The Area 51 Option

The Area 51 Option
by Michael A. Kechula

Three weeks after the Second Zombie War ended, the Alpha Party held their national convention in Las Vegas. They nominated Esther Church as their party’s candidate for the November presidential election. Church was the most radical politician in the Amalgamated States of America.

During her acceptance speech, Church electrified the nation when she said, “On the first day that I’m the President of this great nation, I will issue an executive order to release all zombie prisoners of war and grant them full civil rights.”

Five thousand party delegates cheered wildly for two minutes.

“It’s time for change in Washington. It’s time for love and compassion.”

More cheers and applause.

“We all know there hasn’t been an ounce of love or compassion in Washington since Harlan Kirk became President. The fact that we’ve had another zombie war in which forty thousand zombies were massacred and ten thousand were captured is stark proof. There’s only one reason why this nation went to war: President Kirk and the Omega Party are warmongers. They started this war to fatten the wallets of bankers and the military-industrial complex.”

The audience booed and raised their middle fingers.

“Yesterday, I called the President and asked him to reveal where he’s hiding ten thousand zombie war prisoners. He hung up on me. Do you know why? Because he fears love and compassion. And he doesn’t want you to know that the POWs are being brutally tortured.”

More boos.

“Fortunately, we’ve been able to discover where they’re imprisoned. In a salt mine. Without lights. Without food. Without water. Without sanitary facilities. And soon, they’ll be executed without trials.”

Sounds of anger and dismay filled the convention center.

“This is not the first time in the history of this country that zombie POWs have been horribly mistreated. A film recently discovered in government archives shows what this nation did fifty years ago to four thousand zombies captured during the First Zombie War. I have that film here today. Before I show it to you, I want you to remember what our history teachers taught us about the fate of those four thousand zombies. Does anybody remember where they were sent?”

“To a beautiful Pacific Island,” shouted a delegate from Ohio.

“That’s right. And we were also taught that they were allowed to live out their lives on that island. Further, we were told every attempt was made to transform them from brain eaters to vegetarians. Our history books said the transition was successful, and the zombies lived happily ever after. We were even quizzed on this episode of our nation’s history. Well, guess what? Our teachers lied!”

Sounds of shock filled the convention center.

“So much for our pitiful educational system. But teachers weren’t the only liars. Several weeks ago, the Historical Channel ran a program on TV about the last zombie prisoner held on that island. What her life had been like. And how she died in her sleep in that lush, island paradise. That too was a bunch of lies. So, if you’re wondering what really happened to four thousand zombie POWs after the First Zombie War, here’s the answer.”

Several large screens descended from the ceiling. When the lights dimmed, delegates and millions of the nation’s TV watchers gasped when they saw thousands of naked, emaciated zombie POWs jam-packed inside an open-air sports arena. Their decaying hands were raised overhead, as if begging for mercy. A silver-colored blimp approached the arena. When it was directly overhead, the crew opened portholes and dropped hundreds of baseball-sized napalm bombs onto the zombie hordes. Close ups of the crew showed them laughing, as they rained destruction into the arena.

Delegates shouted, “Killers! Murderers!” Many screamed at the sight of the zombies bursting into flames and tearing each other to pieces as they attempted to flee the holocaust.

When the five-minute film ended, Esther Church said, “Brothers and sisters of the Alpha Party, these horrible images will haunt my dreams for the rest of my life.”

TV cameras panned the delegates. All looked shocked. Many were weeping.

“Unfortunately, I am the bearer of some very horrible news. As you know, our most recent zombie war ended just three weeks ago. Since then, ten thousand zombie prisoners have been held in very desperate circumstances in a salt mine. Brace yourselves for what I’m about to tell you. President Kirk plans to execute them the same way you just saw in the film. By napalm bombs dropped from a blimp.”

Raising a clenched fist, she shouted, “We must never allow zombie genocide to happen in this nation again!”

The audience screamed, “Never again…never again…never again.”

Someone ran onto the stage with an effigy of President Kirk. When Church set it on fire, the roaring crowd could be heard a mile away.

Harlan Kirk and members of his Cabinet were watching the proceedings in a White House conference room.

“She’s a rotten, lying, psycho bastard,” said the Attorney General. “That film’s a total fabrication. Nothing like that ever happened.”

“But you have to admit,” said Kirk, “it’s an extremely effective piece of propaganda. Did you see how those nuts in the convention center were crying and pulling their hair out over lies? Why aren’t our public relations people dreaming up dynamite stuff like that?”

The Secretary of Defense said, “I never thought I’d see the day when Americans would carry on over a bunch of bloodthirsty, brain-eating zombies. To show what a liar she is, I think we should release the film that shows what really happened to the POWs after the First Zombie War.”

“If we do that, we may cause an even bigger uproar,” said the President. “If that crowd went insane over a lie about napalming prisoners, imagine how they’ll react to the truth about them being nuked on a Pacific atoll, fifty years ago. Hell, the minute they find out we plan to do the same to our POWs, the opposition will tear this country apart. We better destroy those damn zombies some other way. Any ideas?”

“Why not napalm them like we saw in Church’s phony film?” asked the Secretary of the Air Force. “We have a plenty of napalm bombs.”

“If we do that,” said the Secretary of the Army, “we’d give credence to Esther Church’s ridiculous lies. Need I remind everyone that the press, which is so hostile to this administration, would immediately broadcast the time and place of the executions. The opposition party would bus in rent-a-mobs to surround the stadium. They might even try to shoot down the blimp. Things could get worse if our supporters showed up. Both sides might start shooting at each other. The last thing we need is Americans killing Americans over brain-eating zombies.”

“So, what do you suggest as an alternative?” asked the President.

“Since the POWs are being held in a salt mine, let’s pump in napalm and fry the bastards.”

“How soon can that be done?”

“In a matter of hours.”

“Good. Let’s do it tonight at midnight. The sooner those damn POWs are out of the way, the sooner I can begin concentrating on my reelection. Now let’s watch more of that blasted convention to see what else that idiot has on her twisted, bird brain.”

“This nation’s fed up with Harlan Kirk and the Omega Party,” Church said to her spellbound audience. “Where has their warmongering policies gotten us?”

“Nowhere,” delegates shouted.

“If things don’t change drastically in Washington, we face the real possibility of a third zombie war. We cannot let that happen. It’s time for change. Time for new ideas. Time for new leadership. Time to give zombies love, compassion, and a piece of the American pie.”

The audience yelled, whistled, applauded.

“And now, as your nominee for the highest office in this nation, I want to offer you a new symbol for our party. Though a dove has served us well for so many years, it no longer represents the invigorated spirit and aspirations of this magnificent party.”

As a band played a fanfare, Esther pulled a golden cord. A red, white and blue curtain fell revealing a huge painting. Sounds of appreciation filled the auditorium at the sight of a little blonde girl facing a tall, smiling zombie. Both wore white, flowing robes reminiscent of ancient Greece. In the girl’s hand was a cuddly, stuffed koala bear, which she extended toward the zombie.

Hundreds of ushers quickly passed out stuffed koalas to every delegate, as a particularly moving arrangement of "Love Is Everything This Cruel World Will Ever Need" filled the auditorium.

Hugging their koalas, teary-eyed delegates sang the party’s official song.

President Kirk cursed aloud. “Zombies in flowing robes. Good grief. What next? Don’t they know that anybody who tries to hand a zombie a stuffed animal will get his fool head torn off? Esther Church is not only a damn idiot, she’s the most dangerous woman in this nation. She must be stopped.”

“Consider it done,” said the Director of GIA, the Global Intelligence Agency. “With your permission, I’ll implement the Area 51 Option.”

“Terrific idea. Yes, by all means do it. Oh, this is going to be rich.” Raising his glass of fine bourbon, the President added. “Let’s toast the geniuses of the GIA who created the Area 51 Option.”

After they drank, the Secretary of the Treasury asked, “What’s the Area 51 Option?”

“The ace up our sleeve,” said the President, chuckling.

At midnight, the Army secretly napalmed all ten thousand zombie POWs, as they loitered in a salt mine deep below the Nevada desert.

The next day, Kirk held a press conference. “I’d like to make an announcement, then I’ll take some questions. In the spirit of bipartisan cooperation, I’ve offered Esther Church, the Alpha Party’s presidential nominee, an opportunity to personally meet with zombie POWs so she can explain her aspirations to them. She has accepted. A plane will be provided so she and members of the press can fly to the site where the POWs are being scrupulously cared for. The reporters who accompany her will also be granted time to interview the prisoners. I’m pleased to tell you that she has agreed. She’ll visit them tomorrow.”

The journalists applauded.

As to the zombie POWs, we intend to handle them humanely, just like President Holmes did at the end of the First Zombie War. They’ll be transported to a Pacific island where scientists will transform them from brain eaters to vegetarians. Isolated from the rest of the world, they’ll be allowed to live out their lives in peace and dignity.

I know some in the Alpha Party have claimed that zombie POWs were never treated humanely, and that our history books and teachers have lied. That’s not true. Frankly, I’m concerned over the politicization of the zombie wars and POWs by the opposition. I think they owe an apology to every teacher in this nation for calling them liars. I call upon the leadership of the Alpha Party to do so as quickly as possible to ensure our citizens retain faith in our educational institutions.

Meanwhile, we are still trying to determine which nation recruited, trained, equipped, and transported the zombies who attacked our nation last Christmas. Rest assured, we will find out. And we will take appropriate action against the nation or nations that perpetrated this unprovoked sneak attack on the Amalgamated States of America. And now, I’ll take some questions.”

“I’m Harry Smith of World International Press. Esther Church says the zombie freedom fighters are being held as political prisoners in a salt mine under primitive and inhumane conditions. If that’s true, this nation has violated every treaty we’ve signed regarding the disposition of captured combatants.”

“First of all, I don’t know why you called them freedom fighters. They’re vicious renegades who would’ve torn off the heads and eaten the brains of every man, woman, and child in America, if our magnificent troops hadn’t stopped them. Secondly, Esther Church is dead wrong about the conditions under which zombies are being held. They are being kept in very pleasant surroundings above ground where every facility is available to them. I assure you that the Omega Party has just as much concern about the welfare of zombie prisoners as the Alpha Party.”

“Exactly where are they being held?” asked a female journalist from the Philadelphia Times.

“For security reasons, I don’t think it’s wise to identify the location at this time. Especially since Esther Church will be going there tomorrow. My concerns are that some rogue zombies might have evaded capture, and might still be hiding. In fact they may be listening to this press conference at this very moment. And if any are, I strongly urge all zombies who have not yet surrendered to do so as quickly as possible. They can turn themselves into any military facility, fire station, or police station in the nation. They have my personal guarantee that they’ll be treated fairly.”

“I’m Sally Saunders of the London Afternoon Daily. I’ve heard a rumor that the zombie POWs have already been executed.”

“Well, you can ask Esther Church about that after she visits all ten thousand of them tomorrow.”

While a few in the press corps chuckled, President Kirk tried to visualize what it might have looked like inside the mine hours earlier when all the POWs they were now discussing were destroyed by napalm.

“Mr. President,” said another reporter. “When the war ended last month, you claimed the zombies were a new type that had never been seen before, and that they were parachuted into Arizona on Christmas Day from unmarked, stealth aircraft. You said only a demon nation would so such a thing. On the other hand, Esther Church said nothing like that every happened. She claims this new type of zombie has actually been residing in Arizona for several years, and that they arrived on foot by crossing the border from Mexico. And because of that, they should be considered undocumented aliens, not hostile zombie invaders. Since nobody has found any parachutes, or ever reported seeing any aircraft dropping zombies, will you admit that she’s right about where the zombies came from, and that they should be treated like undocumented aliens instead of POWs?”

“She’s dead wrong on all counts. Approximately fifty thousand zombies parachuted into this nation on Christmas Day. None of the stealth aircraft transporting them was detected by our defense systems. Our Global Intelligence Agency is still investigating to determine where they came from. And while we’re on the subject, the demon nation that did this to the American people will pay a terrible price.”

“I have a follow-up question, Sir. Let’s say it happened the way you’ve described. And the GIA determines that the so-called demon nation was Switzerland. Exactly what would you do to Switzerland?”

“That beautiful, mountainous country would be transformed into a bleak, flat-as-a-pancake desert situated several hundred feet below sea level.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” said Kirk’s Chief of Staff to signal the end of the press conference.

The next day, Esther Church and six reporters, who championed her causes, were picked up at their Las Vegas hotels by a limo secretly owned by the GIA. When they entered the limo, the driver, who was separated from them by a glass panel, pressed a button that released exotic gases into the passenger compartment. In twenty-three seconds, Church and her entourage were in a pleasant stupor. Independent thinking became impossible and would remain so for at least ten hours.

This was the most dangerous part of the GIA’s top secret scenario. If random, unprocessed, contaminated information were inadvertently introduced from outside the limo, Esther and the reporters could react by committing murder and unspeakable atrocities upon each other.

An Army liaison officer sitting next to the driver pointed a satellite-monitored laser pen at Esther’s forehead. A soft beep verified her brain’s readiness for satellite input. He did the same to the other passengers.

In the deluded minds of Esther and the reporters, they thought there were driven to the Las Vegas airport where they boarded a plush government jet for a two-hour flight. But they never left the limo.

Later on, they’d remark among themselves about the delicious hors d’oueuvres they were served on the jet, as it headed to Camp Pleasant. None of them would ever learn that Camp Pleasant was a nonexistent location. Nor would they discover they had never left the limo. The two-hour flight they experienced in their chemically induced delusional state was, in reality, a twenty minute limo ride from downtown Las Vegas to a vacant warehouse on the outskirts of Vegas.

When the limo reached North Las Vegas, it entered a vacant warehouse owned by the GIA.

“Welcome to Camp Pleasant,” said the GIA agent who opened the limo doors. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.”

“It was very nice,” Esther said, “except for some turbulence over New Mexico.”

Viewing what appeared to her as wonderfully manicured, tropical surroundings, she added, “How gorgeous. I had no idea the Army has such a delightful military base. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear I was in Beverly Hills.”

As her words echoed throughout the empty warehouse, she made a mental note to make Camp Pleasant her Presidential Retreat after she was elected President.

“America has always honored and cared for its enemy prisoners in special ways,” the agent said, “especially when they’re zombies. Would you like a snack before meeting them?”

“That’d be nice.”

“Let’s go to the gazebo, which is just to the left of the rose garden. The zombies have prepared some treats for you.”

Though they stood in the same place in the warehouse the whole time, the visitors saw themselves walking toward a nonexistent gazebo. Several remarked about the beauty of the roses on both sides of the immaculate walkway.

"Yes, they are quite remarkable," said the agent. "Several zombie volunteers maintain the gardens.”

The visitors saw two zombies in tailored, sky blue jump suits waving from the other end of the rose garden where they were weeding. Both were guarded by American soldiers who carried flamethrowers.

Inside the gazebo was a table loaded with treats fit for a king.

“Oh, what are those big, luscious looking powdered things?” a female reporter asked.

“Jelly donuts,” said the agent. “They’re baked right here by our prisoners.”

“I never saw jelly donuts the size of cantaloupes.”

“Well, zombies will be zombies,” he chuckled. “They tend to exaggerate everything. To expand their very limited outlook on life, we encourage them to be creative. By the way, they baked these especially for you. Try some. You’ll find them quite delicious. So are the éclairs they made.”

The visitors couldn’t get over how wonderful everything tasted.

After a leisurely repast of things imagined, Church said, “May we please interview the zombies now?”

“Certainly. They’re eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

One of the male reporters grabbed a donut to carry along. He screamed horribly when it transformed into his four-year old daughter’s bloody, severed head.

“Dammit,” the agent yelled to a panel of GIA doctors who were monitoring the proceedings. “You assured me there’d be no anomalies in the Delusional Scenario.”

“Sorry about that,” a doctor said, as she sprayed a fine mist into the reporter’s eyes. It’s one of those gremlins that show up from time to time. Could be a solar flare interfering with satellite transmissions. No way around it. He’s okay now. This’ll erase whatever he just saw, from his memory.”

“What do you think he saw?”

“Oh, there are dozens of possibilities. None are pleasant.”

“You sure he won’t remember the unpleasant image, but will remember everything else in the Delusion Scenario?”

“Positive.”

The visitors engaged in pleasant chatter as they approached a large field where they saw ten thousand zombies in blue jump suits sitting quietly in padded folding chairs. The field was surrounded by hundreds of soldiers armed with flamethrowers and chainsaws.

As the visitors approached, the zombies stood up and applauded.

Esther mounted a stage equipped with a lectern and several microphones. In reality, she hadn’t moved from the place in the warehouse she’d occupied since leaving the limo.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the zombie community, I greet you as a friend,” Church said.

The zombies applauded again.

“You are the ugliest bunch of bastards, I’ve ever seen!” she yelled. “I’m getting the hell out of here!”

A doctor quickly sprayed mist into Church’s eyes. Others made notations on their clipboards. Another medic pointed a laser pen at her forehead. The pen beeped softly when it received feedback from an orbiting GIA satellite. Within seconds, appropriate sections of her memory banks were erased.

“That’s the second anomaly in the Delusional Scenario,” said the agent. I hope there aren’t any more.”

“The fact is,” said a doctor, “we usually need at least three months to program a scenario. The White House only gave us twelve hours for this project. I’m amazed worse things haven’t happened.”

Church spoke again to the assembled zombies that existed only in her deluded mind. “I’m Esther Church. I was nominated by the Alpha Party to run for President of the Amalgamated States. I expect to win the election in November. When I do, I promise to do two things for you. First I’ll grant you amnesty. Second, I’ll grant you full civil rights. That means you’ll become automatic American citizens.”

A one-armed zombie raised his hand.

When Church acknowledged him, he asked, “What’s amnesty.”

She spent several minutes explaining.

Another hand went up.

“What’s civil rights?” asked a female zombie whose head was half missing.

This lead to an exchange between the zombies and Church about the Alpha Party’s ideology, peppered with heavy doses of her radical social ideas.

Meanwhile, the reporters took down every word.

Twenty minutes later, Church said, “Thank you for your kind attention. And now members of the press will interview you.”

“What’s the press?” asked a zombie.

“I’ll let Harry Zimmer from the New York Daily Bugle explain it to you. He’s the dean of the White House Press Corps.”

“What’s the White House?” a zombie asked.

“What's up with these dumb questions?” the GIA agent asked doctors, as he read the script of what was occurring only within the minds of the visitors.

“Some of our whiz kids decided to inject a bit of humor,” a doctor said. “It sounds ludicrous to us as we read the paper script, but it sounds perfectly normal in the minds of our visitors and what they are experiencing.”

“Damn jerks!" the agent said. "Make sure you mention all this clowning around with the script during the post mortem meeting when we get back to Area 51. If you don’t, I will.”

When Church finished her discussion, she gave the floor to the reporters. They interviewed the zombies and thanked them for being so candid.

A woman’s voice rang out from the audience. “Hi, Esther.”

“Geez,” Church said, “that sounds like my mom.”

“It is your mom,” said the voice. “I’m in the second row, sitting on the lap of this nice zombie.”

“What are you doing here, Mom?”

“Just visiting some of the folks you’ve promised to make citizens. I sure hope this nice zombie man moves next door to me.”

Suddenly, the zombie tore Mom’s head off. Holding her head by the ears, he placed the severed neck over his lips and drank the blood. Then he jammed his hand inside the neck, as if it were the opening of a cookie jar, tore out every bit of tissue within the skull, and ate it. Muscle, veins, brains, everything.

“Hey, don’t be a hog,” yelled the zombie next to him. “Pass her head around so we all can have some of those goodies.”

“Help! Church screamed. “Somebody do something!”

The soldiers guarding the zombies didn’t move.

“You cowardly bastards! As my party’s nominee for President, I’m ordering you to attack. If you don’t, I’ll have you jailed.”

The soldiers opened up with flamethrowers. The stench of burning zombie flesh filled the air.

The visitors saw themselves rushing back to the limo. Though the actual trip from the warehouse to the hotels on the Las Vegas Strip took only twenty-five minutes, in their heads they experienced a two-hour return airplane flight.

Church’s script varied slightly from those of the reporters. Hers called for her to go unconscious from the moment the flamethrowers started, until she woke up in bed in her hotel room.

When she woke, the exotic sprays and gasses had worn off, and she was back to normal. But she was far from what psychiatrists would call normal. Every time she shut her eyes, the scene of her mother’s decapitation ran through her head. No matter what she tried, she couldn’t shake the horrible images. The Delusional Scenario had been so deeply imbedded in her brain, the images would never leave her.

Terribly distressed, she called the hotel operator. A doctor was dispatched to her room. But, before he arrived, an overwhelming impulse—one of many imbedded into her psyche by the scenario--drove her to the hotel window. Her body fell fifteen stories and slammed onto the roof of a passing cab.

The world’s major newspapers carried the story. The banner headlines of the New York Daily Mail screamed, “TEN THOUSAND ZOMBIE POWS MASSACRED. CHURCH ORDERS THEIR DESTRUCTION, THEN COMMITS SUICIDE.”

The memories that had been implanted in the visiting reporters’ brains were identical. However, their script diverged from Church’s, starting at the point where her mother appeared. They never saw or heard her mother. Instead, they saw Esther Church ask a zombie a question. When he didn’t answer, she left the stage, slapped his face, and called him a dumb-ass zombie who deserved to die.

The zombie responded by spitting on her. Enraged, she demanded the soldiers do something to teach the zombie some manners. When the soldiers didn’t act, she called them cowardly bastards. She grabbed one of the soldier’s portable flamethrowers, pointed it at the nearest zombies, and torched them.

All hell broke loose. Zombies rushed her, forcing the soldiers to blast them with their flamethrowers. By the time it was over, all ten thousand had been destroyed. Esther Church was heard cackling and saying, “That’ll fix the ugly bastards.”

Before long, billions around the world, who heard the news, branded the late Esther Church as just another lying, hypocritical, petty politician who got what she deserved.

When Harlan Kirk and his Cabinet met, the President said to the Secretary of the Treasury, “That was the Area 51 Option. Wasn’t it fantastic?”

* * *

No one outside of the Global Intelligence Agency, including President Kirk and his Cabinet, knew about the ultra-secret Area 52 Option. The option that would be exercised soon after GIA whiz kids debugged the final version of the scenario. The option that would make the entire nation see that which wasn’t there.

* * *

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in eight contests and placed in six others. He’s also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 108 magazines and 30 anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, India, Scotland, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I've been writing fiction only six years. Prior to that, I made my living as a professional writer of self-study textbooks and task-oriented instructional manuals for industry. By switching to fiction, I've found new outlets for my unquenchable urge to write. Frankly what inspires me to keep on going is the fact that I've been able to get an average of 1.7 stories accepted per week for thirty-seven months straight. During that time, my work has been accepted by 138 print and online magazines and anthologies in England, Canada, Australia, and US. With that kind of success and continuous reinforcement, the impetus to write even more is quite powerful. If my fortunes were suddenly reversed, and my work was constantly rejected, I'd write anyway. Perhaps it's a compulsion. But it's the o ne of the most rewarding compulsions anybody could hope for.

The Veil

The Veil
by Michael A. Kechula

A few hours before Geoffrey Winston was to assassinate a key German agent in Lisbon, he was summoned to his Director’s office.

“I want you to drop everything and deliver this package to Serge Sosa in Casablanca,” the Director said. “Your plane leaves in four hours.”

“What about tonight’s mission? The target’s heading back to Germany tomorrow. Everything’s in place. I may never get another opportunity to eliminate the bastard.”

“The mission’s canceled. I’m afraid the Prime Minister’s Office has decided this is more important. What’s more, he selected you to deliver the package.”

“Why does he want me to play messenger boy for that bloody bandit?”

“Sosa told the PM he’d accept the package only from your hands.”

“What’s in the bloody thing?”

“I wasn’t informed. Whatever it is, it’s quite light. But no doubt, extremely valuable. Look, I understand your frustration. Sometimes I think the Prime Minister has his head up his arse. Here’s a German passport in the name of Adolf Zilker. You’re now a salesman from a Berlin company that manufactures gambling equipment. A false-bottomed suitcase has already been packed with the usual things. It’s in the secretary’s office. Oh by the way, no weapons this trip. Not even a knife. Is that clear?”

“Yes, General.”

Cursing the Prime Minister, Serge Sosa, and the entire British Intelligence Establishment, Winston got the suitcase and caught a cab to the Lisbon Aerodrome.

After a flight in a Ford Tri-Motor Aeroplane, Winston cleared customs at Casablanca and headed for Sosa’s Café Chicago. The name was just a gimmick to attract customers. In the 1930s, anything American was considered exotic in North Africa, especially if it was connected with Chicago.

Serge Sosa, an informant for British Intelligence had never been to America. Nobody was even sure if Sosa was his real last name. He was one of millions of displaced persons who’d lost their documents during World War One. Migrating to French Morocco, in 1920, he’d built a sizable fortune, though he was a Communist. Some reports in his dossier implied his money was supplied by Lenin’s secret police, and that he was one of their high-level operatives. Winston had some dealings with Sosa before, and didn’t trust the man.

Entering Café Chicago, he was struck by the electric atmosphere. A band played American jazz better than he’d ever heard outside England. The air was abuzz with the babble of a dozen languages. A mixture of nationalities, mainly Europeans, filled the tables.

The maitre d’ asked Winston if he wished to dine. Speaking in German-accented English, he declined, announcing he was Adolf Zilker from Berlin and had an appointment with the café’s owner. Winston flashed a German business card emblazoned with a swastika.

The sight of that Nazi symbol excited the maitre d’, a fascist sympathizer. “Certainly, Herr Zilker,” he said crisply. “Monsieur Sosa is expecting you.” He clapped his hands, and a mean-looking Spaniard in a vanilla suit appeared. “Carlos, take Herr Zilker to Sosa’s office. He’s expected.”

Winston noticed a bulge on the right side of Carlos’ suit jacket. He wished he too had the comfort of a holstered pistol. But now he knew where he could get one, in case things got a bit sticky.

After climbing a spiral staircase, Carlos knocked on an intricately carved door. A huge African brandishing a Thompson submachine gun opened the door part way.

“He’s expected,” Carlos said.

The African opened the door wide enough for Winston and Carlos to enter.

Serge Sosa greeted Winston with a vigorous handshake. “Herr Zilker, how are you? How are your lovely wife and children? How was the flight from Berlin?”

While Winston answered his questions, Sosa dismissed Carlos and the African. As soon as they were gone, he said, “Good to see you again, Winston. I heard you’re creating quite a stir among the Germans in Lisbon.”

“I do what I can,” Winston said dryly.

“Don’t be so modest. Your work has put quite a dent in their operations. I hear they just put a price on your head.”

Alarmed at the news, Winston maintained a poker face. He wondered if it were true. He made a mental note to check his sources throughout Europe as soon as he returned to Lisbon. Then it dawned on him that might not make it back. Maybe Sosa would deliver him to the Germans for a fat fee. Winston scanned the room to see if there were any windows from which he could make a hasty escape. Unfortunately there were none.

“I assume you have my package?”

“It’s right here.” Winston reached inside the suitcase and pressed a hidden latch. The door to the secret compartment popped open. He removed the small package and gave it to Sosa.

Sosa’s eyes gleamed manically. “This is my ticket out of this rotten, god-forsaken, African stink hole.” He pressed the package against his chest as if embracing it.

“I should be getting along. It was a tiring flight.”

“I’d prefer that you stay and enjoy some refreshments. At a time like this, I’d like the company of someone to share this tremendous moment. Someone refined and cultured who can appreciate what I’m about to open.”

“I don’t know if I’m as refined and cultured as you imagine.”

“Indeed you are. You’re far more cultured than the brigands in my employ. Oh, I know plenty about you, Winston. You’re tough as nails. Dangerous. Deadly. Nothing stands in your way when you’re on a mission. Nevertheless, you are a refined man. Oxford educated. You love opera and ballet. You paint wonderfully detailed landscapes. You wrote a book of poems that was published under your real name—James S. Foxworthy.”

“Foxworthy? Poet?” Winston forced a laugh. “That’s rich, Sosa. Unfortunately, your information is quite flawed. I couldn’t draw if my life depended on it. And I loathe opera and ballet.”

“I could turn you over to the Germans right now, you know?”

Winston stopped laughing. “I suppose you could.”

“But I won’t. You are exceedingly valuable to me. I have great plans for you. In fact, James S. Foxworthy, AKA Geoffrey Winston, you’re here because I demanded that London send you. I told your Prime Minister that you were the only person I trusted to deliver this package. They damn well owed me. Do you know that because of me, not a single undercover German agent who ever put his foot on African soil from Cairo to Casablanca has lived to talk about it?”

“Where do you get off making such a claim? The King of Morocco’s security forces handle the Germans for us in North Africa. We arm his people and pay him in gold.

“Let’s just say His Highness subcontracted the task to me,” Sosa said. “Secretly, of course. You English think you know everything.”

“I suspect you’ve been paid quite handsomely by the King.”

“Not nearly enough!”

“I’d have thought the King would pay a sultan’s ransom. He’s no lover of the Germans. He can lose his country if they war on the French and occupy Morocco. Bad enough the French run the country, where he’s just the titular leader. But things will be worse if the Germans grab Morocco. The King and his entire tribe will be annihilated. Your life won’t be worth a sous, either. Hitler hates Communists as much as he hates Jews.”

“No matter. The English owed me for delivering the head of German intelligence operations in Algeria to them. I told London I didn’t want money or gold for my services. I wanted something far more valuable. And here it is. Aren’t you curious about what’s inside this package?”

“Not particularly,” Winston lied.

“You’ll feel differently when I open it.”

Sosa quickly unwrapped the package and removed a silvery-blue, shimmering cloth the size of a towel. His heart quickened as he unfolded it. “Look how beautiful it is,” he said ecstatically.

Putting the cloth to his face, he rubbed it against his cheeks. He sniffed deeply as if it were the perfumed undergarments of an exotic paramour. “I smell POWER!” he roared.

Winston wondered if the man were daft. He thought Sosa was having a psychotic breakdown over a piece of cloth.

“This is worth more to me than all the gold in the Bank of England. This magnificent cloth is the veil of Scheherazade, exotic princess of the desert. Daughter of the Great Sultan of Arabia. Creator of the Tales of Arabian Nights.”

“Scheherazade? She’s nothing more than a character in Arabic fiction. A figment of somebody’s imagination.”

“An old papyrus says otherwise. It tells of a day when Allah strolled through his gardens pondering what to create to reflect his glory. The accursed Serpent appeared and hissed, ‘Can Allah, the Compassionate, make from the rib of man, a woman more beautiful than Eve? A woman so beautiful that Allah himself would not dare gaze into her countenance?’ Allah dismissed the serpent shouting ‘Thou salt not tempt the Almighty One, the Giver and Taker of Life.’ Not long afterward, the Creator of All Things Visible and Invisible put Adam into a deep slumber and breathed on his rib a second time. Thus, he formed a woman more beautiful than Eve.”

“And that woman was Scheherazade?” Winston asked, amused by the Arabic fable.

“None other.”

“So you’re convinced this cloth is her veil?”

“The one and only. The papyrus tells how it was woven by cherubs in the Garden of Unending Delights. It was taken to Scheherazade by Angel Gabriel. He placed the veil over her head during evening prayers to protect her beauty from the corrupt eyes of sinful men. A genie was implanted into each off its thousand and one strands. Hence the veil is possessed by a thousand and one genies. Each has the power to grant three wishes to the veil’s owner.”

“Three wishes for every genie?” Winston chuckled. “What happens when a bloody genie grants all three?”

“It’s released to the Vale of Everlasting Tranquility, and the strand turns to brass. As you can see, none of the strands are brass. Therefore, not a single genie has ever been invoked to grant wishes. Do you understand the significance of this tremendous truth?”

Winston shrugged. He couldn’t comprehend how Sosa could survive World War One, build a fortune, outwit the Germans—all very real events—and believe in fables.

“You believe in nothing,” Sosa said with disgust. Wagging his finger he added, “Very soon you will learn to believe in all things. This veil, this treasure from the glorious past of wandering desert tribes, still has three thousand and three wishes to grant. And now I own it.” His eyes gleamed as he laughed triumphantly.

“Let me guess,” Winston said. “You’ll use the wishes to rule the world.”

“Indeed! I will own the world and all it contains. I will be the richest and most powerful man in history. My kingdom will be more glorious than the Inca and Aztec empires, more vast than the Romans or Alexander the Great ever dreamed of.”

The way Sosa spoke made Winston think that Hitler, Mussolini, and Japan’s Emperor were more preferable adversaries. They merely hoped to carve up the world into colonies and impose their governments and cultures. Adequate armed forces were available to ensure their wishes would never be realized. But, if Sosa’s claims were even remotely possible, he could become the greatest menace ever. All the combined armies of the Earth couldn’t stop him. Winston cringed at the idea of Serge Sosa becoming ruler of the entire globe.

“Why not become the world’s greatest hero by invoking a genie and asking for world peace?” Winston asked.

“Surely you jest. Peace does not exist, except in the minds of weaklings. These are genies, not gods.”

“Then what good is a genie? Or a thousand?”

“Genies fetch things for the veil’s owner. Things that already exist. So, I must be very clever and plan exactly what I want them to gather. I can, for example, ask for all the diamonds in the world. The papyrus says the genies must comply. In minutes, they will collect every diamond on Earth. From rings, necklaces, bank vaults, South African mines.”

“They sound like bloody thieves to me,” Winston said.

“They are no worse than Robin Hood, a thief your nation elevated to near-sainthood. Surely you, an Englishman, can appreciate what three thousand Robin Hoods could accomplish.”

“So, you intend to steal from the rich and give to the poor?”

“Give to the poor? Ridiculous! Who can build an empire by squandering money on masses of unwashed peasants? My plans for the poor—in fact for everyone—are far more elegant. I’ll command a genie to gather the frontal lobes of every human being on the planet, except for myself and a few assistants. Billions of mindless robots robbed of their ability to think will follow my orders without question. Imagine…all that power from a single wish. And three thousand and two wishes would still remain. Can you comprehend the limitless power that lies at my fingertips?”

If there were any truth to Sosa’s mind-boggling claims, Winston would have to act quickly before he lost his frontal lobes. He trembled at the thought of becoming a human robot in service to a madman.

“Are you sure the bloody thing works?” Winston asked. “Maybe you should make a wish to test the genies. Perhaps they are asleep and must be awakened. Or maybe they’ve lost their powers over the centuries.”

Sosa blanched. The thought of a powerless veil had never occurred to him. “It is said that he who strokes the strands in faith is rewarded with beautiful, celestial music. The very music to which the planets dance as they rotate around the Sun.”

Draping the veil over his arm, Sosa stroked the strands. The room filled with exquisite, ethereal sounds that made Winston think of angelic voices. Lasting only a few seconds, the sounds were the most enthralling they’d ever heard.

“So, it made some nice music. Making a bit of music isn’t the same as invoking a genie and commanding it to fulfill a wish. Why not summon a genie and ask it to supply you with a thousand each of the largest and finest African diamonds, Burmese rubies, Columbian emeralds, and Ceylonese sapphires?”

Sosa reached for a crystal cognac snifter and poured golden liquid from a decanter. Taking a sip, he said, “Your idea about jewels is inspired. I may spare your frontal lobes when I build my empire. A servant who can think creatively might be of value.” Grasping the first strand between his thumb and middle finger, he said, “Genie of the first strand, I invoke thee.”

A gust of wind whipped through the room. Everything made of glass jingled.

“Genie of the first strand, I command thee to bring me in crystal urns, a thousand each of the largest and finest African diamonds, Burmese rubies, Colombian emeralds, and Ceylonese sapphires.”

An unearthly voice said, “Yes, Master.”

A fog formed in one corner of the room. A flash of lightening cracked through the mist. The fog parted revealing four crystal urns filled with magnificent stones. The highly polished gems threw flashes of colored light everywhere.

“How exquisite!” Sosa gasped. “This is truly a vision of Paradise.”

Winston trembled. No man should have such power. Something had to be done quickly to stop Sosa. He thought of the cyanide pill, his constant companion since he’d entered clandestine service.

“Look how wonderfully these diamonds sparkle!” Sosa said with excitement, as he ran his hands through the stones. Moving to the rubies, he dug into them with both hands. “Look how they catch the light! What fire!”

As Sosa moved to the emeralds, Winston quickly removed a steel capsule from his pocket. Opening it, he dumped a tiny cyanide pill into Sosa’s cognac snifter.

“These gems must be worth billions,” Winston said.

“It’s not enough! I want more! I want it all! Now there’s nothing to stop me from getting it all!”

“Then let us drink to your new Empire,” Winston shouted, trying to emulate Sosa’s crazed enthusiasm. “Let’s toast a new golden age. A new world order.”

“Ah, has the unflappable Geoffrey Winston come to his senses? Is he really beginning to see the light and where his future truly lies?”

“Indeed!” Winston said.

“Well then, let us also toast the end of your servility to the Crown of England, and to the glories of your new life as servant to Serge Sosa, Emperor of the Earth.”

“It’s clear that the future of the world is in your capable hands,” Winston said, cursing Sosa under his breath.

Pleased with Winston’s response, Sosa poured him cognac, and added more to his own glass.

The agent of death had completely dissolved. One gulp was all that stood between Sosa the powerful madman and Sosa the powerless corpse. It’d only take thirty seconds to hurl him into the clutches of eternity.

“Today I drink the finest cognac. Tomorrow, I’ll drink the nectar of the gods as one of their equals.”

“Hear, hear!” Winston shouted, raising his glass.

Sosa swallowed his drink and poured another.

“What’s your next wish?” Winston asked, counting the seconds.

Sosa gagged, his eyes wide with shock. “You bast—!” He reached for the veil in a desperate attempt to save himself.

His hands shook violently, as he tried to grasp a strand. The veil slipped from his fingers when he collapsed.

Winston pressed his fingers against Sosa’s neck. No pulse. He put his ear against Sosa’s chest. No heartbeat. “Burn in hell, you bloody bastard!” he yelled, kicking the corpse in the ribs with all his might.

Scooping several handfuls from each urn, Winston threw the jewels into his suitcase. He picked up the veil, grabbed the first string, and imitated the genie-invoking ritual.

“Genie of the first strand, return the jewels in the crystal urns where you found them.”

“Yes, Master.”

When the gems disappeared, he ordered the genie to whisk him and his suitcase back to his Lisbon apartment. In the blink of an eye, he found himself in his living room. Throwing the veil over a chair, he poured a whiskey. While drinking, he pondered the evening’s bizarre events. They seemed unbelievable, impossible, unreal. But that changed when he glanced at the veil and noticed the first strand had changed to brass.

Winston realized that he was now the owner of the shimmering cloth infested with genies. Realizing he was most powerful man on the planet, a war erupted in his soul: a profound struggle between altruism and self-interest. On one hand he could alter the course of history for the good of mankind. He could order genies to transport Germany’s Hitler to the most impenetrable jungle in the Amazon, Italy’s Mussolini to the middle of Antartica, and Japan’s Emperor to the top of Mount Everest.

On the other hand, why waste valuable wishes for the benefit of mankind, when he could use them to build a fabulous life for himself? What did mankind ever do for him? So what if war came? He’d order the genies to transport him to a place of safety and serenity, a place where he’d be oblivious to the coming cataclysm.

Self-interest got the upper hand. Two days passed without sleep as Winston feverishly wrote endless lists to plan his future. He structured a utopia, a carefully planned Garden of Eden. He’d live on the most beautiful Pacific island on Earth. He’d outfit it with a lifetime of the world’s finest provisions, including French Champagne, American cigarettes, Belgian chocolates, English stout. He’d appropriate the most beautiful mansion in the world, and fill it with the world’s greatest books. He’d staff the mansion with dozens of Europe’s most gracious servants. He’d relocate to his island a hundred of the world’s wittiest, friendliest, and most brilliant English-speaking intellectuals. He’d stock his bedroom with a thousand of the loveliest, most ardent women on Earth.

When he completed his list, Winston decided he’d outdone the Creator of the Cosmos by ensuring no serpents would inhabit the new Eden. By then, he was convinced that he too was a god, the supreme ruler of his own universe.

Physically, mentally, and emotionally drained, he fell asleep. His slumber was disturbed by horrible dreams. He witnessed Sosa burning in Hell, tormented by demons. He found himself struggling mightily against endless legions of German agents. He saw Angel Gabriel standing on top of Mount Ararat, blowing a golden trumpet. The blare unleashed countless genies who descended on Winston’s Eden, destroying it with fire and brimstone. Winston fled in terror. When he turned to look back at the horrible destruction, he was transformed into a pillar of salt.

The nightmare hurled him from bed. Panicked, he ran to a mirror to see if he was covered with salt.

When calmness returned, he realized he’d become as mad as Serge Sosa. Like Sosa, he had been corrupted by the powers that bewitched the veil. He realized the veil was more dangerous to civilization than all of its combined enemies. No wonder Scheherazade never made a wish. She must have known how dangerous the veil’s power truly was.

Nothing with such potential for evil could have possibly been woven by holy angels, he reasoned. It must have emerged from the depths of Gehenna. It must have been conceived by the Serpent, whose minions wove the threads while shrieking blasphemies upon each strand.

Something had to be done about this insidious manifestation of evil. Once again it fell upon Winston to save the world. But this time, cyanide pills were useless. So were all the weapons ever devised. He was dealing with the powers of darkness, an invisible world that could never be destroyed by mankind. But if he couldn’t destroy that intangible world, perhaps he could hinder it from polluting mankind’s affairs.

A plan formed in his mind. He wondered if the entities within the veil could hinder the plan’s execution. Genies could be devilishly clever. He’d have to articulate his wish very carefully. He wondered if the genie, upon hearing the wish, would refuse to comply. Didn’t the papyrus, according to Sosa, indicate they always did? But the papyrus could have been a devious document of half-truths and lies. Or it might have contained some truths merely to advance great untruths.

Grasping the second strand with his thumb and middle finger, he invoked a genie. “Genie of the second strand, bury this veil one hundred miles below the surface of the most inaccessible place in the Sahara Desert.”

“Yes, Master.”

The veil disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke. The pungent odor of sulfur remained in Winston’s apartment for several hours as a stark testimony of the veil’s true origin.

* * *

War came to Europe in September, 1939. During the darkest day of that horrendous six-year conflict, Winston sometimes wished he had the veil so he could dispatch Hitler to an impenetrable jungle, Mussolini to the middle of Antartica, and the Emperor of Japan to the top of Mount Everest. But then he’d recall how the veil’s owner could be transformed into a monster worse than jack-booted brown shirts and banzai-charging fanatics. He’d also remember the nightmare in which he’d been turned into a pillar of salt.

* * *

After the war, Winston traveled to cities where gemstones were sold for exorbitant prices. The proceeds from the diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and sapphires he’d appropriated that night at Sosa’s enabled him to create a lesser, but exceptionally luxurious version of the Eden he’d once so carefully planned.

* * *

Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in ninety-four online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I've been writing fiction only six years. Prior to that, I made my living as a professional writer of self-study textbooks and task-oriented instructional manuals for industry. By switching to fiction, I've found new outlets for my unquenchable urge to write. Frankly what inspires me to keep on going is the fact that I've been able to get an average of 1.7 stories accepted per week for thirty-seven months straight. During that time, my work has been accepted by ninety-four print and online magazines and anthologies in England, Canada, Australia, and US. With that kind of success and continuous reinforcement, the impetus to write even more is quite powerful. If my fortunes were suddenly reversed, and my work was constantly rejected, I'd write anyway. Perhaps it's a compulsion. But it's the one of the most rewarding compulsions anybody could hope for.

A Few Abnormalities

A Few Abnormalities
by Michael A. Kechula

“Did you say you’re a Pacific mermaid?”

“Yes,” said the faint female voice on the phone.

“And I’m Spiderman,” Tom said. “I swear, you telemarketers will say anything to con people into buying something.”

“Telemarketers? I don’t know that word.”

“Then why’d you call me?”

“To hear your voice.”

“My voice? Who is this?” he asked.

“Shantakumari. I know you don’t remember me. It was so long ago that I held you in my arms during that awful night when you were so terribly delirious. I gave you warmth, tenderness.” Her voice broke. “And I gave you all the love within my being.”

“Listen, Shanta—uh—what’s your last name?”

“I have only one name…Shantakumari.”

“Whatever. I really appreciate the things you say you did for me. There’s no reason to cry. Would you do something for me right now?”

“Yes. Anything.”

“Hang up, then call 911. Can you remember that?”

“But I do not wish to speak to others,” she said. “I swam thousands of miles across the ocean to talk to you.”

“Well, we can talk later. But right now, I want you to call my friends at 911. Tell them exactly what you just told me. They’ll be so happy to hear from you. I’m going to hang up now. Have a nice evening.”

“Wait, Tom. Please tell me how to find where you live. I need to see you so badly.”

“How do you know my name?”

“Your name will be upon my lips until the moment I die.”

“Look, lady. I don’t know who you are, or what you really want. If you ever want to talk to me again, you better call my friends at 911.”

Hanging up before she could utter another word, Tom felt a tinge of sorrow for the deluded woman. He wondered what had pulverized her psyche and pushed her over the edge.

The phone woke Tom early the next morning.

“Mr. Tom Downs? This is Doctor Augustus Latimer. I’m with the University of California. I’m head of the Department of Oceanic Research. I understand you know a very unusual female named Shantakumari.”

“Oh, that dingbat. I never heard of her before last night. She called and said some very strange things. She seems to think she’s a mermaid. I figured she was having a major breakdown, or forgot to take her meds. So I told her to call 911. I figured if she told them what she told me, they’d send some guys with butterfly nets. Did she screw up and accidentally dial your number?”

“No. She did exactly what you told her. The 911 operator sent an ambulance to pick her up at the estuary in Long Beach. They took her to the university hospital. After a team of doctors examined her, the hospital contacted me. Mr. Downs, do you realize you’ve initiated a sequence of events that could get you a Nobel Prize?”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“I’d stake my scientific reputation on it. Can you meet me for lunch today at the faculty dining room to discuss this?”

Tom agreed.

During lunch, Latimer said, “Shantakumari is under observation and tight security at the university hospital. She tells quite a fascinating tale that involves you. She claims you two spent time together on Tuvalu, a Pacific island. She insists it happened fifty years ago, in 1943.”

“That’s baloney. I was never there, and neither was any other American. Tuvalu was a heavily fortified island held by the Japanese. What would I be doing on an enemy-controlled island? I was a pilot, not a foot soldier.”

“Yes, we learned that from the FBI. They e-mailed excerpts from your military records to our security department. We know while ferrying a fighter plane from Hawaii to New Guinea, your plane was hit by enemy flak. You crashed in the Pacific, and were declared missing in action. Sixty-seven days later, you showed up at an American Army base in New Guinea. Several hundred miles from where you crashed.”

“I remember when Japanese antiaircraft guns shot out my controls,” Tom said. “My plane caught fire, spun out of control, and went into a steep dive. Everything went black. The next thing I knew, I was in an Army hospital on New Guinea. Nobody ever found out how I got there.”

“Shantakumari told us she saw your plane plunge into the Pacific,” Latimer said. “She dove in. Pulled you out of the cockpit. Took you to Tuvalu. Hid you in the jungle so the Japanese couldn’t find you. She fed you things she scrounged from sunken warships. Nursed you back to health. You were together about sixty-seven days. Then she brought you to the Army base at New Guinea and slipped away before anybody spotted her.”

“She sure has one hell of a wild imagination.”

“Maybe so. But she has proof. She has your Army Air Force identification card and dog tags. Plus your flight plan and aeronautical charts. She’s had them since 1943.”

“Have you seen them?” Tom asked.

“Yes, I have.”

“This is hard to believe. How come I don’t remember any of this?”

“She claims she gave you a kelp potion to make you forget,” Latimer said. “She wasn’t sure if you could adjust to her culture. So, she took you to New Guinea, then disappeared. She said she’s been heartbroken ever since. Go see her. She really needs you.”

“Needs me? I’m seventy years old. Been divorced twice. I don’t want any women in my life. Especially one with mental problems.”

“She’s not mentally ill. She has some abnormalities, but not when it comes to her mind. We’ve tested her IQ. It’s off the charts. Her knowledge of Pacific marine life and vegetation are so incredible, we’ve offered her a job on our research staff. I think you’re extremely lucky that she’s come back to you. Do you realize how far she’s traveled to find you?”

“Tell her to go back.”

“Be reasonable,” Latimer said. “Go see her.”

“To do what? Talk about the good old days—a time of my life that’s completely blank? Frankly, I think she’s a con artist. I’m not sure what she really wants. Maybe she’s after my social security check.”

“Perhaps you’ll feel differently when I tell you about the birth mark she described to us. The one that’s way up inside your thigh. Would you like me to describe it?”

“Go ahead,” Tom said.

When Latimer accurately detailed that which only Tom’s parents and wives had ever seen, he figured something very spooky was going on. He decided to accompany Latimer to the hospital and confront Shanta-whoever.

When he went into the private room, she was lying under a sheet.

“Is that her?”

Latimer nodded.

“But she looks like she’s only eleven or twelve. What the hell’s going on?”

“My love,” she called. “It has been so long. Come…touch me.” Smiling, she lowered the sheet, exposing her naked body.

“Oh my God!” Tom yelled.

The next thing he knew, security guards were helping him from the floor.

“I swear by all that’s holy---I don’t know who this child is, nor have I ever done anything to her. I don’t care what she says.”

“I have not been a child for two-hundred years,” she said, spreading her arms for an embrace.

All his instincts screamed TABOO! Yet, he found himself unable to resist.

The touch of her briny lips jolted him. Suddenly, his head filled with images of Tuvalu’s dense, steamy jungle. And how tenderly she had held him, hand-fed him, sang siren melodies to him.

“I remember loving you madly,” Tom whispered.

“As you shall again,” she said, placing his hand on her stomach.

He felt something squirming, kicking. He raised both fists to smash whatever it was.

Guards restrained him. A needle slammed into his arm.

As everything grew dim, Latimer said, “Your implantation is a magnificent, biological breakthrough. You’ll surely win a Nobel Prize. Think of the millions you’ll make from books, lectures, movie contracts.”

Tom awakened to thunderous applause and hundreds of camera clicks.

“The President of the United States is on the phone,” Latimer said, passing his cell phone.

“Congratulations, Mr. Downs!” said the President. “America’s proud of you. We’d love to have you and your lovely family for dinner at the White House. Just between us, how does it feel to be seventy and father of a hundred and fifty?”

* * *

Michael A. Kechula is a retired tech writer. His fiction has won first place in seven contests and second and third place in four others. He's also won Editor’s Choice awards four times. His stories have been published by 106 magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at Books for a Buck and Fiction Wise. Paperback available at Amazon.com.

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I've been writing fiction only six years. Prior to that, I made my living as a professional writer of self-study textbooks and task-oriented instructional manuals for industry. By switching to fiction, I've found new outlets for my unquenchable urge to write. Frankly what inspires me to keep on going is the fact that I've been able to get an average of 1.7 stories accepted per week for thirty-seven months straight. During that time, my work has been accepted by ninety-four print and online magazines and anthologies in England, Canada, Australia, and US. With that kind of success and continuous reinforcement, the impetus to write even more is quite powerful. If my fortunes were suddenly reversed, and my work was constantly rejected, I'd write anyway. Perhaps it's a compulsion. But it's the o ne of the most rewarding compulsions anybody could hope for.

The Chintzy Carpet

The Chintzy Carpet
by Michael A. Kechula

One evening in the year 1938, as Winston was stuffing a dead German spy into a Lisbon back alley garbage can, a Portuguese barmaid stepped outside for fresh air. She screamed and ran back into the bar before he could shoot her with his silenced pistol. After hearing his report, the British station chief ordered Winston to disappear in the Casbah of Tangiers until things cooled down

Winston hurried to the Lisbon Aerodrome to catch the night flight to Tangiers. While waiting for the eight-passenger, Ford Tri-motor airplane to depart, he decided to pass the time in the small, terminal cafe. The moment he entered, he scanned the room to see if any of the several dozen patrons were German agents. None of the faces matched any he’d memorized from dossier photos.

After downing two scotches, Winston was approached by an Arab wearing a business suit.

“Begging your pardon, Sir. You are English, no?”

“Yes, I’m English,” Winston sniffed, while checked to see if anyone was looking his way.

“Permit me to introduce myself. I am Abu Yacob Ben Wadi, recently of Cairo. Now, sadly, a resident of Lisbon.”

“Harry Ingram, London Times.”

Appearing nervous, the Arab wiped perspiration from his forehead with a grimy handkerchief. “If I may get directly to the point. Due to a slight misunderstanding, the police have confiscated my passport. Thus, I cannot leave Lisbon. But, I must get something to my son in Tangiers. You are going there, no?”

“Possibly.”

“If so, perhaps you will deliver a parcel to my son. I am willing to give you this magnificent, two-carat ruby ring for your kind assistance. See how it catches the light?”

“A ruby to deliver a parcel? No thanks. I’m not interested in carrying contraband across any border. Not for a ruby ring, or all the gold in the Bank of England.”

“You misunderstand, Sir,” Ben Wadi said, wiping his forehead again. “Not contraband. A family heirloom. A small carpet.”

“The post office offers reliable service. Certainly, they’d welcome your business, and charge far less than the price of a ruby ring.”

“I do not trust the mail. This is worth far more than you can imagine. Let me show you.” The Arab opened a case and removed a thin, chintzy carpet the size of a bath towel.

Winston had seen similar junk in bazaars all across North Africa. Why was delivering something so cheap and common worth a ruby ring? But those were strange times. Jews were giving fortunes for train rides to flee Nazi-held territories. And now Arabs were giving rubies for carpet deliveries.

“I will not withhold the truth,” Ben Wadi said. This is a very unusual carpet. If one says, ‘rise carpet,’ it obeys. When one climbs onto the carpet and says ‘go carpet,’ he is taken anywhere in the world, in seconds.”

“Perhaps you should use it to leave Lisbon and visit your son.”

“I cannot. One is allowed to ride only thrice in a lifetime. Alas, I’ve used all three. But my son can use it for transport to South America. War is near. Europe, Asia, and Africa will not be safe. But the great ocean will keep South America safe. There, he will prosper. Here he will die. Please sir, take this carpet to him. Allah will bless you.”

“How do you know I won’t steal your carpet?”

“Allah would frown on such a monstrous sin, and send a thousand djinn to punish you severely.”

This man’s a loon. On the other hand, if I agree to deliver his crummy carpet, I’ll be the new owner of that expensive-looking ring.

Winston asked for the son’s address, took the ring and carpet, and boarded the plane.

The next morning, he put the carpet in a satchel and caught a cab. When he arrived at the blighted apartment building near the waterfront, he found the young Arab’s quarters empty. Neighbors said he’d moved a week ago. Nobody knew where. Winston shrugged and headed back to his seedy hotel room in the heart of the Casbah.

That evening, while puffing an after dinner cigar in a shabby café, Winston felt eyes penetrating his back.

Turning, he saw an androgynous face of indeterminate nationality sitting with three thuggish-looking brutes.

“Mister Ingram. Are you enjoying Tangiers?” a voice purred in an accent he couldn’t place.

“I don't believe I’ve had the pleasure—”

“Do not play games. I know what you have. I want it.”

Winston chuckled. “You’ve mistaken me for someone else, Miss, uh, Sir. My name is Archibald Palmer. I have nothing of value, except my collection of African locusts, which is not for sale.”

When the scowling goons reached inside their jacket pockets. Winston raced for the door. Jumping into a taxi, he headed for the Casbah. Certain they were following him, he switched cabs three times and gave drivers large tips for driving at breakneck speed through Tangiers’ narrow streets. When he was certain his evasive tactics had worked, he returned to his hotel.

After a hot shower, he listened to BBC news on a battered radio. Prime Minister Chamberlain had just returned from Berlin. “Peace in our time,” he told applauding masses after signing a peace treaty with Hitler.

Winston scoffed. He’d read highly secret intelligence reports about Hitler’s global ambitions. He’d also read Winston Churchill’s speeches in the London Times, that warned against British complacency and appeasement policies. He agreed with Churchill that another European war was looming. He figured once it began, there'd be no safe haven for anyone in Europe, or Africa—especially intelligence agents. He knew that once war was declared, his life expectancy would be reduced to zero.

I’m getting too old for this, he murmured. The last war was horrible enough. If our intelligence is correct, Hitler’s planning a war that’ll make the last one seem like a bloody Boy Scout picnic.

He found himself wishing he were on the other side of the world on one of Tahiti’s majestic beaches. Gentle Pacific breezes. Lovely Polynesian maidens. Peace and quiet. No Germans. No war. No espionage—ever again.

Someone knocked softly. “Mr. Ingram,” said the voice from the café, “we have a business proposition.”

Dammit! How the hell did they find me?

Grabbing a pistol, he pressed against a wall near the door. “I told you my locust collection is not for sale.”

“Locusts do not interest us. We want the carpet. Just open the door slightly, pass it through, and you won’t be harmed.”

“What bloody carpet?”

“The one the Arab gave you. Before we killed him. The carpet that flies.”

Who are they trying to kid? Something must be sewn inside that thing. Maybe it’s filled with diamonds. Maybe Ben Wadi’s a jewel thief, or deals in stolen gems. Why else would they threaten me over a chintzy carpet? “How much are you willing to pay?”

“We’re not buying. We wish to trade. In trade for the carpet, we’ll spare your life.”

He wondered about the odds of a shoot-out. Even if he survived, he risked arrest, interrogation, identification. All hell would break loose among the twenty nations who jointly administered Tangiers, if they discovered his true occupation. They’d probably label him a dangerous provocateur, and charge him with instigating a destabilizing, international incident. If they didn’t hang him, he’d rot in a stinking North African prison.

“I don’t have the carpet,” he called.

When they began to pick the lock, Winston felt panic rising. There was no way out, except through the window. But lack of a fire escape meant a four storey fall.
He figured he only had seconds left before they’d charge into his room. His mind raced. Then he remembered what the Arab said in the café about the carpet’s magical properties. Desperate, Winston threw the carpet on the floor and shouted, “Get me the hell out of here!”

Nothing happened.

Dammit. What are the right words? He visualized the scene with the Arab and remembered Ben Wadi had used the words, “Rise carpet.”

The moment Winston said those words, the carpet levitated a few feet. Amazed, he grabbed his valise, climbed aboard, and yelled, “Go carpet!”

Instantly, Winston was hurled through the windowpane.

Seconds later, the door burst open.

While goons searched the hotel room, an Englishman rolled up a carpet and tucked it under his arm. Whistling “Rule Britannia,” he strolled among coconut palms along a peaceful, moonlit beach.

* * *

Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in ninety-four online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored a book of flash and micro-fiction stories: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales.” eBook available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com Paperback available at www.amazon.com

What inspires you to write and keep writing?

I've been writing fiction only six years. Prior to that, I made my living as a professional writer of self-study textbooks and task-oriented instructional manuals for industry. By switching to fiction, I've found new outlets for my unquenchable urge to write. Frankly what inspires me to keep on going is the fact that I've been able to get an average of 1.7 stories accepted per week for thirty-seven months straight. During that time, my work has been accepted by ninety-four print and online magazines and anthologies in England, Canada, Australia, and US. With that kind of success and continuous reinforcement, the impetus to write even more is quite powerful. If my fortunes were suddenly reversed, and my work was constantly rejected, I'd write anyway. Perhaps it's a compulsion. But it's the o ne of the most rewarding compulsions anybody could hope for.