“…yeah, it’s busted. Grab your shit, I’m gonna unload the trunk.”

He swings by the passenger side and grabs the shotgun from the seat on the way.

...sure, he can play this by ear.

Camillo rifles through the car for anything that looks like plausibly his shit. Battered paperback Slaughterhouse-five -- chunky 90s-era GPS unit -- water bottle, upended in the crash and sadly leaking on the floor -- bottle of ibuprofen from the glove compartment -- chunky cable-knit sweater with slightly irregular yarn -- insulated lunchbox, empty.

"I think I'm good. Give you a hand with the trunk?"

“Yeah, sure.”

Z leaves off loading bottled water and first aid supplies into a collapsible wagon to go mess with a flare on the side of the road.

There’s a couple more boxes of supplies in the trunk, some ammunition, a can of gas. Upon closer inspection, the wagon is labeled “OH-SHIT WAGON (DO NOT UNLOAD)” in paint pen on one of the metal supports.

Camillo considers questioning whether they should really be unloading the OH-SHIT WAGON (DO NOT UNLOAD), but thinks better of it. Probably that does not apply in this particular situation.

Everything goes, laboriously, into the wagon. The gas and the ammunition can go at opposite ends, with the water in between. This probably doesn't matter but it makes him feel better.

There’s a BANG and a flash of red light from a few yards away as a flare launches upward towards the sky.

Why does everything around here have to go bang so much?

"Is someone gonna come get us?"

“They might. I’m gonna set off another before we move. Space em out a little.”

"They won't attract, uh..."

He gestures at the pile of bleeding flesh.

“—I mean, no, they totally will. That’s why we’re not gonna hang out here.”

"..oh. Cool."

Wow. Waking up from this dream is going to be easy. He just has to let his best friend get murdered by horrible mutant rape monsters.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he says, in a way that’s obviously only mostly reassuring Camillo. “I got you covered. —load up on snacks, though. In case you’ve gotta leave the wagon.”

"I can't believe you're thinking about snacks at a time like this."

He loads up anyway. The assortment looks like they bought out the entire stock of a vending machine at some point in the recent past.

“Look, if you’re hiding on a roof for a day shooting up flares, you’re gonna thank me.”

"Okay but you should get snacks too."

“What do you think I have in all these pockets?”

He pats one leg of his cargo pants.

From over a nearby hill — hard to tell how far off — something lets out a long whistle, one high and one low tone, beckoning.

“—okay, uh, second flare later. Moving now.”

Moving now!!

Z is both taller and more ripped than Camillo, and also apparently capable of flipping cars. Plus Camillo has his backpack. He will let Z pull the wagon.

Z will pull that wagon!

”Can’t believe that fucker just jumped into the road,” he mumbles, watching over both shoulders as they book it at a hopefully-sustainable pace.

He is going to have to explain the situation to Z at some point, but this really doesn't seem like the place or the time.

"I would prefer less of that. Personally."

The whistle echoes past the hills again, a little closer this time.

“Get ready to split and hide if I tell you to.”

"We could ditch the wagon and run."

“I’m fine. Gotta have a close encounter sooner or later, anyway.”

The whistle comes again — Z shivers a little, this time, stumbles trying not to stop.

Seeing Z look scared does not make the idea of ditching him more appealing. Camillo's stomach twists, and he jogs a little closer to Z.

The whistle keeps sounding, closer and closer, as they make their way down the empty highway.

Z keeps them going at a steady pace, stares fixedly ahead towards the horizon, times his breathing.

As they make it to the mouth of a one-lane road turning off the highway, it sounds again, from just behind the tree line.

This time, he stops.

He doesn’t look directly at Camillo, as he hands him the shotgun.