CLAY: Roads Beyond: A Five Roads to Texas Novel, page 18
Nelson shrugged. “Sometimes the only way to win the game is to make the other side forget they’re not the only ones playing it.”
They crested the low hill just before the rise of the dingo’s planned ambush, snow swirling around their boots, and the road ahead curved gently into the fog.
Clay’s voice was a growl now. “Let’s get this done, I’m freezing my ass off.”
The rise gave way to a narrow stretch of broken roadway, flanked by skeletal trees and windblown snow. From here, the city disappeared behind them—nothing but frostbitten silence and white horizon.
From a distance, they still looked like civilians—blankets draped over shoulders, parkas oversized and filthy, heads down like cold, broken survivors.
But the illusion shattered the moment Nelson gave the signal.
In an instant, the group moved like commandos. Blankets dropped, heavy coats parted, and from underneath emerged compact M4 carbines, suppressed squad automatic weapons, and a single soldier lugging a 203 grenade launcher under his barrel like he was born with it.
Clay blinked, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he looked down at his old carbine rifle.
“Well,” he muttered, “guess I brought a fishing pole to a gunfight.”
Nelson didn’t look back. He just pointed toward a split in the ridge.
“Cover. Now.”
The team spread out fast, eyes sharp, feet silent. No wasted motion—just clean, practiced precision. They moved low and fast, checking angles, covering each other like they'd been doing this for years.
Clay watched as Nelson’s men moved with trained professionalism—the kind that only came from hard-earned experience. There was no barking of orders, no hesitation—just a quiet, deadly rhythm. The machine gunner and grenadier broke off first, sprinting low across the road and vanishing into the ditch on the far side, weapons tight to their chests. The others climbed the embankment, disappearing into the treeline like ghosts.
It was textbook—an L-shaped ambush, clean and lethal. The kind Clay had seen set up a hundred times in his life, back in wars the world had already forgotten. The kill zone was perfectly chosen—narrow road, open ground, zero cover. Anyone walking into it would be dead before they could even shout.
Clay followed, boots crunching lightly in the snow, rifle low, eyes scanning. He moved with them but hung back just enough to take it all in. There was something admirable in it. The smooth execution. The quiet confidence. No wasted motion.
Nelson raised a fist, and the squad froze as one. Mid-step. Mid-breath.
In seconds, they were down—crouched low behind rocks and fallen limbs, weapons braced, barrels aligned. No chatter. No nerves. Just calm anticipation from men who had done this too many times to count.
Stone-faced killers. Ready to get bloody.
Clay settled in beside a mossy stump, leveling his rifle toward the road, eyes focused on the empty stretch where the Wendigos would appear—arrogant and loud, thinking they were the hunters.
Clay crept up beside Nelson, settling behind a splintered log, rifle braced. Rufous pressed low in the snow beside him, ears forward.
Below, the treeline sloped back toward the city like a natural funnel, funnelling wind and enemies alike. The trees were bare and skeletal, creaking softly with the breeze. Down in the basin, figures moved—half-hidden, half-arrogant. Wendigos. Seven of them. Maybe more. Standing out in the open like they owned the place.
“Look at these assholes,” Nelson muttered. “They’re not even trying to hide. Arrogant.”
Clay chuckled under his breath. “To be fair, they think they’re hunting a kid, an old man, and a handful of battered women.”
Nelson grinned but kept his eyes downrange. “Still. Arrogance gets you killed.”
Clay gave a short nod. “I’m just glad you boys joined me. Not sure we’d have made it out alone.”
Nelson turned his head just slightly, side-eyeing Clay with a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “Who you kidding, old timer? I saw you back in that church courtyard. You’ve stacked bodies. I could see it in your face.”
Clay didn’t answer. He just gave a slow, knowing grin and unsnapped the holster for his 1911.
Nelson nodded toward the trees. “Alright, dig in. Things are about to get frisky.”
The wind picked up. Snow started to fall harder. And down below, the Wendigos kept watching the road—still convinced their prey was just out of reach.
They were about to learn they weren’t the only hunters left in the world.
Clay adjusted his grip on the rifle, eyeing the spread. “They’re banking on us being too focused on what’s up ahead to look back.”
“Yeah, well,” Nelson said, squinting through his sights, “they’re about to learn we came here to look both ways.”
Clay lay prone behind the stump, cheek pressed to the stock of his rifle, breath steady despite the adrenaline ticking through his veins. Through the shifting snow and tree limbs, he tracked the figures moving down the road—dark shapes in the early light, their silhouettes growing sharper with each step.
He’d counted seven at first. But now, with better angles and the snow letting up, he saw more. Ten.
Three scouts moved up front, loose but deliberate, scanning the road more out of habit than caution. They weren’t looking for threats—they were sweeping a trail for prey they thought had no teeth. Behind them, the main group followed in a staggered line, rifles low, cocky in the way of men who believed the hunt was already over.
Clay saw it in the eyes of the lead scout—the eagerness, the bloodlust barely held in check. He could almost feel the bastard's anticipation as he imagined how it would play out: gunfire up ahead, survivors panicking, running—one or two of the women breaking away and sprinting down the road in desperation.
And that’s when the tail group would sweep in, flank the escapees, and finish what the front couldn’t.
That image twisted in Clay’s gut like broken glass. His grip on the rifle tightened. His trigger finger itched.
“Steady,” Nelson whispered from somewhere tucked in beside him.
The scouts walked straight into the kill zone. Spread out, but not enough. Not wide enough. Not fast enough. Clay watched them cross a painted line he’d marked in his head—one more step and they would be in the kill box.
Then the woods erupted.
The SAW gunner opened first—no warning, no mercy—just a tearing roar as the belt-fed weapon spat fire and lead down the length of the road. Branches splintered. Flesh tore. The lead scout was turned into red mist before his body even hit the ground.
A second later came the heavy thump of the 203, lobbing a grenade into the center of the formation. It hit the earth with a dull chok—and then boom—a geyser of snow, dirt, and bone erupted in all directions.
The ridgeline lit up with fire. Nelson’s men poured it on from the tree line, disciplined bursts from M4s cracking in rhythm like a drill team in Hell.
Clay added his voice to the chaos—his old rifle cracked once, twice, then again. He watched one of the Wendigos stagger, spin, and drop like a puppet with cut strings. Smoke blurred the air, flashes of muzzle fire casting strobe-like images of the massacre in progress.
A man crawled from the blast zone—missing half a leg, screaming—and caught two rounds in the chest from the SAW before he could beg for anything else.
Another tried to run, and Clay stitched a round into his back. The man arched and crumpled forward, skidding in the snow.
It was over in seconds.
Clay exhaled, smoke and gun oil heavy in the air. The road was scattered with bodies, blood already steaming against the cold. Torn limbs. Craters. The ambush had done its work. There were no survivors. No cries for help.
But before Clay could even process the aftermath, Nelson was already barking orders.
“Reposition! Fall back to phase two! Their QRF’s coming fast—we got five minutes, maybe less!”
Boots moved. Weapons reloaded. Soldiers scattered into new cover with the same brutal efficiency they’d opened fire with.
Clay stood, eyes still scanning the carnage one last time before he ducked back into the trees, his heart pounding not from fear—but from the grim satisfaction of giving death back to those who thought they owned it.
Rufous was already moving with him, tail low, ears up.
The second fight was coming.
And Clay was ready to give them hell.
CHAPTER 27
Clay moved fast, or at least as fast as his old, retired frame would allow. His rifle bounced against his chest, boots punching into the snow-crusted trail as he followed Nelson through the narrow cut in the trees. His breath came hard, sharp in the cold air, and his legs were screaming now—each step a war against years of wear, old injuries, and the simple truth that he wasn’t twenty anymore.
Branches whipped past his face as he ducked under limbs, heart hammering like a war drum in his chest.
Nelson was just ahead, ghosting through the woods like he hadn’t even been in a fight two minutes ago. Clay could barely see the others—his team of soldiers already well up the trail, moving with that same relentless efficiency.
Clay huffed, spat into the snow, and pushed harder.
“Damn kids,” he muttered to himself, legs burning. “Still got all their original factory parts.”
Just as he was about to call out for a breather, Rufous appeared through the brush ahead, looping back to check on him. The dog circled once, then turned and trotted forward again without hesitation.
That was the sign. The group had stopped.
Nelson came into view, crouched at the treeline where the woods opened up to a narrow stretch of broken road. He motioned Clay forward with a single hand signal.
The squad was already in motion—fanning out, reshaping their lines. The chaos of the first ambush was gone, replaced with a deadly calm. Each man moved with purpose, no wasted motion. They split into two fire teams, one taking the high ridge overlooking the road, the other moving down and flanking along a narrow ditch to create a staggered kill zone.
The SAW gunner dropped prone behind a fallen log, setting up with a clear view of the road. The grenadier took position nearby, thumbing a fresh 40mm into the tube. Two riflemen knelt along the treeline, each covering overlapping sectors of fire. Another soldier sprinted across the road to take position behind a rusted-out sedan—his movement smooth, low, practiced.
Clay moved into the rear line, breathing heavy, settling behind a rotted stump. He quickly scanned their new battlefield.
This wasn't like the first ambush. Here, the road curved inward slightly and narrowed—a perfect funnel. The treeline on either side gave just enough depth to conceal muzzle flashes, while a rocky outcrop provided the ridge team with elevated firepower.
“Textbook,” Clay muttered, wiping sweat from his brow despite the cold.
Nelson crouched beside him, watching the empty road through a pair of compact binos. He lowered them slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“They’ll be coming in hot. Fast. Like they always do when one of their scout crews makes contact,” Nelson said, voice low and calm as his eyes stayed locked on the empty road below. “They won’t know what they’re walking into.”
Clay nodded, forcing his breath to slow, the burn in his chest gradually easing. He glanced over at Nelson.
“You seem to know a lot about their tactics.”
Nelson gave a half-shrug, never looking away. “I clean up after them. A lot. Interviewed enough survivors to write a book of nightmares.”
He tapped the side of his binoculars with a gloved finger.
“This right here? One of their favorite games. They set up a forward camp with a large force. They send out scouts—small, fast-moving teams. Just enough to pick a fight. To draw blood.”
Clay narrowed his eyes, listening.
“They want you to think you’ve got the edge,” Nelson continued. “That you caught them by surprise. And then, when you dig in or push, they come down on you hard with the main body. Pinch you, flank you, crush you. Classic misdirection. All teeth and speed.”
“The fact that we hit them first,” Clay said, “won’t change that?”
“Nope,” Nelson replied. “They’re too arrogant to adapt. Right now, whatever half-brained jackass is leading that QRF up the road probably thinks your little survivor party panicked, stopped somewhere, maybe turned back. If that’s the case, the tail group we just wiped was supposed to cut you off. Pin you down. Herd you right into the kill zone.”
Clay scratched at the stubble on his jaw, eyes drifting toward the treeline. Snowflakes fell in lazy spirals between the branches, softening everything but the truth.
“We wouldn’t have stood a chance, would we?”
Nelson finally looked at him, just for a second, before shaking his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. But if I were betting, smart money would’ve been on you and the kid.”
Clay raised a brow.
“I’ve seen the way you move. You don’t fight fair. And you don’t fight on their terms. I’d figure first contact, you’d break for the woods. Drag ‘em into terrain they can’t control. Might not have gotten far… but I’d give you a fighting chance.”
Clay smiled, eyes distant for a heartbeat. Weeks of running and fighting came back in flashes—tight escapes, sharp shots, quiet breath under branches while danger passed close. Shooting, scooting, never staying put. It was precisely how he’d trained the boy.
He clapped Nelson on the back with a grunt.
“Well, thanks for the confidence boost,” he said with a grin. “Now let’s put the rest of these boneholes down and ruin their damn day.”
Nelson grinned, teeth bared. “Gladly.”
The wind shifted, just enough to carry faint echoes of approaching engines.
The Wendigos were coming.
And they were walking straight into hell.
“How long do you think?” he asked.
Nelson didn’t look away from the road. “Two minutes. Maybe less.”
Clay adjusted the strap on his rifle and rechecked the magazine. He glanced down the line—every man still, every weapon locked in.
This was the reset.
This was the follow-through.
And the Wendigos, cocky and confident in their numbers, were about to learn what it meant to be outmaneuvered.
The sound came first—faint, but growing. Low rumbles in the distance, tires grinding over frostbitten gravel.
Clay froze, eyes narrowing as two sets of headlights appeared through the swirling snow: a battered red Suburban and a rust-streaked covered flatbed truck, crawling over the crest of the hill. They rolled to a stop just outside the kill box—lucky bastards—engines idling loudly in the silence. Clay looked at Nelson and said, “I have seen those vehicles before, this is them.”
Doors creaked open.
Figures stepped out, silhouettes backlit by weak morning light. Clay strained to listen, catching fragments of shouting, laughter, a few clipped commands carried on the wind—but not enough to make out words.
Then the rear cover of the flatbed truck swung open with a groan. More bodies emerged—another ten men, maybe more—armed with a brutal hodgepodge of gear: long guns, machetes, clubs wrapped in wire, and salvaged riot shields.
Clay lowered the binoculars. “Fifteen, maybe sixteen total,” he muttered.
Nelson leaned in close beside him, voice like smoke in his ear. “I was hoping they’d dismount and come in on foot. Good vehicles are hard to come by. It would be a shame to blow these up.”
Clay nodded silently, eyes locked on the road.
The Wendigos formed up in two loose rows, spreading across the width of the cracked pavement. They were shouting now, working themselves up and slamming weapons against shields, banging machetes together, howling like it was some damn holy crusade.
Then they moved.
Not tactically—not carefully. They ran.
A full-frontal charge. Boots hammering the frozen earth, weapons raised, breath steaming from snarling mouths. From up on the ridge, they looked like a scene out of some lost Viking saga—beards wild, eyes crazed, blades and bloodlust flashing in equal measure.
It might’ve been terrifying, Clay thought.
If you were a village maiden.
But he wasn’t.
He was a tired, mean bastard backed by a well-armed fire team with overlapping fields of fire and the high ground.
Clay cracked a grin.
“Showtime.”
The SAW opened up first—one long, ripping burst that tore through the front rank like a buzzsaw through wet wood. Two Wendigos went down immediately, arms flailing, blood spraying across their comrades as panic rippled through the charge.
Then came the controlled bursts from the ridge.
Nelson’s riflemen lit them up in synchronized volleys, each shot sharp and deliberate. Men fell. Screamed. Stumbled into each other as confusion replaced rage. The road became a killing field—bodies twisting, limbs jerking, red mist hanging in the air.
A grenade from the 203 thumped out and exploded dead center in the second row—lifting two men off their feet and turning the icy road into a crater of gore and smoke.
Clay picked his targets calmly, eyes like ice behind the sights. He dropped one with a clean shot to the neck, shifted, found another sprinting toward the ditch—shot him in the leg, then again when he tried to crawl.
The charge shattered like glass under gunfire.
What had begun as a frenzied assault dissolved in seconds into chaos. Bullets tore through the ranks, and the Wendigos scattered, screaming, stumbling, abandoning the charge as panic overtook bloodlust. Some dropped their weapons. Others sprinted blindly into the smoke, tripping over the dead, slipping in the churned snow and blood.
In the thick haze of gunsmoke and drifting snow, shapes darted between trees, shadows lunging for cover. The woods swallowed them quickly, but not quietly—there were yells, crashes, the sharp crack of rifles still firing behind him.
One Wendigo broke from the pack, arms pumping, face twisted in raw fear. He ran hard, screaming something incoherent, a machete still clenched in one hand.
