A Chunk Of Concrete

A Chunk Of Concrete
By: Michael A. Kechula
From dusk to dawn, Harry Burns rode the New York subway seeking foul things that prowled the night. Ruthless things that lived only to kill. His orders were clear: assassinate the bastards the instant he spotted them. His tension mounted when intelligence reports said they could show up any moment. On the subway train to Coney Island, Harry spotted a grubby teenager walking toward the beautiful woman sitting a few feet away. Gripping the pistol under his coat, Harry quickly moved in front of her. As the teen approached, he checked the kid’s forehead. “Look for bluish tinted skin on their foreheads,” the Director had said, “and staples near their hairline.” The teen drew nearer. No blue tinge on his forehead. Lucky for him. Harry relaxed his grip on the pistol. He waited for the next person to head toward the woman who had no idea a highly trained assassin was protecting her. Surveilling the nearly empty subway car, he spotted a placard advertising a technical school. Reminded him of the day he graduated from Internal Security Assassin School. The day the Director came to the podium, told a couple stale sniper jokes, then told students something beyond belief… “Ten weeks ago, you were selected for training not only for your outstanding marksmanship, but also for your faces. You all look like Joe Nobody. Be glad you’re nondescript. For reasons we still don’t understand, your quarry seeks only those who are good looking. And when it finds them, it kills instantly and dispassionately.” “Why only beautiful people?” somebody asked. “We don’t know. Only one has been captured so far. It’s being studied by every intelligence agency on the planet. Gentlemen, what you will face in this assignment is unlike anything ever encountered. For lack of a better name, we call them concrete zombies.” The audience chuckled. “I’m about to show you a top secret film provided by the French government. It shows an autopsy of what appears to be a human cadaver. The human-like thing was killed by a gendarme in Paris, moments after it murdered the most beautiful actress in France.” A movie screen came to life. “Here’s a close up of its head. Notice the bullet hole in the forehead. That’s the result of a 9mm pistol fired at close range.” A low murmur arose when the camera focused on the back of the cadaver’s head. “The entire back of its skull should be gone,” said the Director. “But it’s perfectly intact. The bullet penetrated the forehead, hit something inside, ricocheted, then wounded a bystander. Now watch closely. Here’s where the French medical examiner opened the thing’s skull.” “What’s that chunk of white stuff inside his skull?” Harry asked. “Concrete.” “What happened to its brains?” “We don’t know. The only thing they found inside the thing’s skull was a chunk of concrete. Surprisingly, there are no signs of the skull ever being previously opened. The thing was either born that way, or its brains were scooped out through its ears or nostrils. Then concrete was poured in. Of course, it might never have been born. It may be a synthetic entity created for one purpose: to kill every beautiful person on Earth.” The room was silent as students watched the doctor whack the concrete with a hammer. A piece broke off. “What’s that inside the concrete?” somebody asked. “Chicken wire.” “This must be a gag,” said the guy next to Harry. “I wish it was,” said the Director. “Unfortunately, this may be the biggest threat the world has ever faced. This thing has no brains, and yet it walked the streets of Paris. What’s more, it pulled out a long, collapsible knife from its pocket and swung so hard, the victim’s head landed ten feet from her body. What a waste of a beautiful woman. Now here’s the really sick part. The zombie grabbed her head by the ears, and set the severed neck over its lips. Damn thing drank whatever blood was inside. Then, it jammed its hand through 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.” Somebody in the audience threw up. After the sounds of regurgitation dissipated, the Director said, “To save time, I’m going to fast forward to the part where the doctor removed the block of concrete from the zombie’s skull.” When the block was removed, somebody said, “I see a thin blue wire running from the concrete.” “Good observation. It runs from the block to the zombie’s heart. Let me restate that. The wire is connected to the thing’s chest at the point where we’d normally find a heart. As you see, there is no heart. All the doctor found was a metal box.” “How is the wire attached from the concrete to the metal box?” Harry asked. “Duct tape. Similar to the kind found in hardware stores. That alone has the intel guys scratching their heads. Here comes the part where they open the box.” The doctor removed four screws, then pulled off the cover. Inside was a jumble of multicolored wires. “Everything about this zombie is being scrutinized around the globe,” the Director said. “The Japanese have assigned a thousand top notch people to see if they can reverse engineer this thing. The Russians are bombarding the concrete fragments with infrared, radar, and sonar waves. China is testing the colored wires. The Haitian Zombie Institute is trying to determine where they came from, and if there are other ways to eliminate them. Gentlemen, this is your target. Over the past ten weeks, you were trained for one purpose: to kill concrete zombies the moment they show up in New York City.” “How will we know when they arrive?” “Unfortunately, we’ll have to find out the hard way, like the French did. Somebody who’s good-looking will get decapitated--unless you’re right there and can kill the thing before it acts. The Parisian zombie decapitated the actress in full view of bystanders. It didn’t seem to care how many witnesses were there. That kind of psyche makes it particularly dangerous.” “How many are there?” somebody asked. “Nobody knows. Could be a dozen or a million.” A soldier rushed into the auditorium, and handed the Director an orange striped envelope. Orange stripes meant cosmic top secret. The Director’s face dropped when he read the contents. “Well, gentlemen, they’ve struck again. This time in London. A male model was decapitated in front of thirty witnesses. Some retaliated by attacking the killer while it was eating the contents of the victim’s head. But it got away. The attackers were lucky they were all ordinary looking. Otherwise, there would’ve been a string of headless bodies littering the street. Says here the thing’s still at large. The British government has declared a state of emergency. As a cover, the public was told terrorists were planning a suicide attack. They’ve imposed a curfew beginning at sundown. Well, if the bastards are in London, we’re probably next.” The room buzzed with excitement. “What kind of weapons will we carry?” somebody asked. “The 9mm pistols you trained with. Here’s how we’re going to handle surveillance. We’ll split you into three groups. Group One will walk the streets around the Theater District in Midtown Manhattan and cafes in Greenwich Village. Group Two will ride buses. Group Three will ride the subways. In a few minutes, we’ll split you into groups, issue weapons, and give you all the information for your areas of operation. Your hours will be from dusk to dawn. Fortunately, they seek their prey only at night.” “How are we supposed to recognize them?” “When you get close, you’ll see a strip of extra skin on their foreheads. It has a slight bluish tint and is stapled to their skulls near the hairline. The staples are more difficult to notice, because they match skin and hair color. British Intelligence tells us they’re made from an unusual combination of rare metals. Their whiz kids are trying to develop palm-sized metal detectors. They say they’ll be able to detect staples up to thirty feet away. But those gadgets won’t be available for weeks. Until we get them, you’ll have to get physically close to lots of people to check their foreheads. So, be creative. Bump into people. Ask for a cigarette or the time.” “Do you want us to capture one?” “No. The moment you spot one, kill it instantly. All of you were previously Marine snipers. What’s Rule Number One for Marine Corps snipers?” “One shot, one kill,” they yelled. “That’s what you must do. One shot right through the middle of the forehead. That’s what it takes to kill these things. But that could change. Some CIA analysts think the zombie killed in France was a merely a prototype. Whoever is infiltrating these things is probably working on more advanced models.” “Probably with non-reflective, stealth staples and foam peanuts for brains,” somebody quipped. After the laughing stopped, the Director continued. “OK, you know what you have to do. Be extremely careful. We don’t want any civilians hurt. If you see somebody good looking, move real close to him or her, and keep your eyes open. If those zombies are around, they’ll spot the good lookers and go into action. And when they do, blast the bastards to kingdom come. All right, Zombie Killers, let’s hear it one more time. What happens when you draw your pistols?” “One shot, one kill,” they shouted. “One last thing,” the Director said. “The City of New York is offering a reward to the person who kills the first one. Twenty thousand cash and a month’s all-expense paid vacation to the place of your choice.” “Where would you go?” asked the guy sitting next to Harry. “Tahiti,” Harry said, thinking of magnificent beaches, warm tropical breezes, and gorgeous Polynesian women. Harry’s memories of graduation day slid away when the subway car reached Coney Island. Midnight. He looked at all who boarded. A guy on crutches. A skinhead. A pretty teenage girl who should have been home in bed. According to operating procedures, he moved toward the sweet-looking teenager, because she was the most likely target. As he got closer, he saw a face so lovely, his stomach fluttered. Maybe I’m gonna save your life tonight, Honey, he thought, taking a seat a few feet from hers. Maybe you’re my ticket to a month in Tahiti, plus twenty thousand smackers. Too bad you’re too young to come along. You have no idea what could happen to you at any moment. Well don’t worry, Sweetie. I’m here to make sure that big chest of yours continues to strain against your sweater every time you breathe. Harry caught the skinhead staring at her. Gripping his pistol, he walked toward the guy, ready to draw and fire instantly. “What time is it,” Harry asked, glancing at the skinhead’s forehead. Fortunately, it was normal. The drudgery of routine set in after four weeks of high tension and continuous surveillance. Metal detectors still hadn’t arrived from British Intelligence to ease the identification burden. “Don’t get complacent,” Harry’s supervisor advised at the nightly briefing. “It’s easy to get bored and mesmerized by the sound of train wheels in the wee hours. But, the moment you drop your guard, the worst may happen. Keep focused. Concentrate. Take amphetamines. We just learned another zombie was killed in Montreal, after it decapitated a beautiful, blonde housewife. They’re getting closer. Stay on your toes.” Keep on my toes. Yeah, sure. It’s not easy to stay wired one hundred percent of the time. “Captain,” Harry said. “Maybe we’re doing this all wrong. What if you teamed us with models?” “That’d cost a fortune. The insurance alone would be astronomical. Plus, bringing civilians aboard might be difficult to manage. Think of the potential legal exposures.” “Then what about this idea: suppose we go to a theatrical shop and get some of those true-to-life masks? The kind society folks rent for highfalutin charity balls. The ones that make people look like George Clooney and Julia Roberts. Wouldn’t that increase our chances of attracting the monsters?” “You may be right,” he said. “But you know how the brass is. Once they make up their minds, it takes an act of God to change anything. This zombie scare is one helluva hot political football. There’s a lot of jockeying going on behind the scenes. This situation can make political futures. Are you sure you want to put yourself out on a limb?” “Yeah,” Harry said. “Screw political futures. We’re talking national security here. I think anything that might work oughta be tried. I’m willing to give it a shot and let the chips fall where they may.” “Tell you what, Harry. Write a report. Make a dozen copies. Explain exactly how your idea would work. I’ll endorse it and send it to my boss.” Harry wrote the report. It went nowhere. To hell with approved procedures! I’ll get a mask to make me look like a movie star. If I’m lucky enough to spot a zombie, I’ll put the mask on and draw it toward me. One shot, and I’ll collect twenty thousand and head for Tahiti. A week later at 1:00 AM, nobody was on the train to Coney Island. Gave Harry a chance to flop into one of the seats and relax. Two stops later, three gorgeous women boarded. Tipsy and loud, they filled the car with their presence. Although concrete zombies had appeared only as males, Harry couldn’t be certain if any would imitate females. He headed for the women to check their foreheads. All was well. The moment Harry moved away, the blonde one approached. “We just made a bet,” she said. “My friends think you’re a cop. I say no. I think you’re a college professor. So, which is it?” “Neither. I’m a stock broker.” “I’ll make a deal with you. If you say you’re a college professor so I can win the bet, I’ll let you come home with me.” “Look, Lady. I’m busy. I don’t have time to screw around with women.” That was the wrong thing to say. Before Harry knew it, the drunken women swarmed him. They messed his hair, rubbed themselves against him, and grabbed his rump while making bawdy comments. He got so aroused he didn’t know how he stopped himself from doing one of them right on the floor. The sudden deceleration of the train as it approached a station threw them off balance. Harry pulled away and hurried to the next car. Bad move. He had to rush back the moment he saw a man boarding the car he’d just left. In seconds, the blonde’s decapitated head went flying through the air. Harry lost his balance trying to get to the monster’s car, when the train lurched forward. A second decapitated head flew down the aisle the moment he entered. Harry couldn’t shoot the thing, because its forehead was turned away. Pulling out a Marilyn Monroe mask, Harry slipped it on and hollered, “Look over here! I’m more beautiful than anybody!” The zombie stopped, looked Harry’s way, then charged. “One shot, one kill,” Harry yelled, pulling the trigger. The zombie fell at Harry’s feet, but not before his knife slashed Harry’s chest. Bleeding profusely, Harry grabbed his cell phone and yelled, “This is Harry Burns! I just killed a concrete zombie!” Three other zombies were killed that night, but Harry’s was the first. A grateful mayor paid the twenty thousand reward, and sent Harry to Tahiti for a month. The island far exceeded his wildest daydreams. Though he was plain looking, a stunning Polynesian woman latched on to him right after his arrival. They stayed in a tourist hut on the beach. That wondrous woman breathed life into him. During the last week of his vacation, he proposed. Harry decided to resign from his assassin job and never live in a city again. With all the crime, traffic, pollution, and now concrete zombies, it didn’t pay. He explained his concerns to his fiancé. She said it didn’t matter where they went, she’d follow him to the ends of the Earth. She promised everlasting love, as they lay nude on the beach and made plans. Harry closed his eyes when she leaned over to kiss him. He opened his eyes to look into hers—the very moment her severed head flew into the ocean.

By: Michael A. Kechula

        From dusk to dawn, Harry Burns rode the New York subway seeking foul things that prowled the night. Ruthless things that lived only to kill. His orders were clear: assassinate the bastards the instant he spotted them.

        His tension mounted when intelligence reports said they could show up any moment.

        On the subway train to Coney Island, Harry spotted a grubby teenager walking toward the beautiful woman sitting a few feet away. Gripping the pistol under his coat, Harry quickly moved in front of her. As the teen approached, he checked the kid’s forehead.

        “Look for bluish tinted skin on their foreheads,” the Director had said, “and staples near their hairline.”

        The teen drew nearer. No blue tinge on his forehead. Lucky for him. Harry relaxed his grip on the pistol. He waited for the next person to head toward the woman who had no idea a highly trained assassin was protecting her.

        Surveilling the nearly empty subway car, he spotted a placard advertising a technical school. Reminded him of the day he graduated from Internal Security Assassin School. The day the Director came to the podium, told a couple stale sniper jokes, then told students something beyond belief…

        “Ten weeks ago, you were selected for training not only for your outstanding marksmanship, but also for your faces. You all look like Joe Nobody. Be glad you’re nondescript. For reasons we still don’t understand, your quarry seeks only those who are good looking. And when it finds them, it kills instantly and dispassionately.”

        “Why only beautiful people?” somebody asked.

        “We don’t know. Only one has been captured so far. It’s being studied by every intelligence agency on the planet. Gentlemen, what you will face in this assignment is unlike anything ever encountered. For lack of a better name, we call them concrete zombies.”

        The audience chuckled.

        “I’m about to show you a top secret film provided by the French government. It shows an autopsy of what appears to be a human cadaver. The human-like thing was killed by a gendarme in Paris, moments after it murdered the most beautiful actress in France.”

        A movie screen came to life. “Here’s a close up of its head. Notice the bullet hole in the forehead. That’s the result of a 9mm pistol fired at close range.”

        A low murmur arose when the camera focused on the back of the cadaver’s head.

        “The entire back of its skull should be gone,” said the Director. “But it’s perfectly intact. The bullet penetrated the forehead, hit something inside, ricocheted, then wounded a bystander. Now watch closely. Here’s where the French medical examiner opened the thing’s skull.”

        “What’s that chunk of white stuff inside his skull?” Harry asked.

        “Concrete.”

        “What happened to its brains?”

        “We don’t know. The only thing they found inside the thing’s skull was a chunk of concrete. Surprisingly, there are no signs of the skull ever being previously opened. The thing was either born that way, or its brains were scooped out through its ears or nostrils. Then concrete was poured in. Of course, it might never have been born. It may be a synthetic entity created for one purpose: to kill every beautiful person on Earth.”

        The room was silent as students watched the doctor whack the concrete with a hammer. A piece broke off.

        “What’s that inside the concrete?” somebody asked.

        “Chicken wire.”

        “This must be a gag,” said the guy next to Harry.

        “I wish it was,” said the Director. “Unfortunately, this may be the biggest threat the world has ever faced. This thing has no brains, and yet it walked the streets of Paris. What’s more, it pulled out a long, collapsible knife from its pocket and swung so hard, the victim’s head landed ten feet from her body. What a waste of a beautiful woman. Now here’s the really sick part. The zombie grabbed her head by the ears, and set the severed neck over its lips. Damn thing drank whatever blood was inside. Then, it jammed its hand through 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.”

        Somebody in the audience threw up.

        After the sounds of regurgitation dissipated, the Director said, “To save time, I’m going to fast forward to the part where the doctor removed the block of concrete from the zombie’s skull.”

        When the block was removed, somebody said, “I see a thin blue wire running from the concrete.”

        “Good observation. It runs from the block to the zombie’s heart. Let me restate that. The wire is connected to the thing’s chest at the point where we’d normally find a heart. As you see, there is no heart. All the doctor found was a metal box.”

        “How is the wire attached from the concrete to the metal box?” Harry asked.

        “Duct tape. Similar to the kind found in hardware stores. That alone has the intel guys scratching their heads. Here comes the part where they open the box.”

        The doctor removed four screws, then pulled off the cover. Inside was a jumble of multicolored wires.

        “Everything about this zombie is being scrutinized around the globe,” the Director said. “The Japanese have assigned a thousand top notch people to see if they can reverse engineer this thing. The Russians are bombarding the concrete fragments with infrared, radar, and sonar waves. China is testing the colored wires. The Haitian Zombie Institute is trying to determine where they came from, and if there are other ways to eliminate them. Gentlemen, this is your target. Over the past ten weeks, you were trained for one purpose: to kill concrete zombies the moment they show up in New York City.”

        “How will we know when they arrive?”

        “Unfortunately, we’ll have to find out the hard way, like the French did. Somebody who’s good-looking will get decapitated--unless you’re right there and can kill the thing before it acts. The Parisian zombie decapitated the actress in full view of bystanders. It didn’t seem to care how many witnesses were there. That kind of psyche makes it particularly dangerous.”

        “How many are there?” somebody asked.

        “Nobody knows. Could be a dozen or a million.”

        A soldier rushed into the auditorium, and handed the Director an orange striped envelope. Orange stripes meant cosmic top secret.

        The Director’s face dropped when he read the contents. “Well, gentlemen, they’ve struck again. This time in London. A male model was decapitated in front of thirty witnesses. Some retaliated by attacking the killer while it was eating the contents of the victim’s head. But it got away. The attackers were lucky they were all ordinary looking. Otherwise, there would’ve been a string of headless bodies littering the street. Says here the thing’s still at large. The British government has declared a state of emergency. As a cover, the public was told terrorists were planning a suicide attack. They’ve imposed a curfew beginning at sundown. Well, if the bastards are in London, we’re probably next.”

        The room buzzed with excitement.

        “What kind of weapons will we carry?” somebody asked.

        “The 9mm pistols you trained with. Here’s how we’re going to handle surveillance. We’ll split you into three groups. Group One will walk the streets around the Theater District in Midtown Manhattan and cafes in Greenwich Village. Group Two will ride buses. Group Three will ride the subways. In a few minutes, we’ll split you into groups, issue weapons, and give you all the information for your areas of operation. Your hours will be from dusk to dawn. Fortunately, they seek their prey only at night.”

        “How are we supposed to recognize them?”

        “When you get close, you’ll see a strip of extra skin on their foreheads. It has a slight bluish tint and is stapled to their skulls near the hairline. The staples are more difficult to notice, because they match skin and hair color. British Intelligence tells us they’re made from an unusual combination of rare metals. Their whiz kids are trying to develop palm-sized metal detectors. They say they’ll be able to detect staples up to thirty feet away. But those gadgets won’t be available for weeks. Until we get them, you’ll have to get physically close to lots of people to check their foreheads. So, be creative. Bump into people. Ask for a cigarette or the time.”

        “Do you want us to capture one?”

        “No. The moment you spot one, kill it instantly. All of you were previously Marine snipers. What’s Rule Number One for Marine Corps snipers?”

        “One shot, one kill,” they yelled.

        “That’s what you must do. One shot right through the middle of the forehead. That’s what it takes to kill these things. But that could change. Some CIA analysts think the zombie killed in France was a merely a prototype. Whoever is infiltrating these things is probably working on more advanced models.”

        “Probably with non-reflective, stealth staples and foam peanuts for brains,” somebody quipped.

        After the laughing stopped, the Director continued. “OK, you know what you have to do. Be extremely careful. We don’t want any civilians hurt. If you see somebody good looking, move real close to him or her, and keep your eyes open. If those zombies are around, they’ll spot the good lookers and go into action. And when they do, blast the bastards to kingdom come. All right, Zombie Killers, let’s hear it one more time. What happens when you draw your pistols?”

        “One shot, one kill,” they shouted.

        “One last thing,” the Director said. “The City of New York is offering a reward to the person who kills the first one. Twenty thousand cash and a month’s all-expense paid vacation to the place of your choice.”

        “Where would you go?” asked the guy sitting next to Harry.

        “Tahiti,” Harry said, thinking of magnificent beaches, warm tropical breezes, and gorgeous Polynesian women.

        Harry’s memories of graduation day slid away when the subway car reached Coney Island. Midnight. He looked at all who boarded. A guy on crutches. A skinhead. A pretty teenage girl who should have been home in bed. According to operating procedures, he moved toward the sweet-looking teenager, because she was the most likely target. As he got closer, he saw a face so lovely, his stomach fluttered.

        Maybe I’m gonna save your life tonight, Honey, he thought, taking a seat a few feet from hers. Maybe you’re my ticket to a month in Tahiti, plus twenty thousand smackers. Too bad you’re too young to come along. You have no idea what could happen to you at any moment. Well don’t worry, Sweetie. I’m here to make sure that big chest of yours continues to strain against your sweater every time you breathe.

        Harry caught the skinhead staring at her. Gripping his pistol, he walked toward the guy, ready to draw and fire instantly. “What time is it,” Harry asked, glancing at the skinhead’s forehead. Fortunately, it was normal.

        The drudgery of routine set in after four weeks of high tension and continuous surveillance. Metal detectors still hadn’t arrived from British Intelligence to ease the identification burden.

        “Don’t get complacent,” Harry’s supervisor advised at the nightly briefing. “It’s easy to get bored and mesmerized by the sound of train wheels in the wee hours. But, the moment you drop your guard, the worst may happen. Keep focused. Concentrate. Take amphetamines. We just learned another zombie was killed in Montreal, after it decapitated a beautiful, blonde housewife. They’re getting closer. Stay on your toes.”

        Keep on my toes. Yeah, sure. It’s not easy to stay wired one hundred percent of the time.

        “Captain,” Harry said. “Maybe we’re doing this all wrong. What if you teamed us with models?”

        “That’d cost a fortune. The insurance alone would be astronomical. Plus, bringing civilians aboard might be difficult to manage. Think of the potential legal exposures.”

        “Then what about this idea: suppose we go to a theatrical shop and get some of those true-to-life masks? The kind society folks rent for highfalutin charity balls. The ones that make people look like George Clooney and Julia Roberts. Wouldn’t that increase our chances of attracting the monsters?”

        “You may be right,” he said. “But you know how the brass is. Once they make up their minds, it takes an act of God to change anything. This zombie scare is one helluva hot political football. There’s a lot of jockeying going on behind the scenes. This situation can make political futures. Are you sure you want to put yourself out on a limb?”

        “Yeah,” Harry said. “Screw political futures. We’re talking national security here. I think anything that might work oughta be tried. I’m willing to give it a shot and let the chips fall where they may.”

        “Tell you what, Harry. Write a report. Make a dozen copies. Explain exactly how your idea would work. I’ll endorse it and send it to my boss.”

        Harry wrote the report. It went nowhere.

        To hell with approved procedures! I’ll get a mask to make me look like a movie star. If I’m lucky enough to spot a zombie, I’ll put the mask on and draw it toward me. One shot, and I’ll collect twenty thousand and head for Tahiti.

        A week later at 1:00 AM, nobody was on the train to Coney Island. Gave Harry a chance to flop into one of the seats and relax.

        Two stops later, three gorgeous women boarded. Tipsy and loud, they filled the car with their presence.

        Although concrete zombies had appeared only as males, Harry couldn’t be certain if any would imitate females. He headed for the women to check their foreheads.

        All was well. The moment Harry moved away, the blonde one approached.

        “We just made a bet,” she said. “My friends think you’re a cop. I say no. I think you’re a college professor. So, which is it?”

        “Neither. I’m a stock broker.”

        “I’ll make a deal with you. If you say you’re a college professor so I can win the bet, I’ll let you come home with me.”

        “Look, Lady. I’m busy. I don’t have time to screw around with women.”

        That was the wrong thing to say. Before Harry knew it, the drunken women swarmed him. They messed his hair, rubbed themselves against him, and grabbed his rump while making bawdy comments. He got so aroused he didn’t know how he stopped himself from doing one of them right on the floor.

        The sudden deceleration of the train as it approached a station threw them off balance. Harry pulled away and hurried to the next car. Bad move. He had to rush back the moment he saw a man boarding the car he’d just left.

        In seconds, the blonde’s decapitated head went flying through the air.

        Harry lost his balance trying to get to the monster’s car, when the train lurched forward. A second decapitated head flew down the aisle the moment he entered. Harry couldn’t shoot the thing, because its forehead was turned away.

        Pulling out a Marilyn Monroe mask, Harry slipped it on and hollered, “Look over here! I’m more beautiful than anybody!”

        The zombie stopped, looked Harry’s way, then charged.

        “One shot, one kill,” Harry yelled, pulling the trigger.

        The zombie fell at Harry’s feet, but not before his knife slashed Harry’s chest. Bleeding profusely, Harry grabbed his cell phone and yelled, “This is Harry Burns! I just killed a concrete zombie!”

        Three other zombies were killed that night, but Harry’s was the first. A grateful mayor paid the twenty thousand reward, and sent Harry to Tahiti for a month.

        The island far exceeded his wildest daydreams. Though he was plain looking, a stunning Polynesian woman latched on to him right after his arrival. They stayed in a tourist hut on the beach. That wondrous woman breathed life into him. During the last week of his vacation, he proposed.

        Harry decided to resign from his assassin job and never live in a city again. With all the crime, traffic, pollution, and now concrete zombies, it didn’t pay. He explained his concerns to his fiancé. She said it didn’t matter where they went, she’d follow him to the ends of the Earth.

        She promised everlasting love, as they lay nude on the beach and made plans. Harry closed his eyes when she leaned over to kiss him.

        He opened his eyes to look into hers—the very moment her severed head flew into the ocean.

Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first place in seven contests and second and third place in four others. His stories have appeared in 105 online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and the 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.

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