“You’re gonna be okay,” Nioma told you, promised you, lied to you. She couldn’t keep the quiver out of her hands as she bandaged the fresh bite on your ribs. Her grandmother prayed three times a day when the outbreak first happened. It hadn’t mattered much in the end. Her and Grandfather were the first people Nioma lost. They’d barely survived a week.

Last year her younger brother, Mason, had sprained his ankle and was ripped apart as he screamed for her to save him.

This time it was you. Nioma slammed the bandages down to suck in a deep breath. It should’ve been her. Her entire life’s purpose revolved around protecting you, making sure you’d live another day even if she died.

And yet you’d taken the bite for her. Nioma had nearly cursed you out when you shoved her down, watching the zombie sink its teeth into your skin before she had time to bust its skull with her bat. It had all happened so fast. One moment they were ransacking a destroyed grocery store for supplies, the next she heard the familiar gurgling sound that only meant one thing.

Another deep breath. She needed to think. If the bite had happened on one of your limbs, she’d just have cut it off. You weren’t that lucky. Why couldn’t it have been her?

She yanked you into a hug, fingers tangling in your hair. “I won’t leave you. Whatever happens I’ll be with you.”

There was only one thing that could happen. You’d turn and Nioma would have no one. Maybe she’d just go with you.

In the quiet of their safe house, Nioma waited for you to start showing signs. A fever, vomiting, the haunting sound of bones breaking and reforming. Hours passed, then a day.

Nothing.

She stayed close to your side, kept you fed and wiped dust off your perfect face. Usually it only took a few hours before the first symptoms showed. Nioma had watched people turn, and had put them out of their misery afterwards. You weren’t getting sick, though.

With careful hands, she unwrapped your bandaged ribs. The bite was gone. Nioma touched the unmarked skin. That wasn’t right. She hadn’t hallucinated the entire thing. No. She’d seen the zombie rip into you, had wrapped the wound herself and asked whatever god watching for a miracle.

The bite was gone and you were very much human.

A new type of fear coiled inside her. “We can’t tell anyone,” she whispered, unable to look away from the once again pristine skin. “Nobody can ever know this happened, baby, do you get that?”

Nioma hated interacting with other survivors. Even before the world went to shit, Nioma and you kept to yourselves. It was hard being the only openly gay couple in a high school small enough to fit on three buses. Only good thing about the world literally ending was that people didn’t care about who was kissing who anymore. But she didn’t know how other people—strangers with intentions she couldn’t predict—would react to you somehow surviving a bite without turning.