On the border of Pennsylvania and Ohio, alongside Route 30.
The blizzard was still raging.
This was a true wasteland.
The streetlights had died out two miles back, leaving only the car's headlamps to illuminate the swirling white flakes ahead.
Joe Miller pulled the beat-up Chevrolet onto the gravel shoulder.
He cut the engine.
The engine's roar vanished, replaced by the sound of wind lashing against the windows.
Directly in front of him was a long-abandoned gas station.
The pumps had long since been dismantled, leaving only a few rusted bases.
The convenience store sign hung crookedly, half-detached, but light spilled from its windows.
It was a harsh light—the sterile, ghastly white of high-powered fluorescent tubes.
Joe Miller pulled his jacket tighter and reached for his waist.
His pistol was still in its holster.
He glanced at the passenger seat.
A black cooler sat there, containing fifty vials of NovoRapid insulin he had "recovered" from Pittsburgh.
