CLAY: Roads Beyond: A Five Roads to Texas Novel, page 1
CLAY
ROADS BEYOND
5R2T
WJ LUNDY
Five Roads to Texas
CLAY
Roads Beyond
By W. J. Lundy
© 2025 W. J. Lundy
CONTENTS
CLAY
A Five Roads to Texas Novel
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
More From: Five Roads to Texas
After the Roads: Sidney’s Way
For Which We Stand: Ian's road
Convergence: The Far Side of Hell
Showdown At Chimney Rock: Sarah's Run
Salvation
THE SOLDIER SERIES
By AJ Powers
By WJ Lundy
By AJ Powers
Tommy Donovan Series
CLAY
ROADS BEYOND
Roads Beyond
© 2025 W. J. Lundy
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Some places, especially military locations and facilities, are intentionally vague or incorrect in layout and security perimeter. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
A FIVE ROADS TO TEXAS NOVEL
CLAY: ROADS BEYOND
PROLOGUE
One Hundred Eighty Days Ago – Texas Refugee Camp
They said Texas would be salvation. A place of order. Walls, weapons, food lines. Clay had believed that—for about five minutes.
Now he stood in a dry ditch along the northern fence line, squinting through heat waves at rows of rusted trailers, burned-out sedans, and hollow-eyed people. The place wasn’t a camp but a scrapheap of human failure.
Every square inch of ground inside the compound was baked dust or trampled mud. Rows of tents pressed shoulder-to-shoulder like prison blocks. Kids cried themselves hoarse at night while men bartered medicine for old bullets. There were more derelict vehicles, scrap heaps than food, and more scavengers than soldiers.
The camp was full. Overfull. Bloated with desperation and not enough barbed wire to hold it together.
Clay had known it couldn’t last.
He wasn’t the only one. A few like-minded souls—old National Guard vets, truck drivers, and a couple of Michigan boys who could still shoot straight—started meeting in the dark hours. They didn't advertise it. But they didn’t hide either. The camp commanders barely looked up from their clipboards. “You’re leaving? Fine. Fewer mouths to feed.” They didn’t care. Just one rule: you weren't welcome back once you walked out that gate.
Fair enough.
Clay didn’t believe in looking back anyway.
They took what they had—an old school bus, two fuel trucks, and every last working weapon they could barter, steal, or build. Plates were welded. Grates mounted. One man had a stack of rebar that Clay turned into makeshift push rails. A man named Amos—sharper than he looked—mapped their route north using outdated highway atlases and weather band radio chatter.
The night before they rolled out, Andrew found Clay cleaning the barrel of an old carbine by firelight. The boy’s hands shook when he spoke.
“I’m going with you.”
Clay didn’t look up. “You sure?”
“I’m not staying here,” Andrew said. “Not without you.”
Clay didn’t argue. He didn’t have it in him.
The kid had latched on to him somewhere back at the lakeside in Michigan and never let go. Since that first night when he’d knocked on Clay’s door bloodied and scared, they’d walked through hell together. Now, it seemed, they were going back through it.
They left before sunrise. The gate guards opened the chain-link with the same enthusiasm you’d use to toss out the trash. Nobody wished them luck. Nobody dared look them in the eye.
They drove north through a ruined America.
Six days on the road. Nights filled with firelight and distant howls. The Mississippi was nearly impassable, overrun with bridge wreckage and walking dead. They lost a truck there. Lost good people. Clay didn’t forget their names.
Andrew took to the road better than expected. He carried his rifle, watched for traps, and even started tracking animals with Clay and Rufous when the food ran thin. He was still too soft in the heart, but Clay was working on that.
Rufous, for his part, stayed sharp. That dog knew when to growl and when to go silent. He knew who to trust before Clay even sniffed the air. More than once, he saved their lives.
The air changed when they finally entered northern Michigan and settled in a spot just outside Traverse City. It smelled of cold pine and wet soil. The bones of the world were quieter here. There was less rot, less noise, and just survival.
They found an old fairground and cleared it with the last of their fuel and the last of their strength. Pitched tents between livestock stalls and fenced off the old midway with razor wire and truck frames.
And people started to breathe again for the first time since the world fell apart.
Clay didn’t take charge, but he didn’t have to. When trouble came, people looked to him. When food ran short, they asked what he’d do. He didn’t smile, didn’t sugarcoat. He just told them what needed to be done—and then did it.
Andrew stayed at his side, learning and hunting, trapping, and watching. They weren’t the same—Clay was ice and steel, Andrew was youthful fire and nerves—but somehow they fit. One didn’t move without the other.
And Rufous? He stayed between them. Always watching. Always ready.
Now, sixty days later, the snows had started to melt, and with them came signs of movement in the east. People talked in hushed tones about a tribe of raiders who didn’t fear the infected, who walked among them, painted in blood and ash.
They had a name, whispered like a curse in the cold winds.
The Wendigos.
And Clay?
Clay was already planning for what came next.
CHAPTER 1
The wire snapped with a sharp ping and recoiled like a snake, missing Andrew’s wrist by an inch.
“Damn it, boy,” Clay barked, not looking up from where he knelt at the fence post. “Mind on the job. We already got folks watching the gate—that’s their job. Yours today is fixing the fence.”
Andrew rubbed the thick leather glove that had saved his skin. A red welt had already formed beneath it. He winced but nodded. “Yes, sir.”
He glanced up again. The van had stopped just outside the perimeter. Rusted, dented, tires half-bald, but still moving. Survivors, probably. A few people stepped out. Muddy, worn, wide-eyed like all the others that trickled in every week.
Then he saw her.
A blonde girl, maybe his age—late teens, early twenties—crawled out of the back seat behind the others. Thin. Pale. Hair tied back in a frayed band. She didn’t move like she belonged with them. She stood apart, arms folded tight, eyes wary.
Andrew didn’t even realize he’d stopped working.
Clay stood slowly, one hand still resting on the tensioner, and followed Andrew’s line of sight. A wry smile creased his weathered face.
“Okay, boy,” he said, sighing. “I see you ain’t gonna be worth a damn till we settle your curiosity. Let’s go take a look.”
Andrew didn’t argue.
Rufous padded alongside them as they crossed the open gravel lot toward the gate. The spring wind cut through the trees beyond the fence, carrying the sharp scent of old diesel and wet pine.
The girl noticed them first.
Even from a distance, Andrew could see her body tense. She shifted her weight, instinctively drawing back from the group she’d arrived with and eyeing the fence like she might bolt.
As they got closer, it became apparent—she wasn’t with the others. One man was already arguing with a sentry over rations. Another woman was busy coughing into a filthy sleeve. No one looked back at the girl. No one checked on her. It was like she wasn’t even there.
Andrew stepped forward, hand raised in greeting.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft but friendly. “I’m Andrew. You okay?”
She hesitated. “Fine.”
Her tone said otherwise.
Clay stayed two paces back, arms crossed. Rufous sat at his feet, ears twitching.
Andrew tried again. “You here with anyone?”
She shook her head. “No. They picked me up a few days back. I found them near Fort Wayne. They said they’d take me along until they found somewhere safe. But they… didn’t want me along, Mrs. Willson made them.”
“It’s not their fault; they were already short of supplies.” She looked past Andrew toward the group she’d arrived with. Her voice dropped. “They didn’t feed me. Not really. Just enough so I wouldn’t starve.”
Andrew felt his jaw tighten. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore,” he said. “We’re all equal here. We all work, we all eat. No freeloaders, but no starving either.”
For the first time, the girl smiled—just a flicker—but then her eyes shifted to Clay, and the smile vanished.
He hadn’t moved. Still watching. Still unreadable.
“What’s his deal?” she asked under her breath.
Andrew glanced back. “That’s Clay. Don’t take it personally. He’s like that with everyone.”
“Dog yours?” she asked.
“His. But I think Rufous likes me better,” Andrew said with a slight grin.
She didn’t laugh, but she didn’t leave either.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Elizabeth,” she said. “Elizabeth Snow.”
Clay finally stepped forward, not offering his hand. “Are you sick? Infected?”
Elizabeth stiffened. “No.”
“Bit?”
“No.”
“You got anything worth stealing? Are you hiding anything we need to know about?”
Andrew shot Clay a look. “Come on—”
But Clay didn’t blink. “Girl shows up with a group that ain’t hers, gets dumped at our gate, and you’re already handing out kindness like it’s candy. This world doesn’t work that way anymore.”
Elizabeth’s lips thinned. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
“No,” Clay said. “You didn’t, but you’re here begging for it, right?”
They stood in silence. The cold wind picked up again.
Andrew stepped in between them, tension rising. “She’s here now. Let her catch her breath, Clay.”
Clay stared a moment longer. Then nodded—barely.
“Fine,” he said. “She earns her keep like the rest of us. But I’ll be watching.”
Elizabeth crossed her arms. “You and everyone else, apparently.”
Clay gave her one last look and turned, whistling for Rufous as he walked toward the west fence.
Andrew offered her a smile again. “He’s rough around the edges. But he’s saved my life more than once.”
Elizabeth watched Clay’s back. “He looks like the kind of man who knows how to stay alive.”
“He does,” Andrew said. “And if you stick close, maybe you’ll get the chance to see how.”
She didn’t answer, but she didn’t walk away either.
CHAPTER 2
The shack wasn’t much to look at, but Clay had built it with his own hands—from scavenged shipping pallets, old screws, and salvaged tin. The roof creaked when the wind blew right, and the walls had more gaps than he liked, but it was square, dry, and warm. A steel drum-turned-stove sat in the corner, ticking softly as it cooled from last night’s fire. The beds were on opposite sides of the room, with a short table and two chairs. Spartan, sure—but this was luxury compared to the damp tents and rat-bit shelters most folks were crammed into.
Clay stirred from his cot, rubbing a palm across his face before swinging his legs over the side. Rufous was already up, tail thumping quietly near the door. Across the room, Andrew was fumbling in a crate under his bed, trying to do it quietly—like that was possible on those squeaky pallet floors.
Clay squinted. “Boy… I ain’t seen that shirt since we celebrated New Year’s.”
Andrew froze mid-motion, holding up a neatly folded, light blue button-down. “It’s clean,” he said defensively.
Clay laughed low. “You must be sweet on that new girl.”
Andrew rolled his eyes and stood up, pulling on the shirt. “Mind your business, old man.”
Clay chuckled and moved to the stove, tossing a few dry sticks into the fire. “Well, I’ll have some chow fixed up shortly. You better get your hair combed and your heart broken before then.”
Andrew hesitated, hand on the back of his neck. Clay looked over, catching the boy’s expression—something between nervous and hopeful.
“Let me guess,” Clay said, straightening up. “You invited your girlfriend to breakfast?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Andrew said quickly. “But yeah… I guess I did.”
He sat on the edge of his bed, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Give me a break, man. Nobody else is here my age, and sure ain’t no pretty girls. Just… let me have this for a little while, yeah? Once she gets settled in, she won’t want anything to do with me anyway.”
Clay leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Don’t go cutting yourself short, son. You've got more to offer than half the men in this place. Remember that.”
Andrew blinked, caught off guard by the rare warmth in Clay’s voice. He gave a quiet smile and nodded. “Thanks.”
Before either could say more, there was a soft knock at the door and a low bark from Rufous.
Clay moved first, opening the door to find Elizabeth standing there, holding a small woven basket and a cautious smile. Rufous stepped forward, tail wagging as he sniffed her hand and licked her fingers.
Clay narrowed his eyes. Rufous was friendly—but selective. The dog didn’t warm up to just anyone. That got Clay’s attention.
“Mornin’,” Elizabeth said.
Andrew practically leapt from his bed. “Hey! You made it.”
“I said I would.” She held up the basket. “Fresh bread. I traded my rations for it. My mom used to say, ‘Always bring the host a gift.’ Felt like the right thing to do.”
Clay stepped aside, gesturing her in without a word. She entered, eyes scanning the small room. “This is nice,” she said, and meant it. “You built this?”
Clay nodded as he stirred a pot on the stove. “Better than sleeping on rocks.”
She turned toward Andrew. “Your dog’s sweet.”
“He’s not mine,” Andrew said quickly. “He just likes me more.”
Clay grunted behind them.
Elizabeth pulled her hair back with a fraying shoelace, but Andrew moved to his crate before she could tie it. He opened it slowly, carefully, and pulled out something wrapped in cloth. From inside, he retrieved a red silk ribbon, slightly wrinkled but still vibrant.
He held it out, suddenly unsure. “It’s not much. But I figured… You might like it better than that cord.”
She blinked, surprised. “Really?”
Andrew nodded. “I found it back in Ohio—on a shop mannequin. I dunno why I took it. Just liked how it looked, I guess. Been carrying it around ever since.”
She gave a genuine smile and took it gently. “It’s beautiful. Thanks.”
Clay watched, saying nothing, but Rufous—still sitting beside the girl—let out a soft, approving huff.
Clay turned from the stove and brought over a cast-iron pan, setting it carefully in the center of the table. The smell hit immediately—eggs, potatoes, and other root vegetables, chopped fine and fried just enough to be golden on the edges.
Elizabeth’s eyes lit up, and when she smiled, it wasn’t the shy, wary grin she’d worn days earlier. It was bright, full, and warm. It lit the room.
Even Clay—grizzled, stone-faced Clay—felt his cheeks heat a little at her reaction.
“That looks and smells divine,” Elizabeth said, sliding into one of the chairs.
Andrew laughed. “One thing about Clay—he can be mean and salty, but the man can cook. He turns the weirdest food into gourmet.”
“Hush it, boy,” Clay grumbled, though the edge in his voice was dulled. “Keep talking and you can sit this meal out while I enjoy it with our civilized company.”
He picked up the basket of bread she’d brought and handed it back to her. “You brought it. Want to divvy it up?”
Elizabeth nodded and began tearing pieces with careful hands, dividing it into thirds like it was the last loaf on earth.
