He was alone when he started shaking. But that was how he'd needed it to be. Adrenaline rush was totally awesome when there were armed Serbs firing at you and Sasquatches hunting you but when there was nothing to do and nobody to run from it... sucked. But he was alone so it didn't matter that now he could finally drop everything that had held him together.

Humor was his go-to. The more inappropriate the better. He'd probably gone overboard this time, though. His humor had scared people. Scared Jules and for that he'd hated himself. But the alternative...

“You can't do this again, Shawn!”

“You could have died.”

“Promise me! Promise you won't ever fly off crazy like that ever again!”

“I'm using my out!”

If he couldn't laugh at his terror and joke through his anger... He would have killed Jerry Carp. Didn't have to; Jules did it for him. And in doing so, she hadn't just saved his life. If he'd been the one to pull the trigger he'd... he'd have been happy. And that was probably the worst part of it all. He'd been happy anyway, seeing that bastard bleeding out on the floor. Later, he'd thrown up. When he was alone.

So he's promised Gus. Gus and Jules. Stick with the tried and true. If the jokes had to be inappropriate, then so be it. Like jokes in the teeth of tragedy were ever not inappropriate anyhow.

Gus had known it wasn't dry rubbed Lassie over the fire. Asking his buddy how he could sniff the difference between Bambi and roasted detective hadn't yielded a solid answer but he'd have to give his friend the benefit of the doubt on that. Of course, if it had been Lassie, Shawn wasn't 100% sold on the idea that he'd have resisted himself. It had smelled pretty damn succulent...

The tremors were settling now. Maybe the whole “prayer over an empty casket” had been a little extreme. Lassie was right about one thing, he hadn't been using his brain. Panic did that. He shut off when things got crazy, he could admit that.

Jules had been so completely badass...

Like, the crossbow. He hadn't expected that...

“Shawn?”

He wobbled as he pushed off the gigantic bed. Gus was in the doorway. He was eating something from a can.

“Really, man? Dude has a axe in his left lung and you're eating his... what is that?”

Gus held up the can to study the label. “Uh, preserved figs.”

Shawn tried to snag a taste only to squeal as the back of his hand was pinched.

“Ow! Baby Indian burn!”

“You want figs, get your own can!”

Shawn rubbed his tortured flesh. “Maybe I will!”

He thought about figs for as long as it took to enter the main room with its tossed furniture and dead Serbs. He looked at the place where he'd almost died. He took a moment to think about how that sounded like an sweet title for a Western. Maybe a scifi Western with giant horse eating beetles.

Gus walked towards the door. “They're getting ready to take everyone out of here if you still want that last shot.”

He did want that last shot. The battery was just about toast but he should have enough for a few more minutes.

The EMTs were just about finished bagging up the wounded. Lassie looked like a baby wounded bird on the ground with his hair all sticking up. “Gus, go fix Lassie's hair.”

Gus rolled back his lip. “I'm not touching Lassie's hair.”

“Oh, like you weren't willing to touch his dry roasted haunch meat?”

“Dry rubbed, it was dry rubbed,” Gus enunciated, popping his Bs, “and it wasn't Lassie.”

Shawn snorted. “You sure it wasn't Lassie? Maybe it was some other poor hiker.”

Gus was clearly ready to continue the debate but Shawn shushed him as they hit “magic hour” – getting a solid and painful slug to his shoulder bone for his trouble. Still, his buddy had respect for the craft and stood silently as the camera lifted and began to record the final act of their shared odyssey.

In his head, Shawn could already hear the score playing over the scene with the credits; the perfect ending to elevate this film to the level of People's Choice Awards. Framing it up tight, he followed Jules as she walked her badass self down the hill. She reached Lassie and grabbed his wobbly meat hook. Grinning, Shawn gave her a thumbs up. He couldn't have scripted this better.

He filmed until the light was gone. He'd edit everything later once he collected everyone's devices.

Juliet had already left with the ambulance that carried her partner and Gus was eyeing Chavo's discarded backpack and its diminished bounty of trail mix. Walking up to his friend, Shawn pointed towards one of the Serbs still crumpled up at the base of a tree with an arrow jutting out of his breastbone, Daryl-style.

“You should lick that before they cover him up.”

Gus shot Shawn the stink eye. “Maybe you should lick my-”

“Assuming you boys want to get back before the real Sasquatches show up, maybe you should jog before you get ditched here for another night.”

The snarly tone of the grumpy officer assigned to the scene wasn't quite as melodious as the absent Lassifrass, but it got the job done regardless. And besides, Shawn was tired of mosquitos and trees.

“Last one to the car has to lick a Serb!”

Of course, given the recent evolution of his appetite, Gus would probably let him win.

Just so long as Shawn got to record it.