The stranger walked up to the edge of the old pile, avoiding stepping in any trash. And stopped.

  “Brother!” he yelled at the pile. Nothing happened. Silence. Dead silence.

  “Come on out! I know you are in there!” he continued screaming at the pile. Silence continued for a moment. Just a little longer.

  Some items in the pile moved. Then a few more. They rolled down from the top, falling by the stranger’s feet. Once these had been part of maybe a cardboard box, and sport magazines. Now they were all merged, in a pulpy, gelatinous mass of decomposing waste. A few more fell.

  Then there was a different sound. Not falling, but collapsing. The pile was collapsing into itself in a slow swirl. It collapsed further until the pile was almost flat to the ground. A nauseating reek covered the air, smelling like a thousand rotting corpses. A fine dust swerved from the middle of the pile.

  Then a hand emerged. A human hand, or that is what it looked like. Climbing its way out. Another one. Then a head, torso. Coming out of its puddle of filth like a zombie coming out of its grave. And stopped there.

  The hands rested on the trash around the figure. There was hair on that head but it was hard to say if it was indeed hair or just some nasty shit that got trapped in it when it moved out of the trash.

  Then the roar again. Loud, gurgling. Not a scream this time, words.

  “What do you want?!” it asked. Its mouth moved and garbage juice came out of it. A strong and hot humid wind of long dead roadkill washed over the stranger, moving his hair, wetting his face.

  “A favour,” the stranger responded, cleaning his face with his hand.

  “A favour?!” the voice replied, in a laughing tone. He was now rising from the pile but taking it with him. The trash was his body, something like a twisted skirt.

  “A FAVOUR?!” he repeated, screaming, the laughter turning into a cry. Offended, resentful cry.

  He moved his trash body towards the stranger, close enough to get face to face with him. The stranger stared back at him, his eyes on fire. Trash Man grabbed his brother’s throat and raised him in the air, higher than the piles of trash around them.

  “Have you lost your mind?!” he yelled. “You hurt my companion and ask me for a FAVOUR?!” He tossed the stranger far, then quickly moved to where he had landed like a snake made of garbage. He could swim in that sea of waste and decay.

  The stranger was out of air, trying to regain his balance amid all that loose trash. But he didn’t have a chance. Trash Man grabbed him again by the neck and tossed him one more time. And a few more.

  Will was driving fast, trying not to get lost in that maze. All piles looked the same, all roads looked the same. Then he heard it. The roar again. His blood froze in his veins, making him lose his concentration. He lost control and slammed into a pile of old tires, stopping the car. Funny enough, that was just behind Old Moss’ house. I may or may not have guided him towards the right path, but he managed to hit an obstacle. Maybe it was already too late.

  He leaned back for a minute. He needed a minute. But he heard something. Not the roar, a faint voice. Muffled. Will closed his eyes — probably thinking he was going insane, hearing voices in that forgotten place. But the voice once again screamed. Then banging, desperate pounding, on metal.

  “Metal!” Will exclaimed. It sounded like a fridge, didn’t it? Yeah, unfortunately, he recognized the sound. Why did you have to stop there, boy? You were almost out!

  He walked out of the car, trying to concentrate on the sound. The voice yelled again and the knocks kept coming. He walked more, but now he knew where to — he was looking for the fridge the stranger had locked Old Moss inside. He hadn’t seen where that was, he had his head down the whole time. But he had an idea, and he was right. The fridge was just around the corner.

  “Hey, boy! I can hear you! Take me out of here!” Now Will could understand what the voice was saying.

  He stood still for a moment. The last time he saw (or heard) the old man he was reduced to a puddle. How could this guy be screaming and kicking? For a brief moment it looked like he was going to help the man, but then he stopped. Let’s not forget: the motherfucker shot them.

  “You shot at us!” Will responded.

  “Not you! Him! At him!” the old man tried to defend himself.

  “I was right there! He saved me!”

  “Would you need to be saved if he hadn’t dragged you into this?” the old man said, trying to sound calm, to convince the boy.

  That was a fair point. And probably he had saved him because he still needed him. Nonetheless, he had saved him.

  “What are you going to do if I let you out?” Will pondered.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  “I am going to finish what I started!” Old Moss was screaming in rage again.

  Will froze. Was he hating every single minute of all this? Yes. Did he want to hurt the stranger?

  He didn’t know. And that was an answer on its own.

  “BOY! I know you are still there! Open this shit!” the old man was screaming and clearly fighting the fridge.

  “I am going to leave you here just a little longer, ok? I am sorry!” he said.

  And there it was, his fate was sealed. Deep down he knew. They always know somehow, that they are doomed.

  Trash Man was still tossing the stranger around, not letting him even speak. He tried to plead between one blow and another, “Please broth—” and another toss.

  After considerable tossing, Trash Man stopped. He had let his anger out. The stranger was covered in mud, decomposing paper, dirt, soaking wet with trash sludge. He was out of breath. Hands up in surrender, trying to speak.

  “Brother... Please.”

  Trash Man was now in front of him, looking down, wearing his skirt made of human waste. The stranger drew a shiny, pointy object from a concealed harness beneath his coat. A dagger. A golden dagger with an emerald on its handle. Trash Man recognized the object and flinched in terror. But the stranger, once pointing the blade at his rotten brother, switched it around, handing the handle over.

  “It needs to be one of our own,” the stranger pleaded. He had tears in his eyes and asked this mortal favour in a whisper, ashamed.

  Trash Man lowered down, spreading the trash pile that had once been his legs, to be at his brother’s level. He was now a full human figure. There was no rage in his eyes anymore.

  “You came here to ask me to... kill you?”

  “Hmm.”

  “I can’t, brother. You are the one who brings Death, it follows you, not me,” Trash Man said, picking up the dagger as if it were on fire.

  “Yes yes you can, you—” he was out of breath, moving in the direction of his brother, and got close enough the blade was piercing his clothes. “You just have to push. Just a push, and wish I am gone,” he said, tears washing the filth off his face.

  “NO!” Trash Man said, in a scream.

  The boy was driving back to where he was supposed to wait until sunrise. He reached the spot and made a U turn, leaving the car pointing at the exit, ready to just leave. And waited. Waited for a while. Adrenaline rushing through his body, he couldn’t even breathe right.

  He could hear something heavy falling — no, being tossed — a bit far from where he was. Every stomp, every fall, startled him. Until he could no longer bear it and left the car, running in the direction of the sound.

  “You find another one to do this for you!” and pushed the dagger back to the stranger, turning around.

  “No no no no no, please!” the stranger ran to get in front of him again, and pushed the dagger back to his brother.

  “I said I CAN’T!” Trash Man yelled, garbage piles trembling, trash raining down. But the stranger was unaffected. He continued to hold his brother in place, pushing the dagger while the other was trying to leave. But Trash Man had had enough. He grabbed the stranger by the neck once again, yelling “STOP,” and tossed him to the side. The stranger was out of breath but ran at Trash Man. He jumped on him, and both were falling and rolling in waste.

  The trash brother tried to punch the stranger but missed, the other was clearly better at fighting. They punched, screamed, rolled down the piles, slapped each other. Then more screams. So much fighting the stranger didn’t even notice he had lost the dagger. Only after many kicks and punches and screams he realized it was missing.

  He looked around, desperate, trying to find the object. He dug into the trash, throwing toys, pans, and fabric around in a frantic frenzy while muttering “nononononononono”, but Trash Man interrupted him.

  “You’re looking for this?” in a mocking tone.

  Yes, he was looking for that. He jumped over his brother, grabbing his hands, pushing himself against the blade, yelling, “DO IT! PLEASE I BEG YOU!” But Trash Man was screaming, fighting this, also yelling, “NO!” And trying to get rid of his suicidal brother, he tossed the dagger far to the right.

  At Will’s feet.

  He saw both figures fighting and grunting, rolling in the filth. Will was shaking and crying. He wanted to leave, but couldn’t. He wanted the stranger to leave too. He wanted that to stop.

  He looked at the dagger. A weapon. In his innocence he thought he could help somehow, to stop that ugly and rancid fight. He grabbed the dagger.

  And then he was there. Where time doesn’t reach.

  It is dark as a desert on a moonless night. Still as water in a forgotten well. No sound, no smell. Just stillness. For centuries. He was trapped in that desert for years — for each year the stranger had walked this planet.

  Alone.

  He had been so alone.

  His body collapsed to the ground, convulsing. Both brothers stopped fighting. Something had changed. They could feel it in their bones. Then the stranger felt it. He felt the boy’s presence in the desert. The familiar empty place was not empty anymore. He ran, leaving his brother behind.

  The boy was lying on the dirty ground, with the dagger next to his hand. He was bleeding through his nose, eyes white, head shaking.

  “I... I told you to wait in the car!” he said while holding the boy’s head.

  Then he looked up. At me. And said it, between his teeth, “No, not again”.

  Behind him, he could hear his brother’s footsteps, getting close at a slow pace.

  “Now you understand,” he said, in a calm voice.

  This enraged the stranger. He couldn’t see the boy anymore. Or the landfill. Not even me.

  He embraced what he truly was, what he had denied for so long, in a failed lie he kept telling himself. All he saw was red.

  Red.

  Red.

  Red was the blade, was the hand holding it.

  Red was the juice of life, flowing, dripping, drying, rotting.

  Red was the fabric of existence, ripping apart and rotting.

  Rotting.

  Rotting.

  Trash Man was crumbling, fading. The stranger’s hand was buried deep within his once beloved brother, so deep he could no longer see the dagger inside his guts. Until there was nothing left, only ashes.

  However, he didn’t see that. All he could see was red.