Precious Cargo

Michael A. Kechula

My ship was in Haitian territorial waters. Destination: Miami .

A Haitian patrol boat headed toward me with sirens blaring. They fired a shot over my bow. I stopped the engines.

Four sailors with assault rifles rushed aboard. General LeHate followed. “What's your cargo?” he snapped.

“Cadavers,” I said, passing the manifest. “For American medical schools.”

“What's their degree of putrefaction?”

“Advanced. The refrigeration units are busted.”

“Let's see,” he said.

I hope he doesn't inspect too carefully. Millions in cocaine are stuffed inside the cadavers.

He opened the hatch. Greenish smog escaped. The stench was nauseating. Suddenly, a female corpse sat up and moaned horribly.

“A zombie!” yelled LeHate. “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.”

“Please, don't arrest me. I didn't know she was aboard. Here's $5,000.”

He pocketed the bribe. “If she were your wife, there's no crime. For $5,000 more I can conduct a wedding ceremony and give her a travel permit.”

“I'll marry her immediately,” I said, handing him another $5,000.

After he leaves, I'll toss her overboard.

We stood in front of him, holding hands. Her hand was slippery. It was leaking green goo.

He pronounced us man and wife. Good grief! What have I done?

“Kiss the bride,” he ordered, pointing a pistol at my head.

Her eye fell out as she faced me. She grabbed me and bit my lips off. While chewing, she dragged me into the hold, and threw me to the floor. I landed on squishy corpses.

“Honeymoon time,” she cackled.