He stared at her.
She stared back. She’d looked undeath in the eyes hundreds of times. She was not going to fold before some pompous, calculating lawyer.
Suddenly, he didn’t seem so pompous. He just looked hurt—and old.
“Neeta, we both know you can’t afford another lawsuit,” he said.
Then he leaned back and turned eyes and hands to the laptop on his desk. “Now, if that’s all, I have a lot of work to do.”
Shaken for the second time that day, Neeta stormed out.
* * * *
Dear Mr. and Mrs. Eidelberg,
Neeta leaned back and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. In the trash can beside her desk, four sympathy cards with tear stains and scratched out lines lay torn up among used tissues. This was the last one she’d bought; she had to get it right.
I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve never had a son die, but I have lost many people I love, so I know some of the pain. I’m writing to explain in hopes this might ease some of yours.
My mother was a zombie exterminator. Jerry Lee was her partner. I called him Uncle Lee. Aunt XiaXia used to take care of me when they were on runs; I grew up with their kids. They used to take me everywhere—Disneyland™, Universal Studios™. We were all going to visit Taiwan to see his family. Then he was ambushed on an extermination call. There were too many zombies. Mom drove them off, but not in time. He died begging her to take care of XiaXia and the kids.
We didn’t understand about zombie-ism enough then. We buried him intact and went on with our lives. I was twelve.
Two months later, Aunt XiaXia called us, frantic. A zombie was attacking their house. Uncle Lee had come back and had returned to the ones he had loved most. He’d have killed them—and brought them back—if Mom hadn’t re-killed him first.
Bergie was a sweet boy. He talked a lot about all of you, but especially of his sister Gwendolyn. He told us many times how, when this was all over, he was going to take her on a tour of the gnarliest waves on the West Coast.
That’s why I did what I did. If I could have saved him, I would have, please believe that; but since I couldn’t, the best thing I could do for him was make sure he didn’t come back to hurt those he loved most.
Bergie died because he wanted to learn to protect those he loved, and he wanted to be a hero to his little sister. Be proud of him.
Neeta dropped the pen and pushed away from the desk. Then she brought her knees to her chest and curled in tight.
She stayed like that until Hollerman came to get her for the late-night 21-spout fumigation of Bergie’s grave. She didn’t think his family would understand, but he deserved the honor, and she would see that he got it.
Chapter Five
“Good morning, LA! You are listening to the Brian and Cassie Morning Show on K-RTH 101, the station that rocks California bigger than the Quake of 1-8. Listen to us on Nano-Dee at 101.573. And have we got a treat for you today, right, Cassie?”
“Oh, yeah! Can I tell them?”
“Aw, I want to tell... Oh, okay, but I introduce them.”
“Today we have in the studio the entire remaining cast of Zombie Death Extreme. Yay! Wooo! Say, ‘Helloness!’ everybody.”
“OOH Rah!”
“Hi.”
“Er, helloness?”
“Oh, gawd, I’m so excited to be here.”
“Shuddap, Roscoe. Hey, all.”
“H-he-hello.”
“So, sitting with us, we have the contestants: Gordon Makepeace. LaCenta Dane. Roscoe Glaser.”
“A pleasure, always, Brian.”
“Nasir Haq Qalzai—did I get that right?”
“Oh, yes. Very good.”
“And of course, Spud.”
“Spud. How’d you get that name, Spud?”
“Uh, my real name’s P-p-pip-pippin Fffrost. I’m from Idaho. Someone here th-thought it was funny. It’s easier to say.”
“Oh, but it’s a great name, right, Cassie?”
“I just love to say it. Spud! Spud!”
“Down, girl. We can’t forget the star of the show, the master exterminator herself, Neeta Lyffe!”
Canned applause and wolf whistles.
“Hi, Brian, Cassie. Thanks for having us here.”
“No problem. We love the show, right, Cass?”
“Absolute-a-tively! But I really think last week’s was the best yet. I mean, who knew you could defend yourself with stuff you had lying around? Seriously—you can repel zombies with reruns of The Simpsons Move to South Park?”
“Or distract them—it varies by zombie. That’s really why we wanted to do that show. I think it’s probably the most important one of the series. Incidentally, you can find a list of items on the Lyffe Undeath Exterminations or ZERD websites.”
“That’s great. We have just a minute before weather and traffic, and we’ll get you that website. First, though...I don’t want to be a downer, but I’ve got to ask you. You’ve had a lousy run of luck lately, Neeta. Your mother died. You got sued. Now this thing with Eidelberg—”
“—Oh, yeah, poor Bergie! He was such a hottie, too—”
“—So why do you do it? What makes you want to keep fighting zombies day after day?”
“...I... Well, someone has to do it. People will die otherwise. Die and come back. I know what I’m doing, and frankly, I am good at it. I’ve re-killed possibly 40 zombies in my career so far. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t do what I could.”
“Wow. That’s so...wowsers.”
“Yeah. You’re amazing, Neeta. I mean that. I’m glad you’re out there protecting us.
“We’ll be back to talk more with Neeta and her trainees after K-RTH’s own Roger Tellerman gives us the low-down on the low front coming our way. Roger, please, give us some cool news.”
* * * *
Dave turned down the volume and looked at his assistant, Sharon, who was studying her DoDroid intently.
“Well?” he demanded. His foot tapped the accelerator of his 2041 Jaguar impatiently, making it lurch. Watching Sharon, he unconsciously moved the car to crowd the white line.
A red Cube passed them on the right, the driver yelling obscenities through his closed window. As usual, Dave noticed but pretended not to.
Sharon spared him a glance and a grin. “Chitter hits, forum posts, K-Earth website activity all exceeding expectations. I don’t think we need to call in the plants at all.”
“Brilliant! Call the limo. Have him take them someplace special for lunch afterward. Take them to The Pantry—that’s always amusing.”
He stomped on the gas, gaining on the car in front of him until the automatic proximity alarm sounded. He changed lanes without looking, causing another alarm as well as silent fist shaking from a different motorist. Sharon concentrated on texting the limo and making lunch reservations for six at Rochelle’s.
“You know, I think Neeta could be our most popular show host yet. Wonder if we could sign her on for a second season. Maybe go on location. I hear Louisiana is crawling with undead.”
On the radio, Roscoe had started to wax poetic about chopping the undead with Neeta.
“You like Cajun, Sharon, baby?” Dave asked over the proximity alarm as he cut someone off to get to his exit.
Sharon nodded, but opened an app, JobSearch. Bunnies. Maybe she could find some kind of work with bunnies.
* * * *
In the back booth of Rochelle’s, the cast of Zombie Death Extreme dined and chatted like old friends.
Spud called for another bottle of wine—it was on Dave’s tab—and poured for everyone. Neeta set her hand over her cup.
“One’s my limit,” she said.
“Come on, Neeta, loosen up!” LaCenta said. She’d already polished off her third glass and motioned for Spud to pour her another.
“I don’t ‘get loose.’”
“Oh, yeah?” Roscoe challenged. “Then explain your reply to that John caller.”
LaCenta shrieke
d and leaned against Roscoe, slapping his shoulder with delight. Spud snorted, and even Nasir looked amused at the memory.
When the station took listener calls for the group, “John” had called in with a rather explicit proposition for Neeta. Everyone had gasped protests, and Brian had moved to cut him off, when Neeta stopped him.
“Tell me, John,” she’d asked sweetly, “can you field strip a BelchingDragon M2-7 flamethrower, clear the petrol and ignition lines, and get it back together in time to stop a shambling horde of undead?”
Silence.
“John?” Brian prompted.
“Uh, no.”
“Sorry. A girl’s got to have her standards.”
“That was classic!” LaCenta shrieked, causing other diners to turn their heads toward the table in annoyance. “’A girl’s gotta have her standards!’ You put him down good. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I could do it,” Gordon grumped, causing the whole table to bust out laughing. “What?”
Roscoe waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, boyfriend, you ain’t got a chance, anyway. Not after what I saw in the lobby.”
The table went silent, eyes on Neeta.
She felt her face get hot and tried to hide it by taking a sip of wine. “Oh, well, Brian asked me out.”
Roscoe jumped in. “She didn’t make it easy, either. I thought I was going to have to intervene. Oh, I am serious. He came on so smooth, asking her if he needed to know how to field strip a flamethrower, too. So she asked him if he was thinking of becoming an exterminator.”
LaCenta spat out her drink. Spud handed her a napkin.
“Can’t we call that ‘playful banter’?” Neeta asked, her face again burning.
“Oh, girl, I would have, honest to gawd, if it weren’t for the blank look you gave him when he said, ‘No, but I’m thinking of asking one to dinner.’ I mean, honestly—how long has it been?”
Neeta reached for her ice water and didn’t reply. Fortunately, the food came then, sparing her the need.
By the time the limo came to take them all home, Neeta had acquiesced to a second glass of wine and was enjoying a warm mellow glow. She leaned back in the plush leather seats. “Rich, Corinthian leather” Roscoe had intoned in a joke no one remembered the origin of anymore, but with a rounding of his vowels that set LaCenta into fits of giggles. LaCenta was propped sloppily between Roscoe and Spud.
“You know, you’re all right,” she told Roscoe. “Too bad you’re gay.”
“Oh, honey. I’m not gay. I’m just not particular.”
She shrieked with mirth, but Gordon moved his legs just a bit farther from Roscoe’s. He and Nasir were talking in low serious tones about the zombie situation in Afghanistan. Spud glanced past the rocking and knee-slapping LaCenta at them, obviously wishing he were there, yet helped steady the drunken girl when she nearly slid off the “Corinthian leather” seats. He caught Neeta’s eye and shrugged.
These are good people, she thought.
“I wish I could give each one of you a million,” she said.
Roscoe pushed LaCenta back in her seat and turned to wag a finger at her. “Now, none of that. There’s only one winner. That’s the rules.”
“I wouldn’t shay mo to a nillion, but if all I get is the training for free and job when I’m done, I’ll be happy, that’s all I’m shaying.” LaCenta piped in. “Not that I’m giving up, nossir. I’m going to whoop all your asses and then kick zombie butt besides.”
“Not mine,” Spud said.
“Girl, you’ve got a long, hard fight if you think you’re gonna reach my beautiful white booty, much less whoop it.”
Neeta felt a catch in her throat. “Just...be careful. Do what I say and don’t take chances.”
“Oh, gawd, don’t you get melancholy on us! You’ll make Placenta here cry.”
LaCenta swung at him but without malice.
Neeta took a deep breath and released it slowly. Roscoe had it right. People died hard in this business; no point getting melancholy about it. Part of the job, right? Instead, she let herself enjoy the moment and feel the pride she had in her plebes.
“Look!” Roscoe suddenly squealed. “There’s Neeta’s billboard.”
Neeta slouched down in the seat, her melancholy mood forgotten. “Please don’t mention that thing.”
“Whatchu talking about?” LaCenta asked. “I think you look good.”
The seventeen-foot Neeta posed in a loose sway, chainsaw held down low, her face tilted, and her hair falling wild and wavy and gelled to look sweaty. A zombie lay at her feet, its leg sawed off but the head intact, while a shadowed horde approached from the background. Large 3-D letters declared, “Zombie Death Extreme, starring Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator!” and the station and time, and website and forum addresses. The bottom caption read, “Dead or alive—no mercy from The Exterminator!”
She’d gotten a good share of friendly ribbing about it at the last gathering of the Greater LA Exterminators Society. She wasn’t sure what was worse, the slogan, the unzipped uniform, or the fact the zombie still had its head connected to its body.
Gordon snorted. “Yeah. Like anyone is going to be attacking undead with her uniform half off,” he said, echoing her own thoughts.
She felt like such a sell-out every time she saw that thing.
Roscoe retorted, “Please! This is Hollywood. We’re talking effect, not accuracy. And that hot-and-bothered look. So sexy!” He fanned himself with his hands.
“I was hot and bothered,” Neeta grumped. “The photographer posed me like that and kept me that way under the hot lights for twenty minutes while he snapped pics and said stuff like, ‘Give me sassy, baby, give me sassy.’ Any idea how hard it is to look sassy and keep your balance?”
“But you did. It inspires me on so many levels.” Roscoe enthused, making a few of the others in the limo fall into giggles. But he just stared out the window until they passed.
“Makes me want to take on the undead just so I can pose afterward,” Roscoe sighed dreamily.
The limo disgorged her at her 2-bedroom cottage with the large airline-hangar style shed that marked her home and office. She waved at everyone as the car drove off, then turned to see Ted sitting on her porch, polishing the flamethrower he held cradled in his arms.
For a moment she paused, stunned. Her head swam with a vision of the two of them field-stripping the tool. He’d lean his bare chest up against her back, arms reaching around her to remove the nozzle from the hose, the Righteous Brothers singing Unchained Melody in the background.
She shook herself. What kind of wine was that?
She stormed up the steps, ignoring the singers crooning in her mind. He looked up at her with that rakish grin, and suddenly the day felt too warm for her t-shirt and jeans.
“Enjoy your interview at the radio station?”
“You didn’t hear it?” She couldn’t stop looking at his hands caressing the nozzle. Bobby Hatfield singing about hungering.
He shrugged; not apologetic at all. “Had to go do some location work. I was in the field all day.”
“What are you doing here?” she demanded more harshly than she’d intended.
“Time for my first lesson.” He swung the nozzle like a guitar, and Neeta felt a bass playing to her heartbeat.
...and time can do so much...
“That’s a BelchingDragon M2-7.” She couldn’t believe how rough her voice sounded. She couldn’t believe she’d managed to talk at all.
If he noticed, he was as good at ignoring it as Dave. “Yep. Bought her the day after you agreed to tutor me.”
I need your love...
Shut up! She snapped at the ghost of Bobby. Lessons. Get with the game, girl!
“Have you read the manual?” she demanded.
He rolled his eyes. “Have I read the manual?” he scoffed.
She made him read the manual while she changed into work clothes and splashed her face with a lot of icy cold water.
* * * *<
br />
Roscoe straightened the leopard-skin patterned cover on his chair and flopped into it twice to be sure he had the right posture. He moved just enough to turn on the video recorder.
“Hi, everybody. Just got back from our interview and the most exquisite lunch with the others. I just want to start by saying thanks to K-RTH’s Brian and Cassie for a fabulous time. I love you both, you know it, and I’d do either of you, anytime.”
He covered his mouth with both hands for a moment. “Did I say that? Oh, honeys, it’s the wine talking, I’m sure. Not that it isn’t true—in vino veritas!—but you know I don’t normally talk so base. Just a little tipsy, and my tongue is loose.”
Then he winked like the cad his viewers knew he was. “Of course, not as loose as LaCenta’s. If only you could have heard the things she said on the limo ride home—but I’m going to leave you in suspense. Beg me, and I might tell.”
He switched off the camera and chuckled. That would bump his comment hits, and Dave loved those numbers high.
* * * *
LaCenta slammed her finger onto the Video On key. She didn’t bother to check her face and hair. She knew how awful she looked and she didn’t care. Her brother had called her out of a sound sleep to tell her about Roscoe’s little blog game. Two can play that.
“I know you’ve all probably seen what that blabber-boy Roscoe said about me on his blog. Let me set the record straight. All I said was I was gonna whoop his skinny white ass and everyone else’s. Then I’m taking my chainsaw and my spray bottle, and I’m whooping zombie ass.
“’Loose tongue.’” She snorted. “Only thing I’m gonna loose are zombie heads from zombie necks, that’s all I’m saying.”
She jabbed the off button and dragged herself back to bed. Oh, was she hung over!
* * * *
BrainDeadHead
Subject: WTF? Neeta, sued?
I just heard that somebody is suing Neeta? What’s that all about? It’s a joke, right?
MANIC_MIND
No joke, Brain. You can read about it on my blog: Exterminator Saves Lawyer’s Skin; Lawyer Skins Exterminator. It’s grim, man.
Trolll
Figuers she’s on a reality TV show, if she’s so in-competent at her job. We’re only halvesway into the seson and somones dyed all ready. I wouldn’t hire her—seting fire to peoples houses. Shuld’ve arested her for arson!
Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator Page 7
