So this is an apocalypse: fire, scorched earth, trees tangled together, craters hollowed into collapsing buildings. Bandannas tied around their noses and mouths help, but they're still coughing too much. Rodney's worried about dehydration, starvation, and a pebble in his shoe; mostly he sounds as wrecked as John.
They're both apprehensive about what comes next, when the forest ends, and John hopes that their imaginings are a million times worse than what they'll find.
"Ready," he says, and Rodney nods. Stripping off one glove, John touches Rodney's face where the line of fabric stretches snugly against his cheeks. "Me too."
Rodney snaps his fingers. "We should go to Toronto Island!"
"You gonna swim?"
"We could borrow a boat," Rodney says. "Zombies can't swim."
"Sure they can," John replies. "They don't even have to breathe."
"Fast, they can't swim fast, okay? No way would they have the motor skills necessary to do more than a dog paddle!"
"But during that time you'd be trapped on an island," John says. "And they'd get there eventually, even if it took walking over the squishy, water-logged, sunken corpses of their peers."
Rodney stares for a while, then says, thoughtfully, "An island with an airport."