You were asleep in the backseat when Columbus looked back. The sleeve of your sweatshirt slid up and he saw the healed zombie bite scar on your arm. “Stop,” he said softly to Tallahassee. The car stopped. Tallahassee looked back, saw the wound.

“Shit…” he muttered, reaching for his rifle. Columbus stopped him. “He’s not bleeding.He’s been with us for weeks, no symptoms.The wound is healed.”

Tallahassee looked back at you and your arm. The transformation should have happened long ago. But nothing happened to you. You were immune.