I like how the dumpster has graduated to a dungeon!
"There," he muttered lazily, motioning over the side of the dumpster toward the zombie. He shrugged some when the woman told him to be quiet. Was he being loud? Was he talking too much? Maybe not. Did it bother him that she had told him to be quiet? Nope. He didn't really even have anything to say. So sure-- he could be quiet. Didn't matter any to him.
He jumped a little when he heard the fire and the gross splat!
"Ugh," he shook his head again and reached up to his good arm to rub at his face, "I don't know. I died?" Dropping his hand away from his face again, Graham lifted his eyes back up toward the sky, "just..." He motioned with his hand, "you can leave me here. Pretend I'm the scarecrow and you're Dorothy," he raised his head up some with a frown at the pain in his shoulder. "And this, wherever we are, is the yellow fucking brick road. Just leave me here. I'll only drag you down."
He'd just lay there. It would be fine.
What had happened, though? Did it matter? He was caught in the middle of the gunfight at the OK Corral. It didn't matter.