He hated a lot of things. He hated the taste of cranberries. he hated the flash floods. He hated the mutant wildlife. He hated not being strong enough to carry big pieces of scrap. He hated the zeds. But most of all he hated the mud. He hated it for its near omnipresence. He loathed that at every turn it sought to suck the boots off of his feet and tried to slow him down. He hated that it got everywhere making his clothes and blankets damp and dirty. He feared and hated that it could, and frequently did, hide so many of May Cape’s dangers. He hated that it was constantly shifting threatening to consume his meager home and how it hid valuable pieces of scrap less than an hour after he found them. But most of all he hated if for the fact that there was no one to help him overcome this hated foe. There was no one to protect him as he ran. There was no one to pick him out of the mud and clean him off. There was no warm, dry, and permanent home waiting for him at the end of the day. There was just him, the mud, and no one else.