Chapter 134: The Clock Burns
Two weeks.
That's how long Axel had been hunting them—cutting through camps, ambushing scouts, dragging answers from the dying with blood-soaked fists. He didn't sleep. Barely ate. He moved like a phantom, all violence and silence, leaving behind scenes that even the crows avoided.
But finally… a break.
It was a camp buried in the carcass of an old factory. Rusted metal, oil-stained floors, ash in the air. The Ashen Circle had gathered there—eight of them, cloaked in black, whispering over a fire of bones.
They never saw Axel coming.
He cut through five before the rest even reached for weapons. The last one tried to run, but Axel tackled him and pinned him against a wall with a pipe through the gut. As the man writhed, choking on his own blood, Axel rifled through his coat.
A crumpled paper. Bloodstained but intact.
Axel unfolded it slowly.
His eyes widened.
"Redhold. 6:00 AM. Tomorrow."
Below that—a detailed coordinate map. A route. A plan.
He stared at it, heart pounding in his chest like a war drum.
Redhold wasn't just a name.
It was home.
The last bastion of order in a world of rot. The only place that had walls, structure, people who didn't eat each other to survive.
And they were going to hit it. Tomorrow.
Axel's hands tightened around the paper. The cultist behind him groaned softly, still alive.
Axel turned and knelt beside him. "Why Redhold?" he asked, voice low and sharp.
The cultist coughed blood, a smile creeping up his cracked lips. "Because that's where the heart is," he wheezed. "Where you were born. Where it will end."
Axel stood up.
Without a word, he crushed the man's windpipe beneath his boot.
He walked out of the factory into the dying light. The sun was low—burning orange against a grey sky, as if the world knew what was coming.
He grabbed his black bike from under the tarpaulin where he'd hidden it. Dusty, half-rusted, but it roared when he kicked it to life.
Redhold.
It was over 800 miles away.
The terrain between here and there was a nightmare—abandoned roads, raider territory, collapsed bridges, and dead zones where walkers roamed in swarms.
It would take at least a day and a half to make the ride.
And they were planning to strike tomorrow morning.
He was already too late.
But he didn't let himself think. He didn't let panic touch him.
Axel just rode.
The tires screamed against cracked asphalt as he sped through the night like a bullet fired from God's own rifle. The wind howled past him. His eyes narrowed against the dust. He didn't care about the road. He didn't care about rest.
He just cared about Redhold.
And the people inside it.
Michael.
His twisted, war-hardened father.
The man who made him a monster—but still… his father.
His last family
And the others—the soldiers, the officers, the innocent ones who still believed Redhold meant safety.
If they died because he was too slow—
No. He wouldn't let that happen.
Hours passed. The sun disappeared. The desert swallowed everything in darkness. Axel kept riding.
His body screamed in pain—old wounds reopening, his spine aching from the vibration, his lungs raw from the dust. But he didn't stop.
He passed through ghost towns. Shot two raiders who tried to ambush him at a checkpoint. Swerved past a collapsed highway bridge and gunned the bike across a narrow rail beam like a tightrope walker with a death wish.
The night stretched endlessly.
But still—he rode.
Each mile felt like a war. His hands trembled. His vision blurred. But Axel gritted his teeth and kept going.
Because Redhold was all he had left.
Because for the first time in his life… he wasn't trying to run from what he was.
He was trying to protect.
The sun crept up slowly behind him, painting the horizon in red and gold. The air was colder now. Cleaner. The mountains were closer. He recognized the terrain.
He was getting there.
But not fast enough.
He looked at the clock on the side of his bike.
5:48 AM.
Twelve minutes until the attack.
And still at least sixty miles to go.
Axel screamed into the wind and slammed the throttle down, engine growling in fury.
He didn't care if the bike exploded. He didn't care if he died.
As long as he reached them in time.
As long as he could warn them—stop them.
Behind his eyes, the memory of the map burned. Dozens of red marks. Entry points. Supply depots. Weak spots. It was all planned.
They weren't just going to attack.
They were going to erase Redhold from the map.
And if he didn't stop it… everything his father built, everything he bled for… would vanish in smoke.
So Axel rode.
Like the devil was behind him.
Like a god was watching him.
Like the future depended on one monster trying to save a city that never trusted him.
And in the far, far distance—he could already see the smoke rising.
Redhold was under siege.
And Axel was still miles away.
---
.
.
.
You can contact me through my official page on the following Accounts:
telegram:
miraclenarrator
tiktok:
miracle_narrator
instagram:
miracle_narrator