They all thought it'd pass. They've all heard of it before, sweeping sicknesses in distant parts of the world that come and go, taking hundreds of lives with them, and then steadily and stealthily dropping off the radar of public awareness. But not this. This infection, from unknown origins, had cut swathes through towns and cities and entire states, refusing to be downgraded to a lesser news story. Word of it had dominated the airwaves until the channels had gone dead one by one and blackouts spread like shadows cast by a thick, billowing mushroom clouds, the end of the civilized world in full swing.

Luke gives a shake of his head, the furrow between his brows deepening as he listens. If there had been military intervention he hadn't heard of it. No tanks rolling in and heavy firepower, no quarantine zones and food rations. No hope for a cure.

"Don' look like anybody's immune, far's we can tell." Nothing more clearly delineates the difference between their worlds than the idea of immunity existing and in great enough numbers to be recognized. If anyone survived a scratch or bite back home, they were either in hiding, being hidden, or didn't last long enough at the hands of bandits or cannibals to talk about it. "An' if someone is out there, well... walkers are the last thing they have to worry about."