Deadly Gallows

Chapter 1 Nicole’s POV

Seven years ago, the apocalypse began.

I was twelves when it started.

Just a few coughs at first. Soft wheezes people brushed off as a cold. No one realized those small, harmless sounds were the beginning of the end.

Death became normal after that. It’s hard for it not to when you have to watch your father kill your mother because she was part of the first wave the virus took. After that day, neither of us were ever the same.

Dad decided to train me. His reason? In case I ever had to do to him what he did to her—and survive on my own. I don’t think he understood how much of me disappeared the day Mum died. Something hollow settled behind my eyes. That was the day hope died too—the day he lost the little girl I used to be.

Yes, Dad had military training. I know how cliché that sounds—the army dad stepping up when the world falls apart, like something out of a zombie movie none of us took seriously. But real life doesn’t skip the hard parts. I had to grow up fast.

Luckily, I already knew how to handle a .22. Dad used to take me to the shooting range on his days off base, sometimes even pulling me out of school for “bonding time.” Funny how shooting used to be a hobby. Now it’s survival.

It took me eighteen months to master both long- and close-range weapons. Not weeks like in the movies. Close combat was harder—we had to rely on instinct, stay sharp even during training. Dad taught me how to live off the land and how to properly clear a building before settling in for the night.

Nights were the worst. We called them “walkers,” though I’m not sure why—they didn’t just f*****g walk. They were fast, clumsy, and disgusting to look at. Within weeks of infection, their skin blistered and peeled, rotting away with a stench you never get used to. Their eyes turned a sickly yellow, pupils blown wide and lifeless. The movies got their appearance mostly right. The sounds? Close enough.

It was the bites or infected blood that turned you. Not instantly. It took days, like any infection. But once it started, there was no coming back.

We lived by four rules Dad drilled into me:

1. Never hesitate. Shoot twice in the head to make it final. Hesitation gets you killed.

2. Always clear your surroundings. If you can’t, move on.

3. Check your supplies constantly. Don’t take anything for granted.

4. Don’t trust anyone.

The fourth rule mattered most. Mum hadn’t told us how sick she was getting. That used to break my heart until I understood that if Dad hadn’t acted, we’d all be dead. Some days, though, I wonder if that would have been easier. At least I’d still be with them. In theory.

I lost Dad when I was fifteen.

We were scouting for a place to stay after looting a small deli for canned food. We found a rundown house nearby. Dad checked the perimeter while I kept watch to make sure we weren’t followed.

He cleared it. We went inside.

We never lit fires—too much attention. Attention meant walkers or worse, other survivors who thought the end of the world made them kings.

Some houses still had gas or electricity running even if we never used the lights, sometimes even running water from backup systems. We always stocked up when we could. Small comforts mattered. At least we didn’t smell like some of piss and s**t like the people we’d passed on the road.

Dad sent me to shower first while he heated canned beans on the gas stove. I took my torch and checked the bathroom carefully. Yes, Dad had cleared the house, but you can never be too careful. They’re sneaky fuckers everywhere.

I didn’t waste the hot water. I washed the dirt from my nearly white hair that I got from my dad’s side we’d cut it to shoulder length to make it easier to manage and scrubbed myself clean as fast as I could. I changed into fresh clothes and a new pair of underwear. Even in the apocalypse, I wasn’t giving up that small luxury no matter what.

When I stepped back into the main room, I expected to smell beans and hear Dad moving around.

Instead, everything went still.

The moment I crossed the doorway, the hairs on my neck stood up. I froze, forcing my breathing to quiet as I listened for movement—any sound from the kitchen connected to the room I was standing in.

But there was nothing.

Nothing except my own breathing.