"You can't fix everything."

*Z*

"San?" Brittany called from the next room.

I scooped the pulp out of a tomato and lobbed it into the garbage disposal. "Yeah?"

"Are you a gentleman?"

I frowned, chopping the tomato into tiny bits and tossing them in the bowl of guac. "I'm a girl, Britt."

"Oh."

I grabbed the bowl and a bag of Tostitos and plopped on the couch next to her. "Why?"

"Because of your boobs and pussy."

"No, I know why I'm—" I shook my head. "Why were you asking if I'm a gentleman?"

She held up a copy of her favorite Marilyn movie. "Because it says 'Gentlemen Prefer Blondes.'"

"I can't tell if you're joking."

She grinned cheekily. "I'm always serious."

"Do you want to watch that tonight?"

"Yes." She snuggled into my side and dipped a chip in the guacamole. "I already put it in the DVD player."

I flipped on the TV – a reporter was sitting behind a desk, glaring sternly at the camera. "Who watches CNN in your house?"

"My sister."

"–last night. Sources confirm this 'Patient Zero' consumed the infected burrito–"

"Ew," I flipped down to get to the video channel. On the way by, every basic cable station was reporting on this "Patient Zero" shit. After hearing the phrase repeated at least three times, I knew Britt would ask about it soon, so I stopped on the Channel 5 news.

"He looks like a zombie," Brittany said, examining the photo next to the reporter.

"That's nasty. I'm totally not hungry anymore." Guacamole looked especially unappealing now that I'd seen this dude with a greenish tint who looked like he belonged in a casket.

"At least you didn't make burritos," Brittany said. "I wonder what was in the one he ate."

"Witnesses have reported that Patient Zero appears to be frothing at the mouth, breaking out in a blistered rash, and attempting to bite anyone who approaches. He was admitted to Odessa Union Medical Center this afternoon for treatment."

"Sounds like rabies. I'm seriously going to throw up right now," I said, quickly turning to the channel where the DVD menu was already playing.

"Do you think he'll be okay?"

"Please. With modern medicine? They'll fix that shit so fast."

"Too bad – I've kind of always wanted a zombie apocalypse."

"Me too," I agreed absently.

"You'd be so hot with a gun."

"Mhm, that's right," I grinned.

*Z*

That was our first brush with the plague. That was when Odessa was so far away, too far to matter. When the idea of Brittany in full leather shooting up the undead with two handguns turned sideways was a huge turn on instead of a terrifying reality. Well, it's still a turn on, but it was kind of always an unspoken wish that it would stay only in my fantasies.

That's the kind of moment you look back on and think, Couldn't we have figured it out? Couldn't someone have just shot Patient Zero in the head and saved us all this trouble? Fuck, if I could do any one thing differently in my whole eighteen years of existence, I'd go back to that night when we turned on the TV, and instead of watching Marilyn Monroe act like an airhead for ninety minutes, I'd get in the car and drive straight down to Texas and take a bazooka to Zero's face. Well, maybe a shotgun. I don't think I could actually lift a bazooka.

I bet a lot of people have thought that over the past few months. And if there are any real people left, I bet they're thinking that now, too.

But probably not as much as I am right now, as I stare hopelessly at the gun hanging limply in Brittany's grasp.

"You promised me," she said. "Remember?"