The Exterminators

by Bill Fitzhugh

  When the aerosol dispenser released another round of the fragrance, the bugs became more aggressive still. Their hard wing-casings opened, powerful thorax muscles pulled the wings forward, and the bugs took flight, awkwardly, like June bugs (Phyllophaga spp.) around a porch light, bumptious and without control, crashing into people’s faces and getting caught in their hair.

  That’s when the screaming began, which in turn started the stampede.

  There weren’t enough exits to handle the rush. Everything bottlenecked at the doors, and with the panicked crowd pushing from behind, it wasn’t long before the crush was so awful you could actually hear plastic surgery coming undone.

  Lauren was smart enough to be scared but also smart enough not to panic. She turned to Leon and said, “Got any ideas?”

  “Grab the back of my coat and don’t let go,” he said. He knew better than to swim against the current, so he cut sideways across the flow of the stampede. His goal was to reach the food station with the roast beef. There he grabbed a carving knife and continued pushing sideways, heading for the tent wall. By now Leon had seen enough to know that these huge bugs were the problem. He suddenly thought of Lauren’s satin bow shoes and her exposed feet. He stopped abruptly, turned and picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder before she knew what was going on. He charged for the nearest wall, swinging the carving knife like a machete when he got there, slashing a huge hole in the canvas and getting free of the tent.

  Outside, he put Lauren on the ground and pointed toward Santa Monica Boulevard. “Run! And watch where you step. Don’t let those bugs near you.”

  “What are you doing?”

  But he was gone. Back to the tent, slashing open entire panels of canvas so others could escape. Then he raced inside looking for Lauren Bacall.

  Chapter Fifty-eight

  Traci Taylor was at a bar in Santa Monica watching a replay of the Clippers game when her cell phone rang. She looked at the display. It was Ronnie, her cameraman, no doubt calling to concede defeat after his Oscar-wagering fiasco. She flipped the phone open and said, “I told you Altar Ego was going to clean up. You owe me fifty—”

  “Get your ass down to Oscar Alley!”

  “You know I don’t do entertainment,” she said. “Especially after midnight.”

  “How about possible terrorist attacks?”

  “What?” She looked up at the television, Clippers were up five. She said, “Bullshit. I’m watching TV now, there’s nothing on!”

  “Listen, the 9-1-1 system nearly crashed they got so many calls. Reports of a lot of deaths, some as high as a hundred.”

  “What?” Traci threw a twenty on the bar and ran for the door. “Give me some fucking details!”

  “There aren’t any fucking details! That’s what you’re for! Meet me at La Cienega and Fountain in five.”

  “On my way.”

  The story would have broken already but for the fact that many of the entertainment reporters were killed by the bugs or crushed in the stampede while others had either abandoned their equipment or had it destroyed in the chaos.

  Most of the people at the party had no idea what had happened, otherwise they might have used their cell phones to report it. One minute everything was completely normal, at least by Hollywood standards, then someone appeared to faint or pass out, also not unusual in a crowd with this many substance abusers, but then some bugs began flying around and all Hell broke loose.

  It was a classic example of crowd psychology, with a few members of the group exerting a disproportionate influence over the others, leading to collective suggestibility as a contagious emotion swept the room. Otherwise rational individuals lacking adequate information abandoned reason in the face of some unknown danger. People who—under normal circumstances—would engage in helpful behavior, suddenly assume an every-man-for-himself strategy. This becomes a circular problem as one feeds the other, amplifying the sense of panic and danger, driving people toward irrational and deadly action, not unlike the ways some films get made.

  Traci was speeding up Santa Monica Boulevard, flipping from one news radio station to another, trying to find information. But none of them seemed to have reporters on the scene. The announcers were saying only that something had happened, sort of accident had occurred and they were trying to gather details, stay tuned for the big story. Frustrated by lack of details, Traci turned to her police scanner. “Code 13. Multiple 10-52,” the dispatcher said. “This is a 10-99, repeat, 10-99.” Traci knew enough radio code to decipher this as a major disaster activation, a call for multiple ambulances, an emergency for all units and stations. And sure enough, every few blocks another cop car, ambulance, or fire truck went racing past her, apparently heading for West Hollywood. She hadn’t seen anything like this since the North Hollywood bank robbery or the Northridge earthquake.

  As she sped through Century City, the dispatcher called a multiple 905 which Traci didn’t recognize. She pulled a cheat sheet from her glove box. Nine-oh-five was a vicious animal call. Multiple vicious animals? Traci looked at the scanner and said, “This is now officially weird.”

  When she got to La Cienega and Fountain, Ronnie broke the bad news. “Cops won’t let anybody within a mile of the scene.” He pointed at a row of emergency vehicles in the background. “Best shot we can get is you doing a stand-up with the flashing lights behind you.”

  Traci was trying to decide how to frame the shot when she heard something coming down the hill. Sirens and somebody leaning hard on a car horn. She turned to see six big, black SUVs with orange emergency lights on the dashboards, hauling ass down La Cienega Boulevard. The cops at the road block hustled the barricades out of the way, letting the caravan pass without slowing down. The doors were marked with the official seal of the State of California. Below that, words that left Traci momentarily baffled. She turned to her cameraman who looked equally confused. She said, “Did that say ‘Department of Agriculture’?”

  Chapter Fifty-nine

  Traci ran her fingers through her hair and adjusted her blouse, then gave a nod that she was ready. The camera lights popped on and Ronnie counted it down. “Three…two…one.” He cued her.

  “I’m near the corner of La Cienega and Fountain, at the edge of West Hollywood,” she said. “Authorities won’t allow us any closer to the scene of whatever has occurred at the Academy Awards after-parties. But whatever it was, it has drawn a massive response. In the past five minutes we’ve seen emergency vehicles from the Los Angeles police and fire departments, LA County Sheriff, and the California Highway Patrol along with dozens of ambulances. I’ve been told that representatives from the Federal Emergency Management Agency and the Department of Homeland Security are on their way to the scene.”

  Traci didn’t mention the Department of Agriculture as their name conveyed neither urgency nor danger, though it did give her an idea of what to do next.

  “Right now,” she said, “all we’re getting from anyone is a strict ‘no comment.’ So, for now, all we have are questions and speculation. Was it a mass shooting or a suicide bomber? An angry studio executive or an act of terrorism? Are there hostages? And how many are dead?” She shook her head sadly. “We simply don’t know.” She looked to the sky and pointed, the camera following to the buzz of a dozen helicopters hovering above the scene. “But our eye in the sky is overhead trying to find the answers. Let’s go to Ted in the Eyewitness Action News copter.”

  “And we’re out,” Ronnie said, killing the lights. “Now what?”

  “Now we’re going to the valley.”

  “What’s in the valley?”

  “A couple of landscapers who are going to help us break the story.”

  “Landscapers?” He looked at her skeptically. “How many beers did you have?”

  “Trust me.”

  Since there didn’t seem to b
e a cop left anywhere outside of West Hollywood, Ronnie didn’t worry about speed limits. As they raced over the Sepulveda Pass, they heard the police dispatcher trying to raise someone from the Department of Parks and Recreation. Traci looked at Ronnie. “What the hell are they gonna do?”

  “Let’s find out.” He picked up the mic and keyed it. “Roger that. What do you need?”

  “Insecticide,” the dispatcher said. “And lots of it.”

  Traci slammed her palm on the dashboard. “I knew it!”

  “Knew what?”

  As they sped down the Ventura Freeway toward the Topanga Canyon exit, Traci told Ronnie all about the bugs—from the video Blanca sold to her, to Professor Harmon, the DARPA labs, and the two Anglos calling themselves Juan and Javier.

  “Why didn’t you break the story about the bugs killing Innish and Novak? That’s a local Emmy right there.”

  “I know,” Traci said. “And I almost did. But when Professor Harmon told me about the DARPA experiments, I held off. I needed some proof, something to connect the bugs to DARPA. All I had was the video, which, I’ll grant you, would make some good TV. I mean, c’mon, mutant killer bugs with spider venom? But the real story is the government connection,” Traci said. “That’s a Pulitzer, not a local Emmy. If I went with the deadly bug story, it would tip off the DOD, they’d lock down, destroy evidence, and intimidate witnesses. We’d never get what we need. So I persuaded ‘Juan and Javier’ to do some snooping for me. Now it’s time to see if they found anything useful.”

  Ten minutes later Ronnie was hoisting Traci over the gate at the Avondale Oaks, followed by his camera, and then himself. “By the way, don’t make any sudden moves around these guys,” Traci warned. “Even the daughter carries a gun.”

  “What? Who are these people?”

  “I’m not sure, I’m just saying.” She held her hands out in a calming manner. “Be cool.”

  The lights at Bob’s apartment were off. Traci knocked. “Juan? Javier?” She waited a few seconds before she gave the door a couple of good kicks with the toe of her shoe. “Wake up! It’s Traci Taylor.”

  A moment later Bob’s groggy voice came from the other side. “It’s two in the morning.”

  “That’s right,” Traci said. “And if you don’t open the door, every television household on earth will know your faces by six.”

  The door opened, revealing a sleepy-eyed Bob in a pair of boxer shorts decorated with ladybugs (Hippodamia convergens). He rubbed his face and squinted at her. “We took your threat seriously the first time,” he said. “Can’t this wait until after breakfast?”

  “Turn on your TV.”

  Something about the way she said it sent Bob shuffling back into the apartment. He did what he was told, and a few seconds later Traci and Ronnie heard him say, “Uh oh.”

  Chapter Sixty

  Trying to get his pants on while simultaneously calling Klaus, Bob was hopping around on one leg with the phone cradled between his ear and shoulder. “Get up, get dressed, and turn on the television.” He paused for the question. “Because something happened with the bugs and Traci Taylor is back threatening us again.” Another pause. “No, we’re coming down to your place so we don’t wake Mary and Katy.”

  Klaus and Agent Parker were standing in front of the TV when Bob and Traci walked in. Ronnie, bringing up the rear, walked in a moment later with his camera aimed at everyone, causing Klaus and Agent Parker to spin and draw on him.

  Ronnie nearly dropped his gear. “Whoa, it’s cool. I’m cool. No sudden moves.”

  “Don’t shoot him,” Traci said. “He’s my cameraman.”

  Ronnie closed the door behind him and everyone turned their attention back to the news. A CNN reporter was saying, “Authorities are still very tight-lipped about exactly what happened. Survivors interviewed at area hospitals said there was a panic of some sort that led to the stampede. A spokesman for the coroner’s office was unable to confirm or deny rumors that there might be as many as three hundred dead. Homeland Security officials have not ruled out the possibility of a terrorist connection and—”

  Traci walked over to the coffee table and picked up the TV remote. She hit the mute button then gestured at Agent Parker with the remote as if she might turn his volume up. She said, “Pardon me for asking, but who are you—their pal Pancho?”

  Parker was confused for a moment before it dawned on him. He smiled and said, “Oh, that’s right, the whole Juan and Javier business.” He looked at Bob and Klaus, then pointed at the television. “You know, now that the, uh, cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, I don’t see much point in trying to maintain the landscaping ruse. Why don’t we just put the cards on the table?”

  “Yes,” Traci said. “Why don’t we?”

  Bob and Klaus exchanged a glance followed by a why-not shrug.

  “Okay, then, I’ll start. I’m Agent Nick Parker, CIA. These are my friends Bob and Klaus. Klaus is one of the world’s best professional killers.”

  “Was,” Klaus said, looking at Traci. “I retired six years ago.”

  “Sorry, was,” Parker said. “Still, I’d stop threatening him if I were you. People come out of retirement all the time. And Bob here was an entomologist working in the private sector until he took some DARPA funding and started developing insects as weapons for the DOD, ostensibly for use in the War on Terror.” He glanced back at the tube. “Though it would appear now that some of what they told Bob might not have been entirely true.”

  Traci gave Agent Parker a skeptical squint and said, “You know, when you say that, the whole landscaping story sounds more credible.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Agent Parker said. “But again, here’s something that strikes me as funny. If you tell somebody you’re an accountant or an attorney, they never doubt you, never ask for proof. But say you’re an assassin or you’re CIA and nobody believes it.” He pulled his ID and showed it to Traci.

  “All right,” she said. “For the sake of argument, let’s say I buy the whole CIA assassin thing. What are you doing with an entomologist?”

  “Long story,” Parker said.

  She aimed her meat slicer at him and said, “Shorthand it for me.”

  Agent Parker pointed at Bob. “Entomologist breeding assassin bugs for environmentally friendly pest control is mistaken for killer known as The Exterminator,” he said. “For reasons not worth going into, Bolivian drug lord puts a ten-million-dollar bounty on his head. Many assassins go to New York to kill Bob, Klaus among them.” He pointed at Klaus. “Sequence of unlikely events leads Klaus to befriend bug guy.” He pointed back at Bob. “Together they kill a dozen assassins, including my former boss, then fake Bob’s death, con the drug lord out of the ten million, and disappear. Six years later, drug lord discovers he was conned, puts a twenty-million-dollar bounty on Klaus and Bob at about the same time the DOD lures them to LA to create deadly insects. Then you walk in.”

  Traci stared at Parker for a moment before she said, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. You expect me to believe that?”

  “You asked,” Parker said. He looked at the others, feigning disappointment. “See?”

  “Hey!” Bob pointed urgently at the television. “Turn up the sound.” A grainy photo of one of the spined ambush assassins was superimposed over the shoulder of the CNN anchor.

  “This exclusive photograph was taken with a cell phone camera by someone attending one of the after parties. According to reports, swarms of these extraordinarily large insects descended on all three of the major parties in West Hollywood following the Academy Awards. One witness described it in Biblical terms, saying it was like having a plague of locusts visited upon them. Meanwhile, officials with the Federal Emergency Management Agency say they are working to come up with enough buses to evacuate the entire city of Los Angeles.”

>   Everyone in the room paused to wonder how long it would take to evacuate five million people in busses on freeways that rarely moved. When the moment passed Agent Parker looked at Traci. “You were saying something about the ridiculousness of our story?”

  Chapter Sixty-one

  They flipped through the channels, riveted by the resourcefulness of television news departments. The stations that hadn’t received the photo of the bug were forced to trot out some of the more familiar and terrifying alternatives for which they already had a good graphics package.

  First was footage from the aftermath of the 1995 Tokyo subway attacks. The reporter was saying, “According to unofficial reports, the FBI is looking at the Japanese religious cult AUM Shinrikyo, or Supreme Truth, the group accused of perpetrating a poison gas attack in the Tokyo subway, killing twelve and injuring thousands by releasing the deadly nerve gas Sarin into the tunnels. But what’s the Hollywood connection? For more on that, we turn to our own Kiku Terasaki.”

  On the next channel they saw a familiar visual, the magnified film footage of a rapidly multiplying bacteria. Tubular, gram-positive sausages of death. “We’re getting reports from inside sources this may have been an aerosol anthrax attack. Far more deadly than cutaneous, pulmonary anthrax is nearly one hundred percent fatal. It’s unknown how the infection, which usually takes days to kill, acted so quickly, but experts say this suggests a virulent new strain of weapons grade—”

  Flipping again, they came to a reporter holding a handful of small brown beans. “Ricin is an extract of these innocuous looking castor beans. The toxin is considered twice as deadly as cobra venom.”

  Traci understood more than the others. She knew that at this stage, the stations were just grasping for straws and viewers without regard to the facts. She hit mute again and turned to Bob and Klaus. “What about you two? Find anything at the DARPA labs that might shed some light?”