[Content Warning: This story contains graphic violence, horror elements, and scenes of family tragedy)
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The scent of fresh bread used to be Ren's favorite part of morning.
For three years he'd worked at Millbrook's bakery, arriving before dawn to stoke the ovens and prepare the day's first batch. The routine was comforting—the crack of eggs, the soft puff of flour, the steady rhythm of kneading. Sometimes Emma, the baker's eldest daughter, would join him early, humming old folk songs as she braided loaves into intricate patterns.
This morning, though, the familiar scents were tainted by something else. Something that had been growing stronger for days.
Smoke.
Reports had been trickling in from the northern settlements for weeks. Entire villages gone silent. Refugee columns attacked on the roads by something too fast to see clearly. The town guard had doubled their patrols, and Millbrook's ancient walls were manned day and night.
But walls, Ren was learning, meant little against some threats.
He was adding another log to the ovens when the first scream cut through the pre-dawn quiet. The sound was wrong—too high, too desperate, carrying a note of pure terror that made his hands tremble as he dropped the wood.
More screams followed, and beneath them, a sound like claws on stone.
Emma burst through the kitchen door, her face pale as fresh flour. The mixing bowl she'd been carrying shattered on the floor, scattering dough and ceramic shards. "They're here," she gasped, clutching the doorframe. "The walls—they're climbing the walls!"
Ren rushed to the window, leaving dusty handprints on the sill. The northern wall of Millbrook stood silhouetted against the purple dawn, flames already licking up its ancient stones. Dark shapes moved through the fire with terrible purpose, their elongated limbs finding impossible purchase on the vertical surface.
The warning bells began to toll, far too late.
"We have to run," Emma said, grabbing Ren's arm. Her fingers dug into his flesh with desperate strength. "Father's gathering everyone in the square. If we can make it to the southern gate—"
The window exploded inward in a shower of glass and splintered wood. Something massive filled the frame—all muscle and exposed sinew, its elongated limbs ending in foot-long claws that clicked against the stone floor. Its face was a nightmare of teeth and exposed brain matter, like something skinned alive and stitched back together wrong. The creature's breath smelled of copper and rot, and its exposed brain pulsed with sickly wet sound.
Emma screamed. The sound cut off in a wet gurgle as the creature moved, faster than anything that size had a right to. Ren felt warm droplets hit his face as he stumbled backward, tripping over a sack of flour. The monster's head snapped toward him, lipless mouth spreading in what might have been a grin.
The wall beside it exploded inward.
Willem, a cattle farmer from the outskirts, crashed through in a shower of wooden splinters and mortar dust. Ren knew him by sight—a mountain of a man who rarely came to town except for supplies and festival days. His children, Tom and Mary, were always climbing over his massive shoulders while their mother Sarah watched with an indulgent smile.
There was no smile on Willem's face now. His expression was a mask of focused rage, and in his hands he held a woodcutter's axe that looked more like a weapon of war. The blade, wider than Ren's head, dripped fresh blood onto the floorboards.
The creature turned with preternatural speed, but Willem was already moving. The axe caught it in mid-leap, splitting its skull down to the jaw. The farmer's movements were economical, almost mechanical—no wasted motion, no hesitation. Black ichor sprayed the walls as he wrenched the blade free.
Another monster crashed through the remaining window. Willem's axe took its legs at the knee. As it fell, he brought the weapon down again, and again, and again. The sound of metal cleaving flesh and bone filled the small space, mixing with the wet splatter of inhuman blood hitting the walls.
When it was done, Willem grabbed Ren's collar and pulled him toward the back door. No words, just raw urgency in his iron grip. They stepped over Emma's body—or what remained of it—and Ren felt bile rise in his throat. The girl who had hummed while braiding bread was gone, leaving only cooling meat on a flour-dusted floor.
The streets had transformed into a vision of hell.
The pre-dawn sky had turned orange with flame, casting grotesque shadows across the cobblestones. People ran screaming in every direction, some already wounded, others helping the elderly or carrying children. Ren recognized faces he'd known all his life, transformed by terror into masks of primal fear.
Old Man Cooper, who always complained about Ren's bread being too crusty, ran past with his grandchildren in his arms. The town's schoolmaster stood in his doorway, swinging a fireplace poker at something moving too fast to see clearly. A horse galloped by, its rider missing above the waist, the reins trailing in the blood-slick street.
The air filled with that horrible clicking sound—dozens of claws on stone, getting closer.
"The square," Ren gasped, remembering Emma's words. "They're gathering in the square—"
Willem's massive hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off his voice. The farmer pulled them both into a narrow alley just as three more creatures loped past, moving with that terrible predatory grace. Their elongated limbs carried them in bounds that ate up the ground, and Ren could see muscle and sinew working beneath their exposed flesh.
They were heading toward the square.
Willem's hand tightened on Ren's shoulder, and the boy looked up to see something like regret pass through the farmer's eyes. Then his face settled back into its mask of grim determination, and he pushed them in the opposite direction.
Away from the square. Away from what was about to happen.
Something exploded out of the chandler's shop in a shower of wooden splinters. Nine feet of rippling muscle and exposed bone, moving faster than anything that size had a right to. Willem's axe caught it in the chest mid-stride, the blade sinking deep into membrane and tissue. The creature's momentum carried it forward, driving Willem back several steps, but the farmer's boots found purchase on the bloody cobblestones.
With a grunt of effort that showed clenched teeth and bulging neck muscles, he ripped the axe free in a spray of black gore. The thing stumbled but didn't fall. Its chest cavity began to knit itself back together, strands of muscle and sinew writhing like worms.
Willem's response was another swing, this time taking its head clean off. The body took two more steps before collapsing, its claws still twitching as if seeking prey.
More shapes emerged from the burning buildings, drawn by the sound of combat. Willem met them like an avalanche, his axe never still, his movements a terrible dance of destruction. A deep gash opened in his side, the shirt around it soaking crimson in seconds. Another blow caught him across the back, laying open his flesh from shoulder to hip.
Willem didn't even grunt. He just kept swinging, kept killing, kept pushing them forward with single-minded purpose. Blood ran freely from his wounds, but his face remained fixed in that same expression of focused rage, as if pain was something that happened to other people.
Ren's world narrowed to the rhythm of survival. When Willem fought, Ren searched for anything that could help—rocks, debris, tools abandoned in the chaos. His arms ached from throwing makeshift projectiles, his lungs burned from the smoke, but stopping meant death. The clicking sounds never ceased, growing louder and softer as new hunters joined the pursuit and others fell to Willem's axe.
They passed the smithy, its forge fires adding to the inferno consuming the town. The blacksmith lay dead in the doorway, his hammer still clutched in lifeless fingers. Willem paused just long enough to retrieve something from the man's corpse—a leather bandolier heavy with throwing axes. These he handed to Ren without a word before pressing on.
The weight of the weapons was reassuring, even though Ren had never thrown an axe in his life. He'd seen the older boys practicing at the summer festivals, showing off for the girls. Now those same boys probably lay dead in the square, along with everyone else who'd sought safety in numbers.
The thought of all those people—families he'd known since birth, children he'd watched grow up, elders who'd pinched his cheeks and complained about his bread—all of them dead or dying, turned his stomach. But there was no time for grief. Not yet.
A creature caught Willem's leg with its claws, hampering his movement. The farmer's response was to bring his axe down through its spine, then use the momentum to pull himself forward, never breaking stride. Blood ran freely down his leg, but his face remained a mask of singular focus.
They reached the market square, and Ren's heart stopped.
Bodies lay scattered across the flagstones like broken dolls, their blood black in the firelight. The gathering point had become a killing ground. Near the well, a desperate knot of survivors fought with anything they could find—pitchforks, torches, chairs from the tavern. Among them, Ren recognized the baker, Emma's father, his face streaked with tears as he swung a rolling pin with desperate strength.
A monster easily twelve feet tall stalked the edges of their makeshift circle. Unlike the others, this one moved with deliberate slowness, almost seeming to savor their fear. Its exposed brain pulsed, the surrounding fires casting a pale glow over muscles that rippled like steel cables beneath translucent skin. Each step it took left smoking footprints in the cobblestones.
Willem changed course without hesitation, placing himself between the creature and the survivors. His axe moved in devastating arcs, buying time for the others to run. The huge creature focused on him, its lipless mouth spreading in what might have been a grin.
The clash was like watching a bear fight a wolf. The monster was bigger, stronger, faster—but Willem moved with the inevitability of a glacier, his axe finding its mark again and again. Black blood ran in rivers around his feet as he wounded the creature repeatedly, never giving ground, never showing pain despite the deep gouges appearing in his flesh.
Ren found his moment. With trembling hands, he pulled one of the throwing axes from the bandolier. The weapon felt awkward, too heavy toward the blade, but he remembered the older boys' lessons. Plant your feet. Let the axe do the work. Follow through.
His first throw went wide, clattering uselessly against the well. The second, though—the second caught the monster in its exposed spine just as it reared back to strike at Willem. The creature's roar of pain shook the very stones beneath their feet, shattering windows that had somehow survived the chaos.
Willem seized the opportunity. He planted his feet, waited for the monster to rear up to its full height, and threw his axe with everything he had. The weapon spun through the air like a deadly pinwheel, burying itself in the creature's glowing brain. It fell with an earth-shaking crash that scattered the smaller hunters.
In the moment of chaos, the survivors broke and ran. The baker caught Ren's eye as he passed, nodding once in desperate gratitude before vanishing down an alley with the others. Willem retrieved his axe without a word, his movements noticeably stiffer now. Blood ran from a dozen wounds, but his eyes remained fixed forward as he gestured for Ren to follow.
They pushed on through the burning town, Willem's pace slowing but never stopping. His breathing grew wet and labored, blood occasionally spraying from his lips with each exhale, but still he moved forward with terrible purpose. The throwing axes proved their worth several times as more hunters found them, buying precious seconds for Willem's devastating counter-attacks.
Past the tanner's shop they went, the smell of burning leather almost masking the other, worse smells. Through the temple courtyard, where the morning's bell-ringer still hung from the rope he'd used to sound the alarm. Down the cooper's lane, where barrels had broken open and spilled their contents, turning the street into a river of wine and ale that mixed with darker fluids.
Ren began to recognize the path they were taking. "The farm," he gasped between ragged breaths. "We're heading to your farm."
Willem's only response was to move faster, though the effort cost him. Fresh blood flowed from his wounds, and his next swing at a hunter lacked its previous precision. Still, the axe found its mark, and they pressed on.
The town walls fell behind them as they crossed the northern fields. The wheat was already burning, creating a hellish tunnel of flame they had to navigate. The heat was incredible, singeing Ren's hair and making his eyes water. Willem didn't seem to notice, though his skin reddened and blistered.
More hunters emerged from the burning grain, their exposed flesh blackened but unmarred by the flames. Willem's axe rose and fell, again and again, but Ren could see the toll it was taking. The farmer's movements grew slower, his mighty swings requiring visible effort where before they had flowed like water.
An especially large hunter caught Willem with a backhand blow that sent him stumbling. Ren's heart leaped into his throat, but before he could throw another axe, Willem was up again. He spat blood and teeth onto the burning ground, then brought his weapon around in a devastating arc that separated the creature's arm from its body.
The dismembered limb continued to twitch and claw at the earth as they ran past.
Finally, mercifully, the farmhouse appeared through the smoke like a dream of better days. Willem's stride hitched for just a moment before he shouldered through the door, Ren close behind.
The silence inside was absolute.
They lay in the main room, arranged as if sleeping. Sarah, Willem's wife, still wore the blue dress he'd given her for her last birthday. Her golden hair caught the light from the fires outside, creating a halo effect that made her look almost peaceful. Little Tom and Mary were curled against her sides, their faces serene in death. Tom still clutched the wooden sword Willem had carved for him last winter, while Mary's favorite doll sat propped against her chest.
Here, in their home, there were signs of the life they'd lived just hours ago—a half-finished meal on the table, Mary's drawings pinned to the walls, Tom's muddy boots by the door. A family's life, frozen in time.
The only violence was in the darkness that had spread beneath them, staining the floorboards black, and in the terrible stillness of their forms.
Willem made no sound. He simply fell to his knees beside his family, the axe slipping from nerveless fingers to clatter on the boards. The weapon that had seemed an extension of his arm through their desperate flight now lay forgotten, as meaningless as everything else in the wake of this discovery.
With infinite gentleness, Willem arranged their limbs, smoothing hair away from cold faces and adjusting clothing with careful precision. He straightened Mary's doll, made sure Tom's wooden sword lay properly in his small hands. Every movement was deliberate, almost ritualistic, as if by making everything perfect he could pretend they were just sleeping.
When he was done, he rose unsteadily to his feet. The movement caused fresh blood to flow from his many wounds, but he didn't seem to notice. He began methodically smashing the lanterns hanging on the walls, his movements mechanical once more. Oil spread across the floor, catching the light from the fires outside and creating dancing patterns that reminded Ren of festival nights that would never come again.
A hunter's roar echoed from somewhere in the burning wheat field. Closer now. Much closer.
Willem's eyes met Ren's. They held a depth of pain that made the boy's breath catch, an ocean of loss that no words could ever hope to capture. But there was something else there too—a fierce determination that hadn't died even in the face of this devastation.
"South," Willem said, his first word in what felt like hours. His voice was wet with blood, barely more than a whisper. "Highkeep. Find a man called Trev and tell him that I... that Bull says that he’s sorry, and that it’s time to bring the group back together.”
He nodded to the axe lying on the floor. When Ren hesitated, Willem's eyes hardened.
"But—" Ren started, his own voice cracking.
"No." The word carried the weight of mountains. «They're coming. Either you do it, or I kill you and do it myself.»
Ren gripped the axe's handle. It was still warm from Willem's hands, slick with blood and ichor from their desperate journey. The weapon felt right somehow, as if it had been waiting for this moment. "We can fight—"
Willem shook his head once, fierce and final. He looked down at his family, peaceful in death, then back to Ren. His eyes had softened again, carrying a weight of memory and loss that made him seem ancient.
"They were lucky," he whispered, blood staining his teeth. "Your parents. They wouldn't want that fate upon you. I’ll tell them you are safe."
Shadows moved outside the windows. The clicking sound grew closer, accompanied by the wet slide of muscle on stone. Through the window, Ren could see more hunters emerging from the burning wheat. Dozens of them now, drawn by the scent of blood and death.
The farmer knelt beside his family, gathered them close one last time. His massive frame seemed smaller somehow, but his back was straight and his head was high. Here, at the end, there was no fear in him. Only acceptance, and perhaps a terrible kind of peace.
Ren raised the axe. It felt heavier than the whole world.
Willem closed his eyes and pulled his family closer, his expression finally softening into something like contentment.
"On the count of ten," he said, leaning his head forward. "One. Two."
Ren raised the axe. It felt heavier than the whole world. Willem closed his eyes. "Three. Four."
The axe fell, as did a tear from Ren’s eyes.
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(Authors Note: I sincerely appreciate any feedback and comments. This piece came as an exploration of different parts of the world of a novel, before eventually becoming its own thing. Willem is a character I would like to explore more sometime later, one way or another.
Hope you enjoyed Last Day of Millbrook! Feel free to check out my Patreon for more if you liked this.).
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