CLAY: Roads Beyond: A Five Roads to Texas Novel, page 16
Still breathing. Still hunted.
But not alone.
CHAPTER 23
Outside the shattered church, the night air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. Andrew held Elizabeth close, her legs barely steady beneath her. Her breath came in shallow gasps, eyes unfocused. Around them, Rufous circled like a coiled spring, snarling low, hackles up, refusing to calm down.
The Wendigos had melted back into the ruins and shadows, but Clay could still feel them. Smell them.
“If I can smell them,” he muttered, “then Rufous damn sure can.”
He lifted his eyes to the rooftops above. Silent figures with long rifles crouched in the darkness, still watching. Guardians or predators—he wasn’t sure which.
He did a quick headcount. Five women besides Elizabeth. All stumbling, dazed, starting to come out of whatever spell the cult had them under. They were waking up. But they weren’t out of danger yet.
“We need to move,” Clay said, his voice low but firm. “We can't stay here.”
They moved through the ruined city like ghosts under a dying sky.
The streets were cracked and littered—shards of glass, twisted signage, burned-out husks of cars. Every footstep crunched over debris, loud in the silence that followed the chaos. The smoke from the church still hung in the air, a dark smear against the rooftops.
Above them, armed figures stood silhouetted on ledges and balconies—lean men in scavenged armor, rifles slung and ready. Eyes tracked their every movement from behind mirrored scopes and slitted hoods. No one shouted. No one moved to help.
Farther out, in the haze beyond the streetlights, Wendigos flitted between buildings—shadows trailing them at a distance, slipping in and out of alleyways like wolves circling a wounded herd. Watching. Waiting.
Andrew caught the movement and tensed. He turned once, glancing back at the smoldering ruin of the temple. Just the suggestion of it now—a jagged silhouette in the distance. He nodded once, jaw clenched, and turned back to help Elizabeth forward.
“Let’s go,” he muttered.
The group shifted northwest, tight and quiet, weapons low but ready. Their boots echoed across broken pavement, each step a whisper in enemy territory.
They passed the Union Pub—its faded sign swinging gently in the breeze, charms clinking like bones in the wind. Brett stood out front again, motionless, a cigarette dangling from his lip, forgotten. His eyes followed them, wide and disbelieving.
He said nothing.
Just watched them go like he’d seen ghosts. Or survivors.
And the city kept watching, too.
“Holy shit…” he breathed, flicking the smoke away. “You went in and did it. Kinda thought you might, so I gave the Sergeant of the guard a heads up.”
He looked at the women, wild-eyed, bleeding, but alive.
“Come on,” Brett said. “I know a place.”
They followed Brett through the city's broken maze. No one spoke. The wind hissed through alleyways, tugging at loose tarps and rusted signs that creaked like old bones. Clay kept one hand near his sidearm, eyes sweeping every shadow and rooftop.
Clay glanced at Brett as they moved through the darkened streets. “So we’ve got you to thank for that assist from the rooftops?”
Brett let out a short breath and shook his head. “Not exactly.”
He kept walking, eyes flicking to the rooftops like he expected trouble to return.
“The Coalition… they’re standoffish about most things. They don’t get involved unless they have to. But there’s one rule they stick to—no fighting on city streets. They hate the Wendigos as much as anyone, but there’s a treaty. As long as those freaks keep their rituals and bloodletting inside their temple grounds, the Coalition doesn’t move on them.”
He paused, then looked at Clay. “But the minute they spill into the city? That’s fair game.”
Clay gave him a sidelong look. “So what’d you do?”
“I mentioned to one of my friends in the Coalition that you might be starting some shit with Krow. Figured they’d knock on Krow’s door and maybe get you out.”
He shrugged. “Guess they decided to let it play out. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were hoping the Wendigos followed you out. Gave 'em an excuse to put some of those bastards down finally.”
Clay gave a quiet grunt and nodded. “Well… I’ll take it.”
Finally, they stopped before a brick high school that had become a fortified shelter. Unlike most of the city, this place had a sense of order. Two uniformed guards in mismatched gear stood at the front, rifles slung, and their posture rigid.
Brett walked up and started talking fast, gesturing back at the group.
Clay watched the guards—professional, alert, scanning faces. After a minute, Brett returned.
“They’ll let us in,” he said. “But a doctor has to check everyone first. Make sure we’re not infected or carrying something.”
Clay nodded, then looked at the guards again. “What about the Wendigos? Can they get in here?”
Brett shook his head. “They’re bound by the same truce as everyone else. They keep their madness on church grounds. Out here? This is Coalition turf.”
Clay squinted at the school, its facade boarded up with plywood and sheets of tarp fluttering in the wind like torn flags. A chain-link fence sagged out front, more symbolic than secure.
“What is this place?” he asked, voice low, eyes scanning for threats.
“First refugee camp in the city,” Brett answered, thumbing toward the building. “They bring in newcomers here—process ’em, give ’em a bunk and a bowl of soup. For folks like them,” he nodded toward the women, “it’s the safest place left.”
Clay glanced at the women—dazed, bloodied, barely upright—survivors, but only just.
He turned back, voice sharp. “What happens if they leave? The Dingos pick them up again?”
The look on Brett’s face was all the answer Clay needed.
Clay’s jaw flexed. “Then I think we’ll take our chances out there.”
Brett stepped forward, glancing at the group. “Come on, old man,” he said, not unkindly. “Let ’em rest. Let ’em eat. You run now, in this condition, the Wendigos will cut you down before you hit the highway.”
Clay’s eyes flicked to Andrew, who was already nodding—sweat-streaked, shotgun slung, face drawn and worn thin by the day’s bloodshed.
Clay’s stare lingered a beat longer, then he gave a reluctant nod. “One night,” he muttered. “We’re moving at first light.”
Brett exhaled, tension easing. “That’s all I’m askin’.”
But Clay kept his hand on the grip of his sidearm, eyes still scanning the rooftops.
A rusted gate creaked open, its hinges groaning as a weary guard shoved it wide with the butt of his rifle. Chain-link rattled against itself, the opening barely wide enough for the group to squeeze through.
“Let’s move,” Clay muttered, eyes still sweeping the shadows.
They stepped into a cracked asphalt courtyard lit by a single bulb strung overhead, its glow flickering like it was about to die. Weeds pushed up through the pavement, and broken playground equipment lay scattered like the remains of some lost civilization. The air smelled of old sweat, antiseptic, and boiled grain.
From the building, figures emerged—five of them, moving quickly but cautiously, their faces half-lit by the swinging lanterns in their hands. At the center was a man in a long, stained coat, his collar turned up, stethoscope bouncing against his chest as he approached. His eyes were sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses, flicking from one face to the next.
Then they landed on Clay—and on the mangy dog standing beside him, blood on his muzzle and eyes still wild with fight.
“You’re all welcome inside,” the doctor said, his voice calm but firm. “But the dog stays out here.”
Clay met the doctor’s gaze, expression unreadable. Then he gave a slow nod.
“Fair enough.”
He turned to Andrew, voice dropping low.
“Get them inside. Make sure they eat, sleep—whatever they can manage. They’ll need it.”
Andrew looked uncertain. “You sure?”
Clay nodded once. “I’ll stay with Rufous. Keep watch. Meet me at dawn—no later. We move before this place wakes up.”
Andrew hesitated, then gave a sharp nod of his own. “Got it.”
The doctor gestured the group forward, already signaling to his people to help the women. Lanterns bobbed in the dark as they moved toward the old school’s entrance, shadows stretching long behind them.
Clay watched until they disappeared into the building, the door creaking shut behind them with a dull, final thud.
Then he crouched beside Rufous, running a hand through the thick fur behind the dog’s ears. The dog didn’t flinch—just kept staring at the gate, like the fight wasn’t over.
It wasn’t.
Not yet.
CHAPTER 24
It was well past midnight, and the city lay wrapped in silence, thick and uneasy. Heavy clouds dragged across the sky like bruised velvet, muting the stars, but the pale eye of the moon still glowed through in patches, casting a sickly light over the courtyard.
Clay sat on an old plastic milk crate, elbows on his knees, eyes scanning the fence line for movement. His carbine lay within reach. The night was cold but not bitter, just enough to creep into his bones and remind him how long he'd been doing this.
Rufous was curled up in the center of his bedroll, a warm coil of fur breathing slow and steady. The dog had earned his rest.
A sound broke the quiet—soft footsteps in the gravel, measured and careful.
Clay turned, already tense, one hand brushing his weapon before he recognized the silhouette.
Andrew stepped out of the shadows, a plate balanced in one hand and a tin cup in the other. Steam drifted up from the coffee, curling in the cold air like a signal fire. He looked tired, but solid—alert.
Clay smirked faintly. “That for me, or are you just showing off?”
Andrew handed over the plate and cup with a small grin. “Figured you’d be too stubborn to go inside. So I brought room service.”
Clay took the offerings, nodding once. The plate held a slab of fried bread, a scoop of beans, and something pretending to be meat. It smelled incredible.
“You’re a good kid,” Clay said, sipping the coffee and letting the warmth settle into his chest. “What’s the matter, can’t sleep?”
Andrew sat down on a cinder block across from him, pulling his coat tighter. “Place is quiet, but…” He shrugged. “You can feel it. Like the walls are listening.”
Clay didn’t answer right away. He tore off a piece of bread, chewed, and stared at the clouds.
“They are,” he said finally. “Everything in this city’s got ears.”
They sat in silence a moment longer, the only sounds the soft breathing of Rufous curled near the coals and the distant creak of metal swinging somewhere in the wind. Snowflakes drifted lazily through the air, settling on rooftops and fences, untouched.
But the quiet wouldn’t last.
Andrew’s voice broke the stillness. “What do you think happened here, Clay?”
Clay didn’t answer right away. He stared through the chain-link fence at the sleeping city beyond—watchtowers barely lit, rooftops cloaked in shadow, armed men pacing like ghosts behind barricades. He opened his mouth, then hesitated.
Andrew filled the space. “I mean… we’ve seen some real shit since this all started. Towns wiped out. People starving. That camp in Texas. All those little burned-out places between here and there…”
He shook his head, voice low.
“But here? Look at this. They’ve got walls—guard posts. Organized patrols. They found a way to build something. Something secure. And still—bad shit’s happening, right under their noses. Maybe because of them.”
Clay took a sip from the tin cup, the coffee barely warm now. He let the bitterness sit on his tongue before he spoke.
“It’s human nature,” he said finally. “Even before all this, people lived like that. Safe behind fences. Comfortable. Ignorant of their neighbors. Pretending bad things didn’t happen if they didn’t look directly at ‘em.”
He nodded toward the dark sprawl of the city. “Community used to mean something. People used to watch out for each other. But those days are long gone. Now… this? This is just a polished version of the same rot. Everyone looking out for themselves—no one wants to see what’s outside their bubble.”
Andrew followed Clay’s gaze to the distant walls. The wind kicked up, and a ripple passed through a tarp hanging over a distant guard tower.
“I used to think it’d be nice to find a city,” he said after a while. “To have hot meals, safety, maybe a real bed again. But now… I miss our little shack back at the fairgrounds.”
Clay chuckled, just a little. Not mocking—more like a shared truth.
“You and me both, kid,” he said. “Funny how the more we see, the more that busted old shack starts to feel like home.”
Rufous gave a soft grunt in his sleep, stretching once before curling tighter.
They sat with that thought for a while longer, letting the silence come back around them.
Some things didn’t need answers—just acknowledgment.
But for now, it was enough.
Clay watched Andrew for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable in the moonlight. The clouds shifted above, casting a pale glow that made the boy look even younger than he was—tired eyes, hands still dirty, but steady.
“You did good back there,” Clay said finally, voice low. “In the fight, I mean. You held it together. Got those women out. I’ve seen men twice your age fall apart under fire. You didn’t.”
Andrew didn’t answer right away. He shifted on the cinder block, eyes on the ground, scuffing his boot against a rock.
“I just tried not to think about it,” he said. “It felt like playing football back in school. When you're in the middle of the game, there’s no time to think. You see a pass, you jump. See a guy running, you hit him. Instinct. No time to debate what happens after or what you’d do different.”
Clay grinned, took a sip of the tin cup, and nodded. “Exactly. That’s what practice is for. All the training, all the drills, all the hell—they aren’t about building muscle. They’re about shutting your brain off when it’s time. When you’re in the middle of it, there’s no room left for thinking. You just fight.”
Andrew looked up then, brow furrowed. “Yeah, but… when we were in that hallway, I saw you, Clay. You didn’t just fight. You looked like—like someone else. Like something else. How do you do that? Flip that switch?”
Clay didn’t answer right away. He finished chewing a mouthful of beans, then set the rest of the plate down for Rufous, who perked up and began eating without a sound. Clay took a long sip of his coffee, staring out at the shadows past the fence.
“I don’t know,” he said finally. “And I don’t care to know.”
Andrew blinked, surprised.
Clay leaned back a little, the crate creaking beneath him. “I think some men—fighting men—got something inside them. A warrior spirit. It ain’t poetry, and it sure as hell ain’t noble. It’s just... a piece of you that comes out when the rest of your brain can’t take what’s happening. When there’s too much blood, too much fear, too much noise, that part steps up. Protects the rest of you from breaking.”
Andrew was quiet, nodding slowly.
Clay continued, “Some men can keep that thing locked away, only let it out when they need it. Some coexist with it—learn to live side by side with the thing they become when the bullets fly.”
Andrew looked over at him, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “What about you, Clay? Do you coexist with it?”
Clay gave a slight shrug and looked back up at the clouded sky. “Right now? Yeah. I have to. But the goal—the real goal—is to shove it back down again once the fight’s over. Bury it deep. We can know it’s there, know what we’re capable of, without letting it define us.”
He turned and fixed Andrew with a hard look.
“You know now. You’ve got it in you. You can do what has to be done. But don’t let that become who you are. You’re still that good kid. The kind that brings an old man coffee in the middle of the damn night. Don’t lose that part.”
Andrew sat in silence, letting it sink in. The kind of silence only earned after a long fight—when the adrenaline fades and all that’s left is the truth.
In the distance, something howled.
“What now?” Andrew asked, his voice quiet in the stillness.
Clay didn’t answer right away. He stared out past the chain-link fence, eyes drifting over the dim silhouettes of rooftop sentries and the faint glow of barrel fires in the distance. His fingers tapped lightly against the rim of his empty cup.
“In the morning,” he said finally, “we move out. No matter what.”
He shifted on the crate, watching the night breathe around them.
“The Dingos’ll be waiting. Not in the streets—no, they’ll hang back, stay just outside of our view. Let us think we’ve slipped free. Then they’ll strike again, out in the open where we’re exposed. That’s how they operate.”
Andrew nodded slowly, the firelight flickering across his face. “I think you’re right. But—before Brett left—he pulled me aside. Said he might be able to help.”
Clay’s eyes narrowed.
“He knows a way through,” Andrew continued. “Said he might be able to buy us a break. A head start at least. Some route the Dingos don’t watch or something like that. He’ll be back in the morning to explain.”
Clay rubbed at the stubble on his chin, eyes narrowing in thought. He wasn’t one to put trust in strangers, but Brett had stuck his neck out more than once now. And local knowledge could be the difference between dying in the dirt and making it out alive.
He gave a slow nod, finishing the last of the coffee with a grimace, then handed the cup and plate back to Andrew.
