Two things were certain at this point.
One - they weren't any closer to the city than when they first set off.
Two - they wouldn't die of hunger, though they hadn't eaten in half a year.
It was always in the distance and the road was singular, straight and spiraled off into countless labyrinthine towns and villages on either side. Tempting as it may have been to make a slight detour for food or rest, they knew that nothing human had lived there for a very long time.
Maybe tiny pockets of living, breathing humans still existed this far out but they had yet to see anything even vaguely humanoid passing them by. The last few seemed to wave and cheer then on though, which was both a comfort and a concern...
On the one hand it was nice to feel supported and like they were on the right track after all this time, all those months of doubt and frustration. If the locals thought they deserved to be congratulated then maybe they were almost there or at least halfway there and it would all be over soon.
On the other hand, humans aren't exactly welcome this far out so either the locals mistakenly think they aren't human or somewhere along the line they changed and are as inhuman as everyone outside. It would explain why they don't need to eat any more but other than that they felt as human as they'd always done.
From this, the arguments began. Everyone doubting each other's humanity whilst claiming they hadn't changed at all and all denying the truth that they were never human to begin with. They were the vehicle, the road - the journey given flesh.
They were never gong to reach the destination.
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