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the head and wipes the orangey goo off the blade on the arm of the couch. “You okay?”
    “Yeah, I’m fine.” Sure, physically, thanks to Rudy. I’m getting sick of feeling helpless.
    Maria calls out, “What’s going on? You guys okay?”
    “Fine,” Rudy says. “Just a zombie. It’s dead.”
    Just a zombie? These things have been terrorizing me all day and probably will for the rest of my, most likely, short life.
    I stand slowly, my legs a little wobbly, and sit on the couch. Bruno comes to me and curls against my leg. I stroke his back while shifting on my sore butt. I’m a mess. My clothes are still wet and sticky, I’m shoeless, and I start to feel sick to my stomach.
    “I’m never gonna get used to this,” I say.
    “It’s crazy, huh.” Rudy moves to a recliner and sits. “I’m gonna stay down here and keep watch for a while. Why don’t you go try and get some sleep?”
    “I’m not tired right now. I’ll keep you company, if you don’t mind.”
    “Cool.”
    I wait for him to start in on me. You know, the whole if you’re going to survive, you need to blah, blah, blah. But he doesn’t say anything, just stares out the broken picture window, which makes me think, Great, now he’s just ashamed or embarrassed for me. He must think I’m just pathetic.
    After a few minutes, he finally says, “You need a weapon.”
    “What?” I wasn’t expecting that, and of course, I take it the wrong way and go off. “What’s that supposed to mean? Getting sick of saving my butt? I’m a fourteen-year-old girl. Why the hell would I have a weapon? It’s not like I’ve been preparing for this. Hell, I don’t even have shoes on, so why don’t you just lay off?”
    It was like the frustration off the worst day of my life was exploding in an array of hostile words, directly aimed at the guy I owe my life to. “And besides, who the hell would be prepared for this anyway? I mean, really, zombies? Give me a break. I’m sorry I haven’t become this great slayer of the undead in less than twenty-four hours.”
    I’m finally out of things to say, so I stand and am about to do my famous stomp out of the room for effect routine when I notice Rudy handing something to me.
    “What’s this?”
    “Take it. Now you’re armed.”
    It’s a large knife. I take it and look it over.
    “It’s a bayonet used on the M-16 assault rifle. It may be small, but if you shove it in the eye socket of one of those creepers, it will kill it quick.”
    It doesn’t look small to me. “Oh, um, thanks.” Guess I shouldn’t have gone off on the poor guy. He took it well, though. I like the idea of a guy who doesn’t freak out over me freaking out. It’s more than that, though; it’s like he has a style or class about him. Something like a strong, silent type with something else I can’t quite put my finger on, but I find it intriguing.
    Then he stands and begins to unfasten his belt.
    “Whoa, slow down, big fella. I’m thankful for the knife, but not that thankful.”
    Rudy stands still for a second. Looks like he’s trying to understand what I mean. Then he rolls his eyes to the ceiling and laughs loudly. He covers his mouth to stifle the noise, but he can’t seem to stop.
    I don’t get what’s so funny. In fact, I’m getting angry.
    He slides his belt half off and removes a sheath, handing it to me. Still laughing, he manages to say, “Here, for the bayonet.”
    “Oh yeah, um… thanks.” Oh man, I really need to stop jumping to conclusions.
    “No, thank you. I really needed that.” He collapses back into the recliner and continues to chuckle. The stress from the most horrible of days releases through laughter. Good for him. Bruno leaves the couch and jumps on Rudy’s lap. Traitor.
    I lean back to rest my head on the sofa back. “Okay, Rudy, let’s have it. What’s your story?”
    “My story?”
    “Yeah, you said you were raised by your dad. What’s the rest? You know… Where are you from? What did you