An old man with gray hair whistled an off-key tune.

He pushed a wheelbarrow, its rusted wheels screeching like a tortured banshee.

His clothes were stained and tattered. He was a person who spent his life clinging to small joys, one of these joys was burying the dead with some form of dignity. That and drowning himself in alcohol.

He brought the wheelbarrow and started digging. His shovel hit the soil and he muttered, "Another day another grave."

However, unannounced to the old gravedigger, a few feet away, a wormhole opened. Space seemed to warp at what first seemed like a small ring of light turned into a massive mouth. From there, screams resounded.

A small dot inside the vast light became bigger and bigger until a boy plopped out. Among the many emotions the child was surely feeling, confusion, fear, and curiosity stuck to his face the most.

Landing in a pile of mud, the boy's body was layered with murky brown and grossness.

His eyes darted around his surroundings, struggling to take it all in. Frog-like creatures eyed him from greenish pools. Gnarled trees and snaking vines appeared all too alien to him, as were the echoing howls and screeches of beasts he couldn't fathom.

The man looked over in surprise, but when he pieced together everything he saw, he muttered, "Just my luck..."

Grumbling, he walked up to the shaken boy, in his dirty clothes with a wry smile, revealing his yellow teeth and blackish gums.

Raising his arms wide, he spoke.

"Look here, lad, welcome to the Landfill! You're now in the swamps of Netherane! You must be confused about what the hell is going on," he spoke enthusiastically.

Getting a good look at the boy, the grave digger turned around, walked to the wheelbarrow, and pulled out some dirty clothes stained in what looked to be dirt and blood.

Returning to the boy he tossed the pair of clothes at him, "Put these on, or you'll die from the chilling cold before anything else. Although these swamps are humid, the freezing breeze can kill a man. Its almost winter too, the winds be picking up."

A pungent putrid stench came from the worn fabric, it caused the boy's nose to scrunch. Only then did he see past the clothes given and realize he wasn't wearing anything.

The boy didn't say a word and nodded to the man. He wiped off the mud covering the clothing and got dressed.

While doing this, the man chuckled and pointed to the wheelbarrow behind him, "They won't be needing those clothes anyway. They're about to be deep in the earth anyhow."

Upon those words, the boy's face flushed with fear as he tilted his head upwards.

A sound echoed through the surroundings just as the man was about to explain himself.

CAW CAW

A flock of crows came out from the protection of the canopy and swarmed around the wheelbarrow. One of the crows descended, plucking out an eyeball, lifting its head just enough for the boy to see as it gulped it down.

Only now did his senses seem to register and turn on. His stomach churned from the bog's odors - the smell of mud, decay, and bodily waste assaulted his nostrils most vividly.

He could feel the cold wind brush up his back causing chills, all the while he heard the ripping and tearing of flesh from the crows. The boy couldn't help but begin to cry, breaking down.

With the boy's fears confirmed he looked at the old and strange man and pissed himself in fear.

Deciding to ignore the boy, the gravedigger picked up a shovel and ran at the crows, screaming and yelling.

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"Don't you dare disturb the dead! Damn, scavengers!"

Chasing off the crows with ease, the man sighed and looked back at the boy, who was now in a fetal position with his back against a stump. He was shivering while staring at the man in pure horror.

As the old geezer tried to get closer, the boy mustered up the courage to speak, yelling, "D...D...Don't come near me!"

The man sighed again and finally explained himself, "I didn't kill them. I'm just the one who puts em to rest."

Still shaken, the boy wasn't moved by the old man's words.

"Hah, lad, I'm but a simple gravedigger. If I weren't anything else you would be dead, that's for sure. You're lucky, this area is the swamp is safe. Anywhere else you might have been poisoned or infected, but here, you just have to hope the crows don't go for the eyes."

Although the boy was fearful of the old man's words, he made sense. If he was evil wouldn't the boy be dead by now? Considering this, the boy eased up, but only a little.

The old man nodded his head, seeing as he pacified the child, he gave his name.

"I'm Feick. What's your name, boy?"

The boy seemed to go back to being terrified as he whispered, "I... I... don't know," he clutched his head.

Sweat poured down his back as he realized he knew nothing about himself. His mind was completely blank, the child didn't know who he was or where he was from.

His mind reeled. He wanted to believe this was some horrid dream, that he'd wake up in a warm bed, memories intact. But the smell of the swamp dispelled those illusions.

All the child knew was that this place was extremely foreign; he was alone and afraid.

Feick scratched his beard. "Well...if you are what I think, it makes sense.... First things first. I'm to give you a name!" After some thought, he smiled and announced, "Let's call you Cain - nice and short!"

He added, "Help me bury these folks. I'm getting on in years and my back aches."

"Okay..."

But it wasn't like Cain had a choice to refuse Feick, he would die without this man's help, he didn't know where to go or how to survive, he was a chick that left the nest.

This was an unknown land and Cain had no idea who he was, memories were something he didn't have and he only had a vague understanding of things like eating and breathing.

Thankfully Feick was kind and the two just happened to speak the same language, otherwise, Cain would be long dead.

…

As the boy dug, Feick watched him work.

Cain shoveled dirt as fast as he could, making great progress on the hole.

The Landfill, as Feick called it, was a place that lived up to its name—a dumping ground for unwanted and rejected things from the entire universe or that's what the famous scholars say.

"People like you are uncommon, but even us common folk know of you..." he chuckled. "I was taught by my superior what to do in this situation when I first got this job decades ago. It's one of my only memories alcohol doesn't wash away...."

Cain was unlike the natives here. He was what was called a Contaminant, one of the few with a mysterious background, that of being sent to the landfill alone. Such a fate left the contaminants with no memory of their past.

"So this Contaminated stuff..." Cain hesitated. "You're saying I was dumped here as some kind of punishment?"

Feick leaned on his shovel, scratching his beard. "I ain't saying you did anything wrong, son. It's just what people think, whispers and all."

Cain looked down at his muddy hands, a sick feeling rising in his gut. He was desperate to grasp at any memory, any sense of identity, but his mind remained a void. What kind of person was he before? Why would he be cast away like garbage into this wretched swamp?

"Best not dwell on it," Feick said gently, seeing Cain's inner turmoil. "Folks like you….get a fresh start of sorts. Chance to figure out who you want to be."

"If they're lucky and survive long enough," Feick said in a foreboding tone, half-jokingly.

Cain nodded, far from reassured but naively felt Feick meant well, jokes and all.

Unfortunately for him, Cain would have to discover himself, the past be damned. But contaminants are considered more inferior and disgusting than even animals.

The geezer rubbed his head. "What am I forgetting…oh yeah. You should know of the two powers who rule over us poor folk. To the west, is the Kingdom of Puffrid, its king passed recently and his son is taking the throne. I uh...forget the other one. But we technically belong to Puffrid so we pay them taxes and such."

Cain listened, his shovel sliced through damp soil with a soft crunch before hitting a rock with a tooth-rattling clang, the sound seemed to jot Feick's memory.

He sat up in clarity. "Right! The Empire of Salazar is to the east. Their founder was rumored to have an amazing ability to control the swamp! I heard that from drunk travelers though."

Cain asked a question of his own.

"Well that's all cool and all, but what's beyond Netherane? Are there other places as you said, what are they called?"

"Hell if I know. I was born here, and I'll die here too. People worry about living before they can go off to la-la land and figure out what's beyond the retching lands we live in. This is the landfill; only try to survive, nothing else!" He said solemnly, his tone sour.

"Now, finish burying those poor souls!"

"Yes, sir!" Cain responded and hastened his pace.

"After you're done, I'll take you to town. It's not too bad there—at least you won't die from the cold anytime soon," He snorted.

In the end, Feick continued to watch Cain work, a shameless man putting a child to do a man's job.