CLAY: Roads Beyond: A Five Roads to Texas Novel, page 15
Dozens of people moved in slow patterns. Most were gaunt, hollow-eyed. Some knelt, whispering prayers into bone charms worn like rosaries. Others sat on the cold stone floor, rocking gently, eyes unfocused, lost in whatever dreams the ash and smoke had given them.
The air was thick—cloying with incense and sickness, a weight that settled on Clay’s chest like dust that refused to lift. Every breath tasted of rot and smoke.
Rufous growled low, the sound rumbling in his chest like distant thunder. The fur along his thick neck stood on end, tail stiff and rigid, his body coiled and waiting—for a threat, for a signal, for anything. Clay reached down once, fingers brushing the dog’s shoulder, steadying him without a word.
Every inch of the sanctuary had been claimed. Children huddled in corners and under the stairs, eyes too tired for curiosity. Smoke curled from fire pits burning in rusted metal drums. Chains hung from the rafters—some still swaying, clinking softly, as if recently disturbed.
They were led through the ruin, past bowed heads and hushed greetings of "Ash upon you." The air was dense with incense, unwashed bodies, and the iron tang of dried blood. Rufous snorted sharply and bared his teeth, earning wary glances from a few of the faithful.
The robed man guiding them turned down a narrow side corridor, the walls narrowing. Rufous stayed close to Clay’s leg, eyes scanning every shadow. They reached a heavy oak door, its hinges choked with rust. The man paused, then pushed it open with a drawn-out creak.
Inside, the room was stark—stone walls, a wide wooden desk, and a floor scoured black with wear. At the far end stood a line of women in identical gray robes. Their eyes were vacant, faces slack, like dolls left out too long in the rain.
Rufous growled again, low and sharp. Clay didn’t blame him.
Drugged.
The man stepped behind the desk and sat, folding his hands neatly on the scarred surface. He regarded them in silence, his eyes unreadable.
Clay watched him, trying to get a read. Then he saw it—something odd perched on the corner of the desk. At first glance, it looked like a figurine. But no, it was real. A taxidermy crow, feathers intact, frozen mid-watch atop a wooden perch.
Clay shook his head slowly. “You’ve got yourself a crow, I see.”
The man nodded once. “One of the followers found it for me, seemed fitting.”
Andrew leaned forward slightly. “You’re him, aren’t you?”
Clay let out a dry laugh. “Well, shit... so you’re Krow.”
The man didn’t blink. “Brother Krow.”
Clay smirked. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever you say.”
The man furrowed his brow, clearly puzzled. “You say you’ve got military weapons and ammunition... so what do you want in return?”
Clay looked at Andrew. Then back to the man.
“Well, Mister, I've been trying to find a nice female for my boy here. And as you know, it's hard to find a good girl these days, and it seems like every time you do, they up and vanish. So I was thinking- You know, since you already have so many of your own, maybe one of those girls. And maybe... a little understanding. If you and yours ever wander north again, leave my place alone.”
The man cocked his head. “North, Where’s that?”
“Up near Traverse City. Fairgrounds, why do you know the place?”
The man didn’t answer. He glanced over his shoulder, just for a second.
But Clay saw it.
Under a dark veil, standing a half-step behind the others, was Elizabeth.
She was pale and thinner than before, but unmistakable. Her hair pulled back, and her frame trembled slightly.
Clay didn’t react. But he didn’t have to.
Andrew did it for him.
His eyes locked onto her, like the air left his lungs.
And that was enough.
The robed man turned back, his gaze sharpening.
His voice went cold.
“You’re not here for a girl,” the man said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You’re here for that one. Aren’t you? She belongs to Jackson.”
Clay gave a slight nod but said nothing.
The man’s expression darkened. “And you’re not here to trade.”
His hand dipped below the desk.
Clay was faster.
Before the man could draw, Clay raised his pistol. His voice was calm and cold.
“Oh, it’s a trade, alright... your life for that girl.”
He pulled the trigger.
The shot cracked through the chamber.
Brother Krow’s head snapped back, blood misting across the stone wall behind him as his body crumpled behind the desk.
CHAPTER 22
The room erupted into chaos.
Brother Krow's body slumped behind the desk, blood still spreading across the floor like a black shadow. The women—a half dozen of them—stood motionless, eyes unfocused, swaying slightly in their drugged stupor. None of them screamed. None of them ran.
Clay spun toward the door. “We’ve got seconds.”
Andrew was already moving. He threw himself at the heavy oak door, just as shouting and bootfalls echoed from the corridor beyond. He gripped the iron handle, yanked the door shut with a crack, and spotted an old-style crossbar latch recessed into the wall.
“We’ve got a lock!” he shouted.
Clay was beside him in an instant. Together, they dropped the thick iron plank into place just as a loud crack hit from the outside—someone slamming into the door at speed.
“Furniture. Stack it. Now.”
They pushed the heavy desk against the door, then upturned chairs, broken shelves—anything with weight and not nailed down. A barrage of fists and boots began to pound against the outside. The sound of muffled voices—dozens of them—rang through the stone.
Clay paused, breathing hard, and looked at Andrew.
“I’m sorry, kid. I should’ve played it cool. But that was a face I just had to shoot.”
Andrew nodded, his voice calm but tight. “I get it. I wanted to pull the trigger, too.”
Clay nodded, then pointed to the women in the back of the room. “We gotta move. Get them up. Get them out.”
“How?” Andrew said, looking at the barricaded door.
Rufous barked sharply—one warning, then another, more urgent. His claws scraped furiously at a panel on the side chamber, scratching deep into the old wood, tail stiff as a rod. They had missed it, the door concealed in ornate panels. Clay reached the wall and shoved the door panel open. Rufous bolted through first, hackles raised, nose working the air like a live wire and barking for the others to follow.
Clay looked back, “Get them up and moving, I’ll clear a path.”
Andrew rushed to the line of veiled women. Most still stood in place, blank-eyed and slack-jawed. Elizabeth blinked, barely registering their presence. Andrew grabbed her shoulders gently.
“Elizabeth. It’s us. We’re here. You’re safe now. Can you walk?” Andrew said.
Her head nodded slowly.
Andrew moved down the line, clapping hands, shaking shoulders. “Move, come on! Wake up—follow us if you can walk.”
There wasn’t time for sympathy.
The doorway yawned open to reveal a hidden corridor—narrow, dust-choked, and carved deep into the stone like a vein running beneath the church. It was a passage meant for the high clergy, a secret artery that allowed them to move unseen, to slip through the bones of the monolith without ever facing the flock.
Flickering torchlight danced along the damp walls, revealing faded icons—once holy images now defaced and repainted in streaks of ash and dried blood. The air was heavy with smoke and incense, mingling into something sour and old. Somewhere deeper in the church, distant chanting echoed, low and droning like the last prayer of a dying world.
Clay paused just long enough to scan the length of the passage and allow the others to catch up. Stone archways and ancient doors lined the corridor at uneven intervals, disappearing into darkness. They led to forgotten rooms, crypts, maybe even the altar itself. This place was a maze by design.
He turned back and bent low, scooping an injured woman who was struggling to keep up into his arms. Her legs gave way as he lifted her, head lolling against his shoulder.
“Don’t worry, girl. I got ya,” he muttered, voice a quiet promise.
Without hesitation, he moved deeper into the corridor, taking the lead, shifting her over his shoulder to free his weapon. Rufous was already ahead far out front—ears pinned, tail stiff, growling low as his nails clicked over the stone in a frantic cadence.
They pressed deeper into the shadows, each step further from salvation—and closer to whatever secrets the old church still kept buried in its hollow heart.
“This way!” Clay shouted.
Echoes thundered behind them—the barricade wouldn’t hold much longer.
Andrew grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and willed her forward. “Move!”
Behind them, the heavy oak door groaned as it bent inward, hinges screeching under the strain of what clawed against it.
“Go! Go! Keep moving!” Andrew shouted.
The barricaded door behind them exploded in a thunderclap of splintered wood and fire, the shockwave chasing them down the hall in a rush of smoke and heat. The blast lit the darkness in violent flashes—brief glimpses of chaos in the sanctuary they had just fled.
Clay didn’t pause. He rushed deeper into the narrow passage, stone walls tightening like a throat around them. The ceiling felt low, the air tighter still, filled with dust and the sharp tang of gunpowder. Andrew was close behind, glancing back as the roaring echo of the collapse faded into the manic scrape of boots and howls.
Rufous led the way, ears flat, hackles raised, his growl a constant rumble that vibrated through the stone. The dog’s nails clicked in a desperate rhythm, then stopped.
Doors on either side of them suddenly burst open.
Wendigos poured out like hornets from a nest—gaunt zealots painted in ash and bone, wielding rusted blades and fire-hardened spears. Their eyes blazed with madness. Some screamed prayers. Others sang.
Rufous didn’t hesitate. He lunged into the first wave, colliding with a figure in robes and bone charms, knocking him back with a feral snarl. Flesh tore. A scream cut short.
Clay braced, one arm locking the limp weight of the woman over his shoulder, the other snapping his pistol up. He fired over Rufous’s back—three sharp cracks that shattered the tension. The first round shredded a Wendigo’s shoulder, spinning him into the wall. The second sparked off stone. The third caved in a zealot’s face mid-charge, dropping him like a sack of bones.
“Push through!” Clay barked, voice raw, ricocheting down the corridor.
A painted face lunged from the shadows, eyes wild, mouth split in a scream of blind faith. Clay didn’t flinch. He roared back, spittle flying.
“You think I’m afraid to die here, you piece of shit? I’ve been dreaming of this day!”
He leveled his pistol and blew the zealot’s war cry apart. Without breaking stride, he drove a boot into the collapsing body, sending it crashing out of his path, then barreled forward into the storm.
Behind him, Andrew fired from the rear—shotgun booming like thunder in a tomb. Each blast lit the stone with muzzle flash, throwing twisted shadows across the walls. He pivoted, racked, and fired again. A Wendigo was thrown sideways in a crimson arc, smearing the stone as he slid down it.
The corridor became a riot of noise and motion—gunshots cracking, Rufous snarling, feet pounding, steel scraping. The wet smack of bodies hitting stone. Screams in every direction—some human, some not.
The ancient hallway shook with violence, the fury of it echoing through the bones of the temple.
And still, they ran—Clay pressing forward like a battering ram, blood on his boots, pistol hot in his hand.
Andrew was locked in the fight, pumping rounds and reloading by instinct, but when his eyes caught Clay’s through the smoke and muzzle flash—he froze for half a heartbeat.
He didn’t recognize the man charging through the Wendigo line.
This wasn’t the old mentor who’d taught him how to shoot, survive, and stay human in a broken world. This was something else. Something ancient and unchained. Clay moved like a man possessed—eyes wild, teeth bared, his pistol spitting fire with surgical fury. Blood streaked his arms, his face, his boots—none of it slowing him down.
He tore through the zealots like a storm through dry brush, howling obscenities, driving boots, fists, and bullets into anything that dared step in his path. There was no hesitation. No fear. Just the brutal efficiency of a warfighter who had finally stopped holding back.
And as Andrew watched the carnage unfold, he felt nothing but relief.
Thank God he’s on our side.
There would be no surrender.
Not here. Not now.
But there was no time to linger. No time to finish the fight.
Clay surged forward, boots hammering the stone, shouldering past a shrieking Wendigo who barely had time to raise his blade. The cultist bounced off the wall and crumpled without a sound. Clay didn’t look back. He never did.
He pressed into the shadows of the next archway, dragging death behind him like a cloak.
The corridor narrowed again, drawing them into deeper darkness.
Behind them, the cult chased with screams of vengeance, their faith now fire and steel.
And still Rufous led, never breaking stride.
“Keep moving!” Clay shouted, gun barking again.
Rufous circled back, flanking them, ears pinned, tail stiff as steel. He drove the zealots back with snapping jaws, clearing just enough space for the group to press on.
Rufous ran back to the front, snarling like a demon, his paws scrabbling against the stone, tail rigid and hackles flared. His growls echoed off the walls, a living alarm that never stopped moving. Behind him, the group surged forward—half-stumbling, half-running—driven by fear, desperation, and the thunder of boots behind them.
Clay shifted the unconscious woman off his shoulder, catching her under the arms as her legs wobbled. Her head rolled, then lifted—eyes dazed but clearing. He steadied her. “Can you walk?”
She nodded weakly. He gave her a slight push and she fell in with the others, picking up speed as awareness snapped back into her face.
The corridor twisted, a labyrinth of stone, ash-streaked walls, and flickering oil lamps. Bone charms swung wildly overhead with every footfall, casting jittering shadows across crude symbols and narrow doorways.
Andrew moved ahead and fought at the front with Rufous, the two of them a blur of violence and motion—Andrew’s shotgun roaring as Rufous barreled into cultists, teeth flashing, body slamming zealots into the stone with brutal efficiency.
Clay now held the rear, gun up, eyes scanning. A Wendigo stepped from a side passage—Clay shot him clean in the chest, sending the man sprawling into a doorway. Another leapt out with a knife, swinging wildly. Clay blocked the blow with his forearm, twisted the attacker’s wrist until bones popped, then drove a bullet through his skull before the blade could fall.
“Keep moving!” Clay roared, pushing Andrew and the women forward.
A scream rang out—one of the women was tackled to the floor by a snarling cultist. Rufous lunged too late, but Andrew was faster—his shotgun barked, tearing the attacker off her in a wet burst of bone and flesh.
They ran, stumbled, and fought their way through. Clay ducked low as another zealot lunged. The man’s blade slashed across his coat, nicking his shoulder. Clay grunted, pivoted, and fired point-blank—blood sprayed the walls as the body collapsed.
More doors opened. More zealots spilled out.
Clay kept shooting, moving, grabbing shoulders, pulling people along.
Then—salvation.
At the end of the hall, a battered steel door stood against the wall, rust clinging to its hinges, faint light bleeding around its edges.
“There!” Andrew shouted.
He hit the latch and kicked—the door burst open with a metallic scream, and they poured out into a courtyard overrun by weeds and shadows. Crumbling stone buildings leaned around them, a broken garden wall gaping to the dark streets beyond.
No time to rest.
They charged through the courtyard and into the open night. Their boots hit cracked pavement, steam curling from their breath. Behind them came the roar—Wendigos exploding from alleyways and side halls, screeching, blades flashing in the firelight.
Clay spun to cover them, pistol raised— “Get them out of here, I’ll take care of these losers.”
And then the rooftops lit up.
A harsh spotlight snapped on, bathing them all in cold white light.
Gunfire erupted overhead—tight, disciplined bursts. Rooftop snipers opened up with surgical precision. Cultists dropped mid-sprint, bodies crumpling in the street like broken dolls. The rest scattered, shrieking, scrambling for cover as the ambush tore through their charge.
Clay dropped into a crouch, shielding Elizabeth with one arm. Bullets hissed past, snapping against stone and steel. Rufous stood firm beside him, low and tense, lips peeled back in a silent snarl, ready for whatever came next.
Then—suddenly—silence.
The gunfire stopped. Only the buzz of the dying spotlight filled the still air.
A voice broke through it—gravelly, calm, and laced with warning.
"We told Brother Krow—keep that savage shit inside your walls. You bring it onto the streets, we intervene. You know the rules."
The light flicked off.
Darkness swallowed the courtyard again.
No follow-up. No orders. No assurances. No shots.
Just silence.
Clay remained crouched, listening, heart hammering. Nothing moved. No one called out.
But no one came for them either.
Slowly, he rose, sweeping the rooftops with his eyes. Shadowed figures shifted behind chimneys and rusted antennas—ghosts with guns, watchers without allegiance.
They had saved the group.
But Clay didn’t feel saved.
He turned, lips pressed in a hard line, and looked back at the wounded and the weary now gathering behind him.
