A Last Job
Rural outskirts, middle of nowhere.
On a cold dawn, José woke up in the middle of a terrible coughing fit. A dying man, tubercular to the bone. He fumbled for the lamp switch on the nightstand.
“Damn it, where is it?”
Finally, light. He sat up, panting. His back muscles ached. He stretched for the aluminum cup and gulped down the water in one go. Nausea hit. He stumbled toward the bathroom, tripping over heaps of clothes and junk. Bursting into the cubicle, he pulled the light cord. The bulb expelled the darkness, revealing the toilet — lidless, filthy, waiting to swallow him whole.
He knelt and let his stomach contract, emptying himself.
The liquid turned yellow under the warm light. Slumped against the wall, facing the toilet, José coughed again, this time tasting iron on his sour tongue. Blood.
He returned to his room. At the dresser, he opened the drawer. A revolver lay there. He grabbed it, spun the cylinder out with practiced ease. Old habits. Checked the bullets. His gaze shifted to the mirror. There he was — half-dead, half-alive. A walking corpse.
“Not worth it,” he whispered.
He closed his eyes, pressed the barrel to his mouth, and just before pulling the trigger—three knocks at the door.
“Who the hell?” he wondered, not really wanting the answer.
He hid the revolver and went to answer. Once, long ago, he’d never open a door without a hidden gun.
“Who is it?”
“Hey Zé, it’s João.”
A neighbor from these forgotten lands, where barely a handful of farming families lived.
“Sorry for showing up at this hour.”
“No trouble,” José replied, letting him in. The living room was as cramped as the bedroom.
“Zé…” João crossed himself before the image of the Virgin Mary. Then he fell silent. He hesitated, searching for words. Opened his mouth. Closed it again.
“What’s wrong, João? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” José searched for his lost pack of cigarettes.
“Almost that, Zé.”
“Speak!”
“It’s a problem. A big one.”
“Work? At this hour?” José scowled. “Couldn’t wait ‘til morning? Where the hell’s that cigarette?”
João stammered:
“Zé, didn’t you once tell me… you almost became a priest?”
“Almost. Got a smoke?”
“Thought you quit.”
“Started again. Today.”
João pulled a cigarette from his pocket. As he lit it, he said:
“I even remember seeing your priest suitcase.”
“That was my brother’s. And yeah, I did a year of seminary. Dropped out when I found out—” He fell silent, the memory biting deep. He lit the cigarette. The flame painted his wrinkled, worn face red.
João spoke:
“Vicente’s daughter. My niece… she’s got the devil inside her.”
José exhaled smoke and assumed João’s visit was about to get even weirder.
“And what do you want me to do?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Zé. I just thought maybe you’d know how to help the girl.”
They spoke standing, awkward in the small space. José considered asking more, going to Vicente’s place, seeing the girl for himself. But he gave up.
“I’m sorry for your niece. I can’t help.”
João stared at the floor. He hadn’t come with much hope, just desperation. He sighed, put on his hat, mounted his mule, and vanished down the dark road.
José watched from the doorway. He listened to the symphony of crickets, frogs, and unseen creatures — witnesses to mankind’s pointless struggles. Life no longer lived in him. He had lost everything, even the desire to live… or die. At least, he no longer felt fear.
“Priest, my ass,” he muttered, locking the door.
In the dark, he remembered his brother — a true priest, murdered unjustly. Shot dead on order. His only crime: refusing to take sides in politics, which he called the Devil’s theater. “Religion and politics don’t mix,” he’d preach on Sundays. His stubbornness cost him his life.
José finished his cigarette, threw the butt on the floor, and crushed it barefoot. The burning ember stung his heel.
He remembered his brother again. A true priest.
Then he went to the bedroom, took the revolver, his hat, his coat, and put on his boots. He dragged the wardrobe aside and pulled out an old suitcase. Inside, neatly folded as always, were a green stole, a cassock, an alb, a skullcap, and a Bible. He took the Bible and stole, then left. Soon, he’d be at João’s niece’s house.
The road felt longer in the dark. As he neared the neighbors’ houses, he heard murmurs — insomniacs speculating about the possessed girl. They wove theories, judged her without trial or defense. The same happened in the next three scattered houses. Finally, the fourth belonged to Vicente.
José stopped at the edge of the yard. João met him outside.
“Zé, the girl’s been saying some filthy things.”
“What kind of filthy things?”
“All kinds. Says she’s gonna be every man’s whore in this region.”
“And Vicente, what does he think?”
“My brother says the Devil’s using her.”
José entered the house. Without electricity, shadows hid the corners. Only stubs of candles scattered about offered weak pools of light. Seven anxious faces huddled in the cramped living room, keeping their distance from the epicenter of terror — the back room. Five of them were children, the girl’s siblings, lined up like stair steps on a worn-out sofa.
“She’s in there,” the old mother pointed. José glanced at the father, seated at the table, staring into nothing, resigned after doing all he could. A bottle of cachaça sat within arm’s reach. It had kept him company earlier, but now it was empty, the alcohol resting in his veins.
José walked toward the bedroom. At the doorway, he reached to part the makeshift curtain. A nauseating stench hit him. He stepped inside.
“Who is it?” the girl asked.
José didn’t answer. From the threshold, he saw her — a young girl, maybe thirteen, tied at the wrists and ankles with harness ropes. The candlelight barely illuminated her bruised body, but the injuries were clear.
“Who the hell is it?” — this time, something else spoke. A guttural, raspy, resonant voice using the girl’s mouth:
“Oh, it’s our old friend Zé.”
A chair beside the bed seemed to invite him.
“Sit down, compadre,” the demon sneered. “Make yourself at home. How are those lungs of yours?”
José froze. How did it know? He wondered. Logic raced through his mind — who had he told, how had the word spread here, to her… or to it. The shock distracted him, and focus was vital.
“What’s wrong, cat got your tongue? Sit, man.”
José finally sat. Closer to the bed, the stench of urine and feces was overpowering. The girl’s dress was soaked with vomit and blood.
“What do you want?” José asked.
“I want you inside me,” the demon replied, laughing so hard it drooled. The girl’s pelvis rose from the bed, free from the ropes, mimicking the act of sex. She moaned obscenely, then laughed again.
“That I won’t do,” José said, fighting back intrusive thoughts.
“What a shame. She’s still nice and tight, despite being used. Come on, take a look — there’s no panties underneath.”
José forced himself to ignore it. He pulled the Bible from his coat, along with the folded stole. The demon roared with laughter.
“Oh no, where did you find that, compadre? And that Bible? Don’t tell me… oh, don’t tell me you’re gonna try that!” The creature snorted like a pig, unable to stop laughing.
José draped the stole over his shoulders, opened the Bible, and began to search. He didn’t remember a thing. He felt like a fool.
He thought back to when João left his house — maybe the best choice would’ve been to go back to his room and finish the job. End it all. The last job.
As he flipped through the pages, he heard:
“Did you confess?” the demon asked. José couldn’t recall the last time he’d set foot in a church.
“No, of course not. This won’t work, compadre. But maybe I can help you. Turn to Psalm 53.”
“That’s enough,” José snapped the Bible shut. “Leave the girl. Now.”
“Oh, my. If my hands were free, I’d cross myself at such authority. I like a man who’s got some balls. But do you really think you can just tell me to leave and that’s it?”
“What do you want?”
“I already told you…”
“That’s not happening.”
“Well, then I’m staying.”
“There’s got to be something else.”
“Why would there be?”
José had no answer. He only thought that everything comes at a second price. Maybe this was no different. He closed his eyes and made a suggestion, Bible still in his lap.
“Take me instead…”
“Oh, I’ve seen that movie before. Not doing it.”
“And why not? Afraid?”
“Good question. I’ll answer, but only after you answer mine. Deal?”
José fell silent. Seemed like a yes. The demon saw no objection and asked:
“Who was José before he came to this godforsaken place? Only the truth counts.”
José could lie, but something told him that in this game, a wrong move would cost him. So, almost unconsciously, he answered:
“I was… a hitman. A hired killer.”
“Well, ain’t that a pleasant surprise!” the demon grinned wide, his fetid breath mixing with the foul air of the room. “How many people did you kill?”
“I don’t know,” José answered truthfully. He’d lost count long ago.
“Ever killed women?”
José opened his mouth but said nothing. Shame gripped him. He remembered a female victim but couldn’t bring himself to admit it.
“I knew it. What about old folks and kids?”
“Not kids!” José cut him off. Even the thought repulsed him. His own code forbade it, giving him some small comfort in his conscience.
“But you left a lot of them orphans, didn’t you?”
“I did,” José lowered his head.
“So how do you have the gall to come here and preach to me? You ripped away the children's parents, the only ones who cared for them.”
There was no answer. José was paralyzed, trapped between his past and the demon’s accusations. He forgot he could even ask questions, drowning in his memories and guilt. So many had begged for mercy. Others didn’t even see death coming. Some lingered for days, crippled or dying in agony.
“Well, compadre Zé, I’m quite comfy here. In fact, I think even a peasant’s prayer would bother me more than your sad little ritual. Honestly, your presence is comforting. Like a sick man visited by an old friend. I’d offer you some tea if I could. But… go ahead, ask me something. I owe that to a friend.”
José hesitated, then asked:
“Your friend?”
“Oh, was that your question? No matter, here’s your answer for free. Of course, compadre. You’ve got everything we love in a man: hatred, scorn, greed… you name it. You’re my kind of guy.”
José, for a moment, remembered how it was when he closed those contracts. First came the money, then he judged the target — they all had flaws, something that, in his mind, deserved punishment. But that punishment… it was often far worse than their crimes. He was like a surgeon transplanting his hate for his brother’s killers onto his victims.
“Come on, compadre Zé. Ask your question. Or be a man… and take me.”
José asked:
“You want me to kill someone?”
A long silence.
The demon’s face hardened. The girl’s face, scratched and raw, stiffened. Her chest rose and fell, breathing out poisonous fumes. The dim morning light crept through a crack in the window, mixing with the foul air, casting a swampy green hue across the room.
“Answer me.”
“I do,” came the reply.
“Who?”
“You know who.”
“You’ll leave the girl?”
“Yes.”
José stood from the chair, stepped away from the bed. The girl moaned, writhing in her bindings. The sunlight grew stronger, illuminating her bruised, bloodied body. So much suffering. José was about to feel pity, but stopped himself. Now was the time for anger, for hatred — to think of how cruel the world was, how good people suffer and die, and end up somewhere far worse than they ever imagined. It was time to remember his brother.
“Vicente!” José shouted.
No answer.
“Vicente!” he called again, louder.
The girl’s father appeared in the doorway, half in shadow, half in light.
“What is it?”
“Come in.”
“What for, compadre?”
“Open this Bible to the Psalms.” José extended the book.
Vicente hesitated. The girl made a strange sound — some twisted mix of pleasure and pain, moaning and suffering. The father glanced at her, terrified.
The strong daylight now flooded the room, illuminating everything — including José, whose gaze burned with the authority of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.
“All right,” Vicente said.
He stepped in, took the Bible, and opened it in the middle. “Where the hell are the Psalms?” he wondered, staring at the tiny letters. Then it hit him — he was illiterate. How could he forget that?
He lifted his head to tell José he couldn’t find the passage, and when he did, the barrel of a revolver met his forehead.
The Bible slipped from his hands.
José fired.
The shot crushed Vicente’s nose, spraying blood across the room. The blast echoed through the house.
The girl burst into tears.
Vicente’s body collapsed. His wife rushed in and nearly tripped over his corpse. Her screams mingled with her daughter’s sobbing.
João appeared in the doorway, frozen by the chaos before him. He didn’t dare challenge José, still holding the gun.
João’s eyes found the girl, still tied up, sobbing uncontrollably, begging her dead father for forgiveness.
There was no trace of the demon.
“Untie her,” José ordered.
“What did you do?” João asked, horrified.
“A last job,” José said.
