Deadly Gallows

Chapter 3 Nicole’s POV

After Dad died, I kind of f*****g snapped. Physically, I got stronger—meaner, deadlier. Mentally? I was gone. Just a body moving through whatever scraps of life were left. I shut every damn emotion off and ran on autopilot, going through the motions like some hollow shell.

I kept to myself. It was easier. Less bullshit, less stress. Also lonely as hell. It’s not like I didn’t cross paths with people—I ran into plenty of survivors. But this world turned into kill or be killed, and I made damn sure I was the one walking away. I built a reputation whether I meant to or not. The ones who survived meeting me gave me a name that fit a little too well.

Death.

The Reaper of Death.

Judgement of Death—depends who the f**k you asked.

I stopped counting how many walkers and men I’ve killed. After seven years, the numbers blur together, and the adrenaline high doesn’t hit the same. Now it’s just routine. I’m death walking around in skin—dead eyes, dead inside. It’s less survival and more of a f*****g chore at this point.

Not every kill was self-defense. I won’t lie—I still had a sliver of a hero complex buried somewhere. I’d stumble onto groups where mothers and kids were cornered by asshole men who thought being bigger meant they owned the weak. Seeing kids this far into the apocalypse still shocks the s**t out of me. The fact people are still alive, still having babies, still trying to keep the human race going—even though one crying infant can get you torn apart by walkers in seconds.

The people I saved always wanted to come with me. I never let them. Couldn’t. They’d slow me down. They’d put me at risk. So I’d teach them quick survival s**t—how to move, how to hide, how to kill—and then I’d disappear. Some nights I wonder if that makes me a coward. If I should’ve let someone in. But I shove that crap down like everything else.

“Trust no one,” Dad used to say. Trust your instincts. That’s how I’ve made it this long. Even if it means saving people but never letting them close enough to matter.

Seven years in, the walkers look worse than ever. Limbs rotting clean off. Black, dried blood caked everywhere—sometimes theirs, sometimes someone else’s. And the smell? Jesus f*****g Christ. It’s rancid. In the summer it’s unbearable. I wear a bandanna over my face, and people probably think it’s to hide who I am. It’s not. It’s to keep that godawful stench out of my lungs.

It’s kind of funny, in a twisted way. Most people assume I’m a man because of the nickname and the way survivors describe me. They always leave out certain details about my build. Works for me. Let them underestimate me. Makes it easier when things turn ugly.

The walkers clump together in herds drawn by noise, migrating like grotesque animals. Sometimes storms push them miles in a single direction. Sometimes gunfire echoes across a valley and suddenly you’ve got a thousand rotting bodies pressing against your walls.

Winter slows them down. Freezes joints stiff. Summer is worse—heat swells them, splits skin open, the stench rolling for miles. You can smell a herd before you see it.

I learned to read the signs.

Crows circling low. Silence where there should be birds. Wind carrying that sick-sweet rot. I move before they ever know I was there.

Luckily I’ve learned to be light on my feet—quiet, fast, unseen. I save ammo that way, though I prefer my katana anyway. Found it a year after Dad died. Took it off a group I had to jump just to keep moving forward.

Problem is I don’t even know where I’m going anymore. When Dad was alive, we had a destination—a bunker up north that was supposed to be safe. That was the plan. Now? I don’t even know if anyone there is still breathing. And I’m not sure I care enough to find out.