The Wrong Goodbye

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Rain tore through the canopy of leaves, soaking my clothes until they hung wet and heavy on my limbs, but doing little to dispel the fetid stench of decay that pervaded every inch of this God-forsaken place.

Just keep moving, I told myself. It’s not far now.

Mud sucked at my shoes as I pressed onward, swinging my machete at the knot of vegetation that barred my way. The roar of the rain against the leaves was deafening, swallowing the noises of the jungle until they were little more than a distant radio signal, half-heard beneath the waves of static. Heavy sheets of falling water obscured my vision, reducing my entire world to three square feet of vines and trees and rotting leaves. I swear, that dank jungle stink was enough to make me gag. Then again, that could have been the corpse that I was wearing.

See, I’m what they call a Collector. I collect the souls of the damned, and ensure they find their way to hell. Believe me when I tell you, it ain’t the most glamorous of jobs, but it’s not like I really have a choice. Back in ’44, I was collected myself, after a bad bit of business with a demon and a dying wife. I didn’t know it at the time, of course, but this gig of mine was my end of the bargain. Most folks think of hell as some far-off pit of fire and brimstone, but the truth is it’s all around them, a hair’s breadth from the world that they can see —always pressing, testing, threatening to break through. That hell is where I spend my days, collecting soul after corrupted soul, all in service of a debt I can never repay.

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