The breeze carried a putrid whiff from yet another decaying zombie as 10K and Citizen Z shuffled through the desolate streets. Their boots crunched on the detritus of modern civilization - a symphony of grunts and groans escaping from their lips with each strenuous step. They were on an epic scavenger run, and by epic, I mean they had socked three zombies with a single can of expired SpaghettiOs. Pure, comedic brilliance. "Ah, the triumphs of the post-apocalyptic warrior," Citizen Z quipped, as he deflected a half-eaten squirrel from a zombie's feeble grip with a hockey stick buttoned to an inch of its life with duct tape. 10K, as silent and stoic as ever, responded with a nod, his sniper rifle slung casually over his shoulder: the epitome of the quiet bad-ass. Finally, their scavenging trail led them to a godsend upon this parched and cracked earth: an outdoor shower, standing like a beacon of filthy hope in a world gone to bat-sh*t crazy. Without hesitation, these two survivors tossed their worn and zombie-gore-stained clothes aside, the garments hitting the earth with a thud much like their dignity used to before the apocalypse. Now, in the buff, they stepped under the spray of water that was miraculously still flowing. 10K, his chiseled physique reflecting the hardships of Z Nation, stood under the stream, his muscles rippling like waves in an ocean of beefcake. His butt was akin to two perfect peaches that had somehow survived the end of the world, unbruised and succulent. Citizen Z ogled with underwear-commercial envy. "Dang, 10K, looking like you've been doing squats for all the Zs in the Pacific Time Zone," he complimented, marveling at the way the water cascaded down 10K's sculpted back and into the Grand Canyon of posterior perfection. Emboldened by the freedom of the open-air shower, 10K glanced over his shoulder with a smirk and let out a relieving, resonant fart that fluttered through the air, twirling like some sort of noxious ballet dancer. A brief silence followed, then the laughter; self-aware, unabashed, human. "Nice acoustics," Citizen Z snorted, splashing water in 10K's direction as the echo of the fart seemed to high-five every molecule in the vicinity. 10K snickered, the stress lines of survival briefly smoothed over by this absurd moment of reprieve. "Good to know I've still got it," he said, scrubbing the sweat and dirt from his skin. The water ran the color of... well, we won't dwell on that, but let's say a heavy-duty cycle on an industrial washing machine was in order. As they cleaned, talk turned to dreams of what they'd eat first when they found a decent stash of food. 10K's choice? A stack of pancakes drowned in syrup so thick you could lose a boot in it. Citizen Z's pick? A simple hot dog, with all the fixings that defied expiration dates. They laughed, they cleaned, they felt strangely normal in a world that was anything but. "Dude, remember when showers were just routine?" Citizen Z asked, sudsing his hair. "Remember when we weren't on nodding terms with the undead?" 10K countered with a wry smile. They finished up and stepped out, the cool air greeting their renewed skin with a genial slap on the rump. Clean and content, they donned their less-offensive second-choice outfits and shouldered their gear, ready to face the brave new world once more. As they left the makeshift Eden of cleanliness, the two survivors couldn't help but shake their heads in wonder. Yup, even in Z Nation, you could still find the time for a shower buddy and a good laugh, proving that the human spirit - like 10K's glorious glutes - remained unbreakable.