Deadly Gallows

Chapter 4 Nicole’s POV

The world didn’t end in fire. It rotted.

Cities didn’t fall all at once—they sagged, caved in slowly like lungs filling with fluid. Highways became graveyards of rusted cars, doors left open, bones still strapped into seats. Nature crept back in without asking permission. Vines split concrete. Trees punched through living room floors. Suburbs turned feral.

Seven years in, the maps are useless.

The old interstate signs still stand, sun-bleached and riddled with bullet holes, pointing to cities that don’t mean s**t anymore. People don’t say “I’m heading to Chicago” or “I’m from Atlanta.” They say things like, “I stay near the river,” or “We control the grain silos,” or “Don’t cross the rail yard.” Landmarks aren’t about geography anymore. They’re about danger.

Some towns burned in the early days—military firebombs trying to contain outbreaks. You can still see the skeletons of them, blackened brick and melted glass, entire blocks reduced to ash. Other places were overrun too fast for anyone to torch.

Those are worse. Walkers still roam the streets in tattered uniforms, hospital gowns, business suits. Reminders of who they were before they turned into hungry corpses.

There are factions now.

Not governments—those died loud and messy.

These are smaller. Smarter. Meaner.

There are trade enclaves built inside old warehouses, surrounded by scrap-metal walls and sniper nests. They barter canned food, ammunition, antibiotics if you’re lucky. Some even have generators that hum at night, powered by siphoned fuel or patched-together solar panels. Electricity is a luxury now—like clean water.

Then there are raider groups. They don’t build anything. They take. They hunt survivors instead of walkers. They brand themselves with symbols carved into skin or stitched into jackets. It’s easier to control the living than fight the dead.

The rural stretches are quieter, but quiet doesn’t mean safe. Farms have turned into strongholds or slaughterhouses. Grain silos make good lookout towers. Old barns make good traps. Wells still work if you’re lucky. Livestock? Rare. Too loud. Too much effort. Most people hunt deer or trap rabbits. Some have started growing crops again in hidden clearings, rotating watch shifts while others work the soil.

There’s even rumors of a settlement up north that’s trying to rebuild something real—schools, laws, families. Not just survival. Actual living.

I don’t put much stock in rumors.

Every time someone says “safe haven,” it usually ends in blood.

Still the idea sticks. Like a splinter.

Dad used to talk about that bunker up north like it was salvation. Military-grade doors. Supplies stockpiled. Controlled entry. A reset button for humanity. We were weeks away when he died. Weeks.

Now the north feels like a ghost direction. Just colder wind and fading hope.

I travel through the in-between spaces. Not part of any faction. Not tied down. I sleep in rooftops, water towers, abandoned ranger stations. I keep my pack light. Katana sharp. Ammo dry.

Some nights I pass by settlements without announcing myself. I’ll watch from the treeline—see fires burning inside fortified walls, hear distant laughter. Real laughter. It feels foreign.

Dangerous.

Hope gets people killed faster than walkers do.

But the world keeps shifting. Trade routes forming between enclaves. Whispers of organized patrols clearing highways. Signs of coordination. Flares shot into the sky not as distress calls—but signals.

Maybe humanity isn’t dead yet.

Or maybe it’s just evolving into something harder.

Colder.

Like me.

The road north is still there. Cracked. Overgrown. Waiting.

And every mile I put between myself and the past feels heavier than the last.