We used Officer Hal's keys to enter the deserted police station and unlock the evidence room. The stale air smelled of mildew and punitive authority.
One would think finding marijuana in an evidence room would be easy, but one would be wrong. We searched every container. No marijuana. No drugs. Either illicit substances were sent someplace else, or they disappeared up Officer Hal's nose.
We returned to Elwood's
Grandpa Kevin, Mom, Frank, Uncle Peter, and I convened a meeting. Uncle Peter told them about our encounter with Officer Hal and our inability to find marijuana at the police station.
"I've started Kim on the saline solution," reported Roxanne. "That should help delay dehydration. But the vomiting is as bad as ever, and I'd really like to have her try marijuana."
The five of us talked it over, and we decided Uncle Peter and I should search the St. Clair County Sheriff's Department in Belleville.
We ate a hurried brunch and loaded the truck with supplies. Bryce telepathically communicated his desire to come with us, so we invited him at the last minute. He jumped into the truck's front passenger seat, eyes bright, tail wagging.
"Why does Bryce get the front seat while I'm stuck in back?!" I protested.
"The booster seat can't be in the front." countered Uncle Peter.
I felt my cheeks heat up, "To hell with the booster seat! I'll be twelve soon. That's YEARS, not months, you know." I stood with my hands on my hips, jacket flared, pepper spray holstered on my hip.
"According to the law, you're a half-inch too short."
"According to WHAT!?" I balked, giving him an open-mouthed, wrinkled-nose, this-is-a-load-of-bullshit look. "The LAW!?!... We are on our way to steal marijuana from a police station," I blustered, flagging my arms. "A few hours ago, you stole a gun from a cop. Don't preach to me about 'the law'."
Uncle Peter opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off.
"You know what..." I decided, yanking open the truck's door. "...We're not even going to talk about this!" I wrenched out the booster seat, drug it carelessly on the ground, and tossed it into a ditch. Then I stomped back to the truck. "Out of my seat, Bryce," I growled, pointing stiff-armed at the backseat. The large dog compiled. I buckled myself into the front passenger seat. "Ready when you are," I said curtly, daring Uncle Peter to object. He didn't. One needs to pick his battles, after all.
-----------------------------------------------
Uncle Peter and I passed up a jail on our way to the St. Clair County Sheriff's Department.
"Look at that," prompted Uncle Peter. I followed his line of sight. A sign read:
"ST. CLAIR CO. JAIL,
CAPACITY - 330
TODAY - 464
NO VACANCY"
"Is that a joke?" I asked.
"Nope. It's been over capacity for many years."
"Wow."
"Welcome to America, Kid," scowled Uncle Peter. "The least free nation on Earth."
"How so?"
"America has the largest incarcerated population percentage of any country."
"I've read that on Facebook. It's kind of hard to believe."
"Believe it. For a long time, America WAS in second place for incarcerations. Then South Africa ended apartheid in 1994, and the good ole U.S. of A became #1... and stayed there."
"My teachers told me America was the MOST free nation in the world."
"That, Samber, is what psychologists and sociologists refer to as... 'a lie'. It's a matter of public record that America has the largest incarcerated population."
I chewed on that for a bit. "But not anymore, right? Because of the outbreak?"
"I guess not. Almost everyone's dead. I'm not sure the 'United States of America' still exists."
"What are we then?"
"Huh?"
"I mean... If we are not United States citizens, then what are we?"
"I guess we're now members of an autonomous refugee community."
"Wow! That's messed up."
"Yep..." Uncle Peter scratched his chin. "At least our incarceration percentage is zero."
We pulled into the parking lot of the St. Clair County Sheriff's Department. A blocky, red-brick building designed for municipal functionality, not aesthetics.
I opened the truck door, and Bryce bounded out. He trotted from place to place, sniffing everything. Then he spun in a circle and took an enormous dump on the lawn. Afterwards, he raked the ground with his back legs, sending bits of grass flying into the air over his accomplishment.
"If he had done that before the peak—" mused Uncle Peter, "—it would have been a $300 fine."
We had to break three locked doors to get to a fourth one that read "Evidence". Fortunately, that one was unlocked. We sent Bryce in first, then followed. Inside, near the door, was a police officer's corpse slumped over a desk. It was all bones, hair, and dried skin turned black. The odor of death still lingered, but was not overwhelming.
By that point, stumbling across corpses had become commonplace for us. But sometimes, I'd see a dead body, and the immensity of it all, the full comprehension of humanity's fantastic loss, would hit me... Then I'd see Bryce lick his crotch or hear Uncle Peter belch. Then I'd snap out of it.
The large evidence storage room was fairly well-lit by several barred skylights. It was packed with evidence of all sorts, each item labeled with tags and barcodes.
The first section consisted of rolling racks and mobile shelves. The evidence there was separated into the following categories: "Jewelry and Money", "Firearms", "Boxed Evidence", "Bagged Evidence", "Found Items", and "Inmate Property".
Beyond were large, sturdy, non-mobile shelves. The evidence there was separated into these categories: "Bulk and Heavy (100 lbs+ Items)", "Freezer (standard)", and "Freezer (human fetal tissue stored at between -126 °C and -156 °C)"
Beyond was a section without shelves for extremely heavy evidence such as headstones and copper piping, above which hung a huge number of bikes on ceiling hooks.
There was another large section of mobile shelves separated into three categories: "Narcotics (active)", "Narcotics (inactive and stored for incineration)" and "Narcotics (inactive and stored for EPA safe disposal program)"
We started to open boxes. At first, all we found was drug paraphernalia that was worthless to us, such as syringes and bags of pills. Then we found it... marijuana.
"BINGO!" shouted Uncle Peter.
The marijuana was stored in nine plastic, eighteen-gallon, Rubbermaid tubs in the "inactive and stored for incineration" section.
Uncle Peter and I had never seen marijuana before. It looked like frosted green moss with a little brown mixed in. It did not smell as I imagined. The odor was distinct and quite nice. A little like sage mixed with the faint smell of skunk, but without the nauseating sulfur and fart smell. Instead, it had a sweet undertone.
In the same section, Uncle Peter found another plastic eighteen-gallon tub half full of tiny brown seeds. If not for the label: "Cannabis Seeds", we wouldn't have known what they were. Next to it was a shoebox full of similar-looking seeds in separate jars labeled: "Honeybush", "Power Puff", "Special Dwarf Variety", "Experimental Hybrid #1", "Experimental Hybrid #3", and "Experimental Hybrid #5".
Uncle Peter and I carried the seeds and three marijuana tubs back to the truck. We came back to make sure we had not left anything behind.
That's when I noticed something on the desk near the police officer's corpse. It was a four-page, handwritten letter preserved inside a plastic evidence bag. The front page read, "Dear Agoraphobia Apocalypse Survivors".
I called Uncle Peter over. He slipped the letter from the evidence bag and read it out loud... "To whom it may concern... Having exhausted my meager supply of water, I now write this letter with my dying breath. I've been a St. Clair County law enforcer for most of my life. All I ask, in exchange for my many years of service, is for this letter to be preserved by historians, so my story might never be forgotten. One month ago, I was patrolling the—"
Suddenly, Uncle Peter stopped reading. "Fucking cops," he sneered. Then he pulled a cigarette lighter from his pocket and lit the pages on fire. The dry paper burned quickly.
"What are you doing!?!" I shrieked.
"Shutting up this cop for good." A look of unholy satisfaction flickered across his face as he dropped what remained into a trash can. There it burned itself out.
Uncle Peter turned to find me gazing at him with open mouthed contempt. "What?" he shrugged.
"That was a very UGLY thing you just did!"
"You know how I feel about police, Samber. If there's one thing I learned, it's nev—"
"DON'T!"
"What?"
"Don't try to justify that despicable action! I don't want to hear it. Not now. Not ever... I love you, Uncle Peter. But I'm deeply ashamed of you." I turned on my heels and stomped out of the building. Bryce followed.
--------------------------------------------------------
Bryce and I sat down to collect our thoughts. After a while, Bryce started to lick his crotch, and I assumed his thoughts were all collected.
A couple minutes later, Uncle Peter shambled out and sat next to me. Neither of us spoke for an uncomfortable length of time.
"What you did was wrong," I said at last.
"Yeah. It sure was," he admitted.
I'd expected him to deny it, and now I was left with nothing accusatory to say.
Uncle Peter blew out a sigh of resignation. "I have no excuse for my behavior."
I let a few beats go by. "I think you've developed a hateful fear of authority."
"I can't argue with that..." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Like the man said: 'Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to the dark side.' "
"Luke?"
"Yoda."
I let a couple beats pass. "Do you know what Yoda would say at a time like this?"
"What?"
"He'd say: 'Sick child, you have. Take medicine to her quickly, you must.'
--------------------------------------------------------
By the time we returned, Kim looked tired, wilted, and miserable. Her eyes were sunken and her lips were dry. Her pallor was off, green and morbid. Kim looked exactly how you'd expect a seven-year-old to appear after throwing up constantly for twenty-four hours.
Kim was connected to an IV that hung from a wall nail. Drops plopped from the bag into the drip chamber at a steady pace. I sat next to Kim while the grownups talked. Every couple of minutes, she'd dry-heave into a bucket.
Uncle Peter, Beth, Aunt Roxanne, Grandpa Kevin, Mom, Dad, and Jeannie were crowded at the foot of Kim's bed.
"Even with the IV, Kim is still severely dehydrated," reported Aunt Roxanne. "Beth and I have been pushing water, but she can't keep it down. The marijuana should alleviate the nausea. But she won't be able to ingest it orally."
"I can help with that," suggested my father. "While Peter was gone, I molded a clay pipe and fired it in the stove." He held up a lumpy, L-shaped, grey, scorch-marked object. If he had not identified it as a "pipe", I'd have no idea what it was. Uncle Peter gave my father a Mister-Spock-raised-eyebrow expression. "It might not be pretty," admitted my father to Uncle Peter. "But it should get the job done."
"A little girl can't use a pipe," pointed out Aunt Roxanne.
"You're probably right. I'll need to blow the smoke into her face."
"Dear God!!" screeched Jeannie. "Have you all gone MAD?!? She'll become addicted!"
"Quiet, Jeannie," hushed Uncle Peter, waving a hand dismissively in her face. "The grownups are talking."
"I don't want my daughter to become addicted," shuddered Beth, wringing her hands.
"That's not likely to happen," responded my father in his usual, calm, measured tone. "Marijuana is less addictive than alcohol and tobacco."
"Would you let your daughters drink alcohol or smoke tobacco?" challenged Jeannie, pursing her lips. Her tone was triumphant, as if her question was devastating and unanswerable.
"I would if they were deathly ill and alcohol or tobacco could help," countered my father.
Jeannie responded by folding her arms across her chest, as though insulating herself from further logic.
"Doesn't marijuana kill brain cells?" asked Beth, worriedly.
"So does dehydration!" fumed Uncle Peter. "Why the fuck are we even arguing about this?"
"Because Kim is Beth's daughter!" bristled Jeannie. "And she's MY niece! WE are her family, not you! So it's OUR decision to make, not yours! You're not doctors. You could easily overdose and kill her!"
I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly dislocated a retina.
"It's true we're not doctors," conceded my father. "But I'm quite well-read on the subject. And I assure you it's simply not possible to overdose on marijuana. If you—"
"Hogwash!" shouted Jeannie.
"...If you doubt it, then I'll be happy to explain it to you."
"I think you're just a pothead looking for an excuse to get high!"
"Hey!" interjected my mother, standing with clenched fists on hips in an imposing 'Wonder Woman' stance. "That's my husband you're talking to!" A couple of beats passed while Mom stared down Jeannie with a palpable glare.
Dad cleared his throat. "It's true that I've smoked marijuana before. But I'm not addicted; I haven't smoked in over a year. Nor have I suffered from brain damage. And, as I've said, it's not possible for someone to overdose on marijuana. If you doubt that, then I'll be happy to explain it."
"You're wasting your time with Jeannie," snorted Uncle Peter. "She epitomizes the faithful; neither logic nor evidence can ever hope to change her core beliefs. She doesn't care how sensible your argument is, nor how extensive your personal experience has been. Her opinions are as intransigent as the enormous stick that's stuck up her ass."
Jeannie bristled. "How dare you! You... you're just a perverted, vulgar, godless, deviant, little criminal!"
"Little!?!" sneered Uncle Peter, standing at his full height. "Who you calling 'little'?! I'm taller then you are, you daft dwarf!"
"Name-calling is not productive," interjected Dad calmly. "Beth, do you want me to explain how it's not possible for Kim to overdose on marijuana?"
"Okay," Beth nodded, looking distraught.
"Marijuana use has never killed anyone. There's no record in the extensive medical literature describing a proven, documented marijuana-induced fatality. That's remarkable when you consider how marijuana has been used daily by enormous numbers of people throughout the world for hundreds of years. Yet, despite this long history of use, there are simply no credible medical reports to suggest marijuana has caused even a single death. For all practical purposes, it's 100% non-toxic. What I've told you was confirmed way back in 1988 in a ruling by United States Department of Justice and by toxicologists, the world over, ever since..."
Jeannie was poised to interrupt my father, but my mother cut her down with a steel-eyed look. Jeannie acquiesced, but her disapproving scowl was in full force.
"...Now, I know what you're thinking," continued Dad. "How can marijuana be 100% non-toxic? If you put enough of anything in a human, it will cause death, right? So how much marijuana must a human consume to cause death? Although it has never happened, laboratory experiments suggest about 1,500 pounds of marijuana would have to be smoked within fifteen minutes to cause a human to die. That amount is so impractically high that no one has ever managed to do it. It's just not possible for someone to eat or smoke enough marijuana to die from it. So I—"
"Those are LIES!" shouted Jeannie, no longer able to contain herself. "If any of that were true, then why did our government make marijuana illegal in the first place?!" My father opened his mouth to answer, but Jeannie just barreled ahead... "Because it's a dangerous and addictive NARCOTIC, that's why!..." I silently crushed my boot into the floor, wishing it were Jeannie's vocal cords. "...Peter didn't buy this stuff from a pharmacy. He stole it from a police station evidence room! Marijuana is addictive and—!"
"Oh, fine!" barked Uncle Peter. "Let's NOT give Kim the medicine. Then you and Beth can go to bed tonight secure in the knowledge that Kim won't become addicted. But, come morning, that knowledge will be of little comfort when the poor girl dies!"
Both Uncle Peter and my father were using logic, but in radically different ways. Uncle Peter wielded logic like a battle axe, smashing down opposing opinions like a barbarian. My father, on the other hand, calmly applied logic like a medicine to cure ignorance and fear. It was fascinating to watch them both at work. I was curious to see if the "good cop/bad cop" dynamic they had accidentally formed would work. I'm sure I'd have found the spectacle entertaining if a little girl's life were not on the line.
"If you want," suggested my father. "We can start with a minute dose and—"
"Don't listen to these sinners!" preached Jeannie. "They have no idea what they're talking about. They're not doctors. They're not pharmacists! Th—"
"And what credentials do you have?!" fired back Uncle Peter. "Jerry knows more about this subject than you ever will! In fact, he knows more about EVERY subject than you ever will... you ignorant... bridge troll!"
Evidently, "bridge troll" struck a nerve. Jeannie reacted physically to the insult; her shoulders squared, her nostrils flared, her eyes glared. At that point, the conversation broke down into a clamor of insults and heated bickering with no one listening to each other.
"Hold it, everyone!" insisted Grandpa Kevin, his calm, intent voice breaking through the pandemonium. "This is no way for good people to act." Grandpa had been watching the entire exchange with utter, detached calm - waiting until just then to speak. His timing was impeccable. "Jerry and Peter might not be medical experts, but my daughter-in-law is..." Grandpa turned to my aunt. "Roxanne, in your medical opinion, what are Kim's chances of survival without medicine?"
"50-50."
"What are the odds the medicine will harm her?"
"Almost zero."
I was lost in admiration. Grandpa's argument was so logical and simple, I had no doubt she'd agree. Grandpa Kevin turned to hear Beth's reaction.
"Perhaps," responded Beth, "We should wait to see if she improves on her own."
"What?!" I blurted out, jumping out of my chair like a coiled spring. Everyone turned. "You have GOT to be kidding me!! Look at her!!" I demanded, pointing to Kim, who was dry-heaving into her bucket. "She's dying! Trust me; I know what 'dying' looks like. I saw people in St. Louis who were dying of dehydration, and they looked EXACTLY like that." I turned to Beth. "I know you love your Aunt Jeannie and want to respect her opinion. But the uncharitable truth is she's the most scientifically ignorant adult I've ever met! Aunt Roxanne, on the other hand... IS... A... NURSE!!"
"Okay-okay-okay," cried Beth, biting her lip. "Let's try it."
Jeannie's eyes popped and her mouth bobbed wordlessly, making her look like a fish caught on a hook.
"Thank goodness!" declared Uncle Peter, retrieving a tub from the hall. "Let's do this thing before Beth changes her mind."
Uncle Peter opened the tub's lid. Dad looked inside. "Holy shi— cow!" he exclaimed, remembering (mid-sentence) I was in the room.
"Is something wrong?" asked Uncle Peter. "Don't tell me it's the wrong kind or something."
"Nothing is wrong. This is just a HUGE amount!"
"It is? I was not sure how much you needed, so I just took a whole bunch."
"I'd say this was about half a million dollars worth!"
"Wow!" marveled Uncle Peter. "I've two more containers just like this in the truck."
Dad's jaw dropped.
Jeannie gasped. "I beg all of you to reconsider," she pleaded, dramatically clasping a hand over her heart. "You're leading people to temptation!"
Uncle Peter sneered, "You're still here?!"
Aunt Roxanne clapped her hands sharply. "I want everyone but Jerry, Kim and myself out of this room!" she commanded. "Out-out-out!" The rest of us were ushered into the hall, and Aunt Roxanne shut the door.
Jeannie lowered her voice to an angry stage whisper. Her thin brows knitted together in disapproval. "I hope you're all proud of what you're doing!"
"I am," snickered Uncle Peter, obviously savoring her displeasure.
"Wow," I ginned inwardly. "If Jeannie is this upset about the marijuana, I can't wait to see how she reacts when she finds out about the nine gallons of seeds."
With bulging eyes, Jeannie pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Peter. "You've brought a terrible plague upon us all!"
Uncle Peter whirled. "You know what, Jeannie?... I wasn't sure what I was going to do with those seeds. But you've helped me to decide... I'm going to plant each and every one of them... Just to SPITE you. In fact, I'm going to name each variety after you. The first will be named 'Bridge Troll'."
Jeannie bristled. "You'll suffer in hell for your sins!"
"Bah!" scoffed Uncle Peter. "You threaten me with damnation almost daily. Why should—"
"Shhhhhhh!" I hushed with my ear to the door. "I'm trying to hear." Everyone grew silent. Unfortunately, I still couldn't hear much.
The door had a large, old-fashioned keyhole. I peered in. Although my view was limited, I could clearly see Dad blowing smoke into Kim's face.
After a couple minutes Kim must have felt better, because she set her bucket on the nightstand. Aunt Roxanne asked something and Kim nodded. Aunt Roxanne walked out of view and brought back a large glass of water and a pitcher. Kim drank the water while Dad continued to blow smoke in her general direction.
After Kim drained the glass, she spoke. I couldn't make out the words, but Aunt Roxanne and Dad both laughed hard. I turned my head and pressed my ear to the door.
"Sure, honey!" rejoiced Aunt Roxanne. "If you finish another glass of water, you can have anything you want for lunch!"
Then I heard footsteps.
The door swung open, and I fell in.
"Samber!" exclaimed Aunt Roxanne, holding the empty pitcher in one hand and helping me up with the other. "For goodness sake! Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"Good. Now... back away." She joined the rest of us in the hall, shutting the door behind her. "Kim is doing MUCH better," reported Aunt Roxanne to Beth. "She's drinking water and is hungry." Beth put a hand over her mouth and started to cry happy tears.
"Kevin..." said Aunt Roxanne addressing Grandpa. "Kim has requested pancakes for lunch. If you could make some, that would be great."
"I'm on it!" he smiled, dashing off to the kitchen.
"Scarlett... If you could please bring some dry crackers for Kim to snack on in the meantime..."
"No problem," responded Mom, following Grandpa Kevin.
"Jeannie..." said Aunt Roxanne, handing her the empty pitcher. "If you'd be so kind as to fill this with drinking water, that would be most helpful." Jeannie, her face as sour as an ocean of vinegar, silently walked off with the pitcher.
Beth gave Uncle Peter, Aunt Roxanne, and me hugs. "Thank you so much!"
Just then, my father came out of the bedroom. His eyes were glazed, a big smile creasing his boyish face.
"And thank you, too!" added Beth, surprising my father with a big hug.
"Wow!" he giggled.
"Beth..." said Aunt Roxanne. "You can go in and see Kim now if you like. We can also open the windows and clear out the smoke."
Beth and Aunt Roxanne entered the bedroom and closed the door - leaving me, Dad, and Uncle Peter in the hall.
"Did you hear the good news about Kim?!" asked my father, speaking slowly and with an oddly wide grin.
"Of course, Dad. We were right here."
"Oh, riiiiiight," he said, blinking slowly.
Uncle Peter and I exchanged knowing glances.
"You did a great job, Jerry," congratulated Uncle Peter. "Do you need to lay down?"
"Nawwwww..." drawled Dad, his face wreathed in happiness. "But I could REALLY go for some pancakes right now. I think I'll go to... that food room... with the food..."
"The kitchen?"
"That's it," Then, without another word, my father sashayed down the hall (in the wrong direction) and disappeared around a corner.
"Hey! You know what?..." asked Uncle Peter, glowing with pride.
"What?"
"We just completed a noble quest and saved a child's life! Do you know what that makes us?"
"Um... Heroes?" I answered tentatively.
"You bet your sweet ass."
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It took three more days, but Kim recovered fully. The same stomach flu virus went on to infect several more people, all of whom suffered only mild symptoms and recovered quickly. And that's where it ended. The virus had run its course. With no one else to infect, it died. None of us realized it at the time, but that was the LAST human-only virus. They had all gone extinct, along with all other types of communicable diseases that were dependent on humans. Influenza, the common cold, measles, mumps, chicken pox, whooping cough, tuberculosis... they all died out. As did all sexually transmitted diseases. Chlamydia, syphilis, gonorrhea, genital warts, pubic lice, and AIDS... all vanished.
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