Clay Puppington was driving his cramped car with his son, Orel, next to him. The car was packed with all the camping stuff they might need, such as a tent for his booze, two sleeping bags, and an overkill of guns and ammunition. His hand idlely was on the wheel as he looked to the corner of his eye at Orel before switching on the radio as he turned his attention back on the road. They were nearing their destination, passing the camping site sign.