He wondered if it would snow before November even had the chance to end.

	It wouldn't surprise Miles, considering just how poor their luck had been in the past couple of weeks; first came the zombies, then came the snow. As if the zombies were supposed to eliminate most, but the snow was insurance, and would finish off the stubborn cockroaches. 
	
	Shaking his head, Miles forced himself to focus on the current objective, rather than dwell on such pessimistic thoughts: reach the department store, grab as much as the three of them could, and then head back to the garage. All without getting bitten and/or killed. Easier said than done, but someone had to do it. He just wished that it didn't have to be him, a seventeen-year-old remedial student, his PTSD-ridden and amputee of an older brother, and his pothead of a co-worker. Hell of a group that he had backing him. Nothing could go wrong at all with these teammates at his side. 

	He supposed that he was being too harsh, but, well, someone had to acknowledge their flaws before they could ever hope to fix them.

	"We're almost there," he said, both relief and apprehension apparent in his tone. On one hand, being close to the department store meant that half of their mission was complete. On the other, he didn't doubt that the department store would be a haven for the infected. Everyone, their mother, and the sick would have thought to visit the department store before either holing up in their homes to wait for help to arrive or just leaving town altogether to find somewhere safer, if such a place existed. For all he knew, nothing useful was even in there. In that case, they'd either have to return to the rest of the group empty-handed or look somewhere else. Neither was a good option.