skin. The man was a zebra, which was what you called a white person who had a black person’s skin glued on. Not that they really looked like zebras, which were horses with stripes, that’s just what everybody called them. Only rich people could afford to be zebras. Poor people had to get by with open sores and funny-looking moles covering their bodies.
“Lovely day for a picnic, isn’t it?” said the bald man as he approached her. Amy took a step back. On the streets it paid not to trust people.
The man, who was dressed in very clean clothes—black pants and a blue shirt—sat down on an old car tire near the water’s edge. He carried a brown paper bag, which he pla
ced on the ground beside him. Curious, she watched as he opened the bag and removed two sandwiches wrapped in plastic. One he set on top of the bag, the other he unwrapped and began to eat. Amy felt her stomach rumble again.
After a minute, the man looked back and saw her standing there. “Would you like to join me?” He patted a patch of bare ground beside him. “I have plenty of food and I don’t mind sharing.” When Amy didn’t respond, he smiled. “Please, picnics are no fun when there’s just one.” He picked up the uneaten sandwich and held it out to her. “It’s peanut butter and jelly.”
Amy looked at the man, who was obviously rich and seemed very nice, and then looked at the peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Her favorite.
Deciding that the man could be trusted, she accepted his offer, sitting down on the ground next to him. “Thank you,” Amy said, unwrapping the sandwich he gave her.
“Not at all. Not at all,” the bald man replied around gooey mouthfuls of peanut butter and jelly. “Only too happy to share.” He reached into his bag and pulled out two cans of cola, giving one to Amy.
They ate their sandwiches, washing down each bite with warm cola, and talked about the weather and other things. Amy tried to chew slowly, but she was hungry and the sandwich was gone before she knew it. Only the plastic wrapping was left, which she licked until there was no more to lick. She had just finished her drink when the bald man snapped his fingers.
“Dessert! I’ve forgotten the dessert!” He jumped up. “What kind of picnic would it be without dessert? Why, it wouldn’t be a picnic at all.” He started to walk away, then stopped and looked back at Amy. “Don’t you want dessert? It’s chocolate cake. I left it in the car. Hurry now. Come along.”
Amy jumped up. She didn’t know which surprised her more: that there was chocolate cake for dessert, or that the man had a car. No one she knew owned a car. Few people did. Cars were expensive; so was the gas they ran on.
