DEAD IN BED By Bailey Simms: The Complete Second Book

PART 12, SECTION 2

Anyone who knew Chris Trevino for more than a few days knew that he was a world-class stoner. Sure, he was a really smart physician, and he obviously loved his job, even amid a potentially world-ending plague. But he really loved weed. He was a connoisseur; he talked about weed like a sommelier talks about the finest of wines. Before the plague, Chris once told me, he'd even paired different varieties of marijuana with different meals. He was obsessed. It was ridiculous.

The first thing he'd done when he'd moved to Muldoon was to sniff out the best supplier in the region. Apparently this was Ruben, a Viet-Nam vet now in his sixties, who, ever since the war, had been living in an illegal homestead way out in the woods south of the dwellings. Basically, Ruben did nothing but grow hydroponic weed. Even Chris didn't know Ruben's last name, but Chris was one of the few people in the world who actually knew where to find him.

"We can reach him on horseback from here," Chris explained. "Ruben's got the two things we need. One, a vehicle—and not just any vehicle but a big-ass pickup with a camper trailer. And, two, really good weed. Lots of it."

Our need for a vehicle made sense. If we had to get to a populated area outside the quarantine zone, we would need a reliable means of transportation. And a camper trailer would give Chris space to prepare the TGVx treatment.

But weed? I was lost.

"Okay," I said cautiously. "Why weed? Enlighten me."

Chris shrugged. "We have to get out of the quarantine zone, right? Well, it just so happens that I used to sell weed to a few guys who were in the National Guard. During our last trip into town, I found out that one of them guards the perimeter at the eastern checkpoint."

"So, what? You're going to bribe them?"

"Exactly." Chris smiled. "Cash doesn't go far these days. But weed? Weed's really hard to come by. Trust me. I know. And I'm pretty sure any one of those National Guard guys could be persuaded to do just about anything for a pound of Rocky Mountain Aurora. They're all total pot heads." Now he looked at me earnestly. "It's our best bet. Seriously."

We hastily packed provisions. We hurried up the trail toward the clearing where we'd tethered the horses. The poor animals were all painfully thin, subsisting on little more than mountain sage.

But instead of coming upon a huddle of bareback horses, we found that four had already been saddled up.

On one of the horses sat Lindsay.

Her son sat in front of her, clutching the saddle horn.

"If you're leaving the quarantine zone, we're coming with you," she said.

Chris glanced at me warily, then at Jake. Lindsay had him bundled up in a fat scarf, and he sat quietly on the saddle.

The last thing we needed was a kid to have to worry about, along with everything else. 

But Lindsay looked resolute.

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