Precious Cargo
by Michael A.
Kechula
I'm in Haitian territorial
waters. Destination: Miami.
A Haitian patrol boat's
coming with sirens blaring. They fire a shot over
my bow. I quickly stop the engines. Four sailors
brandishing machine guns come aboard. General
LeHate follows.
“What's your cargo?”
he snaps.
“Cadavers,” I say,
passing the manifest. “For American medical
schools.”
“What's their degree
of putrefaction?”
“Advanced. The
refrigeration units are busted.”
“Let's see,” he
says.
I hope he doesn't inspect
too carefully. Millions in illegal drugs are
stuffed inside the cadavers.
He opens the hatch.
Greenish smog escapes. The stench is nauseating.
Suddenly, a female corpse sits up and moans
horribly.
“A zombie!”
LeHate yells. “You're carrying contraband.
Zombies are Haiti's national treasures. They
attract tourist dollars. Kidnapping her is like
stealing our Big Ben, our Eiffel Tower, our Mona
Lisa. This crime is punishable by death.”
“Don't arrest me,”
I plead. “I didn't know she was aboard. Here's
$5,000.”
He pockets the bribe.
“If she were your wife, there's no crime.
For $5,000 more I can give her a travel permit.”
“Then I'll marry her
immediately,” I say, handing him another $5,000.
After he leaves, I'll toss
her overboard.
We stand in front of him,
holding hands. Her hand is slippery. It's leaking
green goo.
He pronounces us married.
Good grief! What have I
done?
“Kiss the bride,”
he orders, pointing his pistol at my head.
Her eye falls out as she
faces me. She grabs me and bites my lips off.
While chewing, she drags me into the hold, and
throws me to the floor. I land on squishy corpses.
“Honeymoon time,”
she cackles.
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