CLAY: Roads Beyond: A Five Roads to Texas Novel, page 4
That’s what these bastards wanted now. Panic. Collapse. For the walls to fall before a single round was fired.
And they’d be coming in force.
They weren’t just scavengers. They were killers who knew how to fight. More people would die before this was over.
Clay squared his shoulders.
But not without a fight.
CHAPTER 5
By the time the first moans of the infected drifted in from the treeline. The camp knew something was coming.
Clay stood in the center of the fairgrounds, flanked by armed men and jittery volunteers. The smell of livestock and diesel filled the cold night air. Lanterns flickered in windows. Children cried somewhere behind the main shelter, and the soft clatter of hammers nailed boards over glass.
“Get that south fence reinforced,” Clay barked. “Someone double-check the flares and tripwires on the east orchard path.”
A group of men jogged off, weapons slung and eyes wide.
Across the makeshift courtyard, Richardson, the camp’s mayor, raised his voice. “I want every woman, child, and non-combatant in the center barn and admin building. Lock it up tight.”
Clay turned, scowling. “That’s a mistake.”
Richardson strode over, puffed up and sweating under his too-clean tactical vest. “We keep the non-fighters safe; we don’t have to worry about them getting caught in the crossfire.”
“We won’t win this by playing defense.” Clay jabbed a finger at him. “We need the able-bodied women on the walls with rifles. You've got a dozen women who can shoot better than your patrols. If they’re not fighting, they’re just waiting to die.”
Richardson shook his head. “We’ll arm a few, but I’m not putting my wife or anyone else’s out there with those things.”
A few other men nearby nodded in agreement. One muttered, “I didn’t sign up for my daughter to be used as bait.”
Clay scoffed. “Nobody’s bait. But you’re not protecting anyone by locking them in a barn with nothing but hope and plywood.”
Richardson held up a hand. “This isn’t the time for a debate. We need order.”
Clay stared him down for a long beat. Then he stepped back and let out a low breath. “Fine, it’s your kin,” he said. “You manage the people in the center. I’ll manage the fight.”
He didn’t wait for agreement—just turned and motioned for Andrew to follow.
They headed toward the western wall, where fires glowed behind stacked pallets and salvaged sheet metal. Clay was mid-sentence about shifting patrols when a voice called out.
“Clay!”
He turned to see Elizabeth walking toward them from the garden sheds, her arms folded tightly across a thin canvas jacket to keep out the cold. A red ribbon wove through the braid in her hair, catching the lantern glow as she moved. She no longer carried the brittle edge of a girl dragged in from the wild. Her sharp, hunted look had softened, and days of fresh air, hard work, and quiet purpose had changed her. She’d taken on the warm, sun-kissed look of a farmer’s daughter—more settled, more rooted. The haunted girl was fading, replaced by someone learning to live again. She gave Rufous a soft pat on the head, then threw her arms around Andrew in a quick, warm hug. “You be careful out there,” she whispered.
Andrew nodded, clearly trying to play it cool.
Then Elizabeth reached into a canvas satchel slung over her shoulder and pulled out a small mason jar. She handed it to Clay.
He squinted at it in the low light, giving it a shake. “What is it?”
“Apple butter,” she said with a grin.
Clay raised an eyebrow. “Tell me you didn’t trade your rations for this.”
“Not this time,” she said, smiling. “I made it. Been working in the garden. Old Mrs. Glenn taught me.”
Clay turned the jar in his hand, then nodded once in approval. “It’s good work. I used to like apple butter, can’t wait to try it.”
Before he could say anything else, Kurt’s voice echoed from down the line. “Clay! You coming?”
“In a minute,” Clay called back.
Elizabeth’s smile faded a little. “Do you really think I’d be safer on the wall with you?”
Clay looked past her to the line of women carrying bags and blankets, filing toward the big barn under watchful eyes. Some of them had kids in tow. Others looked like they’d already given up.
He bit his lip.
Then, without a word, he reached for his belt and unholstered the worn 1911. He checked the chamber, flipped the safety, and handed it to her grip-first.
“Safety’s here. Thumb it down when you’re ready to fire. You’ll feel it kick. Don’t let it surprise you.”
Elizabeth took it with both hands, eyes wide.
“I think they’ll all be safer,” Clay said, “with you watching over them.”
For a moment, she just stood there. Then she smiled and stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him in a hug that surprised them both.
“Be safe,” she said, then turned and headed toward the barn, pistol held tight.
Clay watched her go.
Andrew grinned. “You’re starting to like her, aren’t you?”
Clay shook his head. “Nah. I just feel sorry for her.”
“Yeah, right.” Andrew laughed, clapping Clay on the back. “Face it—you made a friend.”
Clay growled under his breath, then adjusted his rifle and led them toward the wall.
Behind them, the orchard swayed in the wind. Somewhere beyond it, things were moving.
And the night had no stars.
Clay met Kurt near the main gate, a wide opening framed by two rebar-reinforced fence panels lashed together with chain-link and old steel cable. A pair of men stood off to the side, rifles slung, nervously watching the tree line beyond the gravel lot.
Clay didn’t waste time.
He pointed at the gate. “I don’t want that to be a gate anymore. Seal it. Weld it shut, board it, bury it—I don’t care how. I want it impenetrable.”
Kurt adjusted the compound bow slung over his shoulder and gave a tight nod. “We’re on it.”
Clay gave the bow a tap. “That’s cute for hunting whitetail, but we ain’t fighting deer tonight, son. Get a rifle. Bolt-action or better.”
Kurt cracked a wry grin but said nothing, already turning to give orders to the men behind him.
Clay turned to Andrew, who was close to his side. Rufous trailed just behind, tail low, ears flicking at every sound.
“I’m gonna make a perimeter walk,” Clay muttered. “See how ready we are.”
Together, they moved along the camp’s inner ring. The fairgrounds had always been too big—built for summer festivals and rodeos, not war. The perimeter fence was a stitched-together patchwork of salvaged wood, pallets, tractor panels, and barbed wire. Gaps had been filled in haste. Sharp angles created poor visibility in some corners.
Clay stopped at each position—checked rifles, adjusted firing angles, and grumbled encouragement to nervous men gripping their weapons like life vests.
“You see movement,” he told one shooter perched behind a stack of tires. “You shoot. Don’t wait for orders. Don’t wait for second thoughts.”
To another man further down the line, he pressed a hand to his shoulder. “If they breach this fence, you return to the central square. Don’t play hero, move and communicate so the rest of us know. Make ‘em bleed every foot, but don’t die on the wire.”
A few nodded. One man wouldn’t meet Clay’s eye, too afraid to comment.
“Then get off the damn wall,” Clay growled. “This ain’t for everyone.”
The man didn’t move, but his hands tightened on the stock of his shotgun. “I’ll do my part.” He mumbled.
Andrew kept pace beside him, saying little, absorbing everything.
The camp had prepped for the dead—howls in the dark, fence pushes, maybe a stray biter in the orchard. But this was different. Clay expected dozens, maybe more. Raiders who didn’t fear infection. Who knew how to flank. How to burn.
They climbed a short rise on the western edge, and Andrew finally broke the silence.
“Where do you think they’ll come from?”
Clay didn’t answer right away. He looked out over the fairgrounds below—the barn lit from inside like a beacon, the scattered trailers and tents of the inner camp, and the fence line that stretched too far for the number of people they had.
“We gave ‘em too much ground to cover, too much fence line to defend, we know it, and those bastards out there know it,” Clay muttered. “If it were me, I would start by hitting a hard point, then sneak in my main body toward a weak spot in the wall.” Clay shook his head, “Should’ve shrunk the line. Pulled the defenses tighter.”
“Richardson wouldn’t go for it?”
“Wouldn’t even hear it. Said it would cause panic.”
Andrew frowned, chewing the inside of his cheek.
Clay pointed toward the northeast corner of the grounds, where a narrow tower stood above a wooden corral gate. It was far from the main entrance but overlooked a long stretch of thinly defended wall.
“We’ll be up there,” he said. “Old announcer’s booth. Used to call rodeos from it. Good view of the perimeter. Narrow stairs. We can defend it if we have to.”
Andrew nodded slowly. The excitement had left his face, replaced by something heavier.
Clay clapped him once on the back, then continued the patrol. They checked the orchard side, where tripwire flares had been strung through the trees, and reached the south wall where half the guards had built impromptu barricades out of hay bales and steel barrels. They would set the entire thing on fire to stop a rush if necessary.
By the time they circled back to the gate, Kurt had barricaded it completely—bolted plywood and scrap iron welded together, forming a jagged, ugly wall.
“It’ll hold,” Kurt said.
Clay nodded. “Good. We’ll be in the booth. You hold this line unless I say otherwise.”
Kurt glanced toward the woods, then back at Clay. “How bad do you think it’ll be?”
Clay didn’t answer. Instead, he looked up at the sky, black and blank, the moon hidden and not a single star overhead. Just a thick curtain of cloud and cold air pressing down.
“They’ll come tonight,” he said flatly. “No moon, no light—perfect for this kind of fighting.”
He turned to the fighters gathering near fires and ammo crates. “Everyone digs in. Partner up. One sleeps while the other watches. No breaks, no noise, no mercy.”
He met their eyes—tired, scared, but willing. “We don’t get caught off guard. We don’t panic. You hear something, you raise hell. You see a shadow, you light it up. And if they get through the first line, fall back to the barns. Make every inch a grave.”
The men stood a little straighter.
Clay looked at them one last time.
“Get ready.”
And with that, he turned toward the announcer’s tower, Andrew and Rufous following close behind. Somewhere, beyond the wire, something was moving, not walking or shuffling. Stalking.
The tower swayed slightly in the wind, its rusted joints creaking with every shift. Inside, Clay crouched by the window slit, scanning the perimeter through a spotting scope mounted on the ledge. Below them, the fairground slept—or pretended to. All inner lights had been cut, and the only illumination came from the wall lights and burning barrels set beyond the perimeter, casting eerie shadows across the frost-hardened fields.
It was just past 2:00 a.m. according to his battered field watch.
The calm had held longer than he expected.
He glanced over his shoulder. Andrew was curled in the corner, Rufous tucked in against his legs, both of them breathing slow and even. For a second, Clay considered letting the boy sleep another hour.
Then—crack.
A single rifle shot echoed sharply through the trees.
Clay snapped to the window and shifted the scope toward the main gate. He could make out movement—a dark mass rolling down the road, shambling and thick like floodwater. Then came more shots. Then yelling. And then the mass surged forward.
Andrew jolted awake. Rufous growled low, already on his feet.
Andrew raised his binoculars and squinted into the night. “It’s a horde,” he said. “Infected. Not raiders, Clay—they’re infected.”
Clay spat out the side of the booth. “So they do control the dead.”
He said it like a fact, not surprise, not fear—just grim confirmation.
“Doesn’t take a genius,” he muttered. “We’ve herded ‘em away from markets, towns. Just takes noise, bait, and bad intentions. And these bastards have all three.”
He pointed to the left flank, where the wall ran dark and quiet. “Keep your eyes on the blind spots. This is the distraction.”
Another crack of gunfire cut through the air, this time from the orchard sector. Then a thunderous exchange followed—rifles barking, yelling, the staccato bursts of automatic fire. Clay swiveled the scope again, catching glimpses of muzzle flashes behind rows of trees.
A distant explosion rumbled the tower floor.
Then he saw a truck roaring through a field, its headlights off, barreling toward the south wall. Steel plating had been welded around the cab, deflecting bullets like a medieval battering ram.
“Shit!” Clay snapped, leveling his carbine.
He fired, sparks bouncing off the hood as slugs pinged harmlessly from the armor. The truck hit the wall with a thunderous crash, detonating with a dull boom that sent fire and debris flying twenty feet into the air.
The wall held. Barely.
Clay swept the scope and saw several defenders down, scattered and still. A chunk of the wall near the point of impact was now exposed, the platform above it sagging. Raiders sprinted from the treeline, ducking fire.
“Andrew!” Clay barked. “Broadcast it! That breach point’s open! South wall.”
Andrew leapt to the mounted loudspeaker. “Wall breach south section! We need backup now!”
Then, the speaker crackled, popped, and died.
So did the lights.
Every floodlamp around the wall blinked out, followed by the faint glow from the main shelter. They were in total blackout now.
“Son of a bitch,” Clay growled.
Another explosion rocked the orchard side, followed by a wall of fire—bales set ablaze by defenders in desperation to stop an advance.
Suddenly, gunshots erupted below the tower.
Andrew spun and let loose with his shotgun. Clay moved quickly to the other window and saw four raiders charging up the slope beneath them, screaming and firing wildly. Blood-soaked rags hung off them like ceremonial robes.
Clay dropped one with a clean headshot. Then another. The others vanished under the ledge.
“Keep ‘em off the stairs!” he shouted to Andrew.
“I got it!”
More screams now—this time from the center of camp.
From the barns.
Clay froze. Women’s voices, high and panicked, tore through the dark.
“The barn,” he muttered. “They’re in the damn barn!”
He turned to the speaker, tried it again—dead.
“We need to unass this tower. Now.”
Andrew didn’t argue. Together they grabbed their gear and rushed down the narrow stairs, Rufous close behind, barking now, sensing the surge of chaos.
They hit the ground running, guns up. Fires danced at the edge of camp. Infected bodies littered the fences, mixed with defenders and—Clay noted grimly—raiders in crude face paint and bone charms.
They turned a corner and met up with Kurt, flanked by three bloodied men.
“We’re clear here,” Kurt panted. “Took a group of ‘em down in the orchard, but now they’re splitting up. We’re chasing pockets—some ran toward the trailers.”
“Forget the trailers,” Clay snapped. “Barn. Go now.”
They sprinted across the mud-slicked open space. The smell hit them first—burned wood, blood, and bile. The barn door hung open, half torn from its hinges.
They entered into madness.
Bodies lay scattered—some defenders, some Wendigos. At least two women were dead near the entrance, their throats cut. Clay scanned with his rifle light, stepping over a corpse with a crushed skull. In the far corner, three raiders were slumped in a pile, shot to pieces. One still clutched a rusted revolver.
Near them, half hidden in shadow, was Clay’s 1911—the empty slide was locked back, the weapon empty.
He knelt beside it, eyes hard. Picked it up, his hand shaking.
“She fought,” a voice said behind him.
He turned to see a woman wrapped in a bloodied blanket, tears streaking her face. “Elizabeth. She fought like hell,” she whispered. “She got three of them. But they—they took her. And two others. Dragged them out screaming.”
Andrew’s breath caught in his throat.
Clay stood, the pistol in his hand, no emotion on his face.
Just fire behind his eyes.
CHAPTER 6
The camp smoldered in the pale light of dawn.
Smoke drifted from the still-burning orchard along the perimeter, curling into the colorless sky. The south fence had collapsed inward, warped, and split from the impact of the truck bomb. Makeshift walls lay scattered in broken heaps of plywood and twisted sheet metal. Here and there, a fire still popped and hissed, chewing through damp debris.
Gunshots cracked intermittently across the grounds—sharp, final reports as survivors put down the last of the lingering infected. Each shot echoed off the ruined livestock pens and the damaged barn like punctuation marks on the nightmare.
Bodies had been gathered in rows near the center—covered in tarps, coats, or just laid bare in the grass. No one had said how many were dead. No one wanted to count.
