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He wakes up suspended in the dark, on his side, ringing in his ears and the pain of a sudden stop in his chest, smelling blood and dust and gasoline.
Light filters in above his head.
His cheek is pressed against glass, which is flush with the ground.
Z shivers, and the spines rise under Camillo’s hand, tips scratching gently against his palm.
“Hey,” he says, ineffectually.
He’s not getting any assistance from up here.
They grind on down the road, kicking up little ripples of dust in their wake.
Eventually, they approach a gate — once to someone’s country vacation home, now manned by a couple of young men with rifles, walls reinforced with barbed wire and sharp stakes.
Dorothy leans out the window and signals four with her fingers, and after a peer through the windows the gates open to let them through.
Holy shit, hardcore.
...Camillo definitely needs to explain to Z that he has no idea what's going on. Otherwise he's going to end up getting shot by a sentry because he didn't know the secret passcode.
They make their way up the long, long driveway to the house.
There are cars parked all around the circle in front of the enormous house, supplies stacked under pop-up tents on parts of the expansive lawn. A pool off in the distance has its edges shored up and is covered with wood and tarps, and rain barrels are lined up by its side. There’s another house, off in the distance.
A couple of people dash out of the house when Dorothy steps out of the car, start asking questions. Someone loops around to the car they’re towing and groans.
Z climbs out of the car, and is immediately accosted by his own little group of survivors.
One peers into the car and sighs with relief seeing Camillo unharmed in the back seat.
Oh god he's probably supposed to know all these people.
Camillo sticks close to Z and tries not to rubberneck too obviously. He's presumably seen this whole amazing postapocalyptic compound before. It would be suspicious if he gawked too much.
People are clearly glad he's back in one piece. Some guy hugs him who he has never seen in his life.
Z gets much of the same relief — but nobody touches him.
They pass through the front door of the enormous house. None of the lights are on — the huge double staircase is lit only by the sunlight streaming through the windows and the skylights.
"I'm gonna go clean up."
"...can I tag along? I'm, like ... I really don't want to be alone."
It's only a little bit of a lie.
"—oh. Yeah. Obviously."
He grabs his hand and squeezes it before he pulls off his boots and heads up the stairs.
This is why he feels like such an asshole when he lies to Z. Even just by implication, even when he's fully planning to tell him the truth any minute now.
Camillo trots after him. Better to wait until they definitely have some privacy.
There's a door on the second floor with a biohazard symbol taped on. He ducks in.
It's an absurdly large and fancy bathroom, and it's been outfitted to work without the electricity and plumbing it normally requires. There's a container of murky water on top of the toilet tank with a little hose and valve leading in, and a propane burner with a kettle next to the oversized jacuzzi.
Z strips down to nothing, empties his pockets into a bin, stuffs the clothes into a trash bag lined hamper.
"Just, uh — shaken up?"
"...that's not gonna help, man."
He steps into the tub and fills the kettle, turns the burner on.
From this angle it's apparent that he's got little red barbs running down the length of his dick in neat rows, alternating with the bars of a Jacob's ladder. It's not clear whether they're sharp or not from here.
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