Tom whistles softly, as he fingers Jose’s blanket poncho. The thick fabric has been woven over wrought chain mail. Jose dons the armored poncho with a grunt. He grabs a tattered sombrero, and begins rolling a small arsenal into a rucksack.

“Two shotguns, six revolvers, several hundred rounds of silver bullets, stakes of assorted sizes, a set of throwing knives… So… uh, do I get anything?”

Ignoring him, Jose speaks in Spanish, while Maria provides rough translation, “We leave shortly after dawn. We’ll be travelling on foot for several days. You must stay close – we can protect you.”
“And if we get separated?”
“Here, this will protect you.”
She hands him a large oaken cross, pocked and chipped with age. And teethmarks.
“Are you sure this will protect me from… from… whatever it is out there?”
“Yes… God protects his flock.”

Later, Jose chides his daughter,
“Why do you lie to them?”
“Well… Are you going to give this one a gun?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We’d have run out by now, you know that.”