Perhaps you will not remember me, as you were quite young when I joined your mother in her fight against so-called zombie rights. I do remember what a capable girl you were even then. It makes me proud to see the young woman you’ve become, and I know your mother would be proud, too.
As I continue my work as a re-grief counselor to those who have encountered their deceased loved ones come back, I still find too many who want to believe there was still something of the person they loved trapped in that mobile corpse. (For that is what they are—mobile corpses—and no sense mincing words.) It’s heartbreaking to see—not because these poor dears have lost hope, but that the hope was false to begin with. Having lived with false hope for most of my marriage and for weeks afterward, I know how easy it is to cling to, and how hard to let go. Still, how freeing to be rid of false hope and to rediscover what’s real.
But I do go on! I just wanted to let you know in your difficult time that what you are doing is both right and good. You teach your “plebes;” you teach your viewers. May your show help those with fears to release their fears, and those with false hopes to find true hope.
Cordially yours,
Josie Lynn Taylor Gump
“No truer words,” Roscoe sighed, his hand on his heart.
LaCenta glared past the camera. “Doesn’t make what you did to us right, Dave, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Cut!” Dave snarled.
Chapter Nine
Neeta paced between the two rows of her full-suited plebes as they worked through the martial arts form her mother had adapted to zombie work. Their clubs made sure, deliberate moves before them, and she felt a spark of pride. When they’d first started, some couldn’t keep their basher up through a single routine. Now, they were finishing their third run, and she thought they could make it through one more.
She reached the end of her row, still calling out commands in a steady rhythm, and started back to the front. Suddenly, she swung her right hand stick toward LaCenta’s head, and the left hand-stick toward Gordon a moment later.
Both broke routine to block them with their clubs.
“Excellent,” she said. “Situational awareness. It’s very important to keep aware of surroundings, to pay attention to that peripheral vision. Too many people die—and not just from zombies—because they only pay attention to what’s in front of them.”
“It’d be easier without the helmet,” Roscoe puffed.
“A helmet with a faceplate is an exterminator’s best friend,” Neeta chided.
“Thought that was the chainsaw,” Roscoe teased.
“Cleaning products,” Gordon added. He ducked to avoid Neeta’s switch.
“Flamethrower,” Ted chimed in from the corner where he was running the cameramen and film crew through the routine himself, using his camera in place of the club.
Neeta gave up. “See, and you thought an exterminator’s life was lonely.”
Naturally, her cell phone picked that moment to play Brian’s ring tone.
“Break,” Roscoe cheered.
“Once more through the routine, then break. Ted, whack them if they get out of line.” She tossed him her switches. He caught them, cackling demonically.
She answered the call just before it switched to voice mail. “Hi, Brian.”
“Oh, good. You’re there. Is this a bad time? You’re not shooting, are you?”
“No, just making diamonds out of coal.” She moved the phone from her face to holler, “Keep that arm up, Spud!”
“The p-pressure,” he shouted loud enough for Brian to hear. Ted whacked him on the back of the head. Roscoe snickered.
“Focus.” She turned back to the phone. “I have a couple of minutes before pandemonium. Was there something you needed?”
“Well, Disney, Cartoon Network, and Nickelodeon are teaming up for a big concert to help fund research for global cooling—”
Neeta groaned. “Oh, you don’t really believe that, do you? All the weather tracking stations moved their temperature sensors off the blacktop and from in front of hot-air vents. Of course, the mean temperatures have dropped.”
In 2024, a charismatic woman named Ann Guildhaus won the Presidency because, among other things, she promised to put an end to global warming. As soon as she was in office, she had directed the NOAA to enforce its regulations for positioning temperature sensing stations, removing them from areas known to radiate heat and putting them in protective boxes that didn’t hold in heat, but rather kept the box’s internal temperature the same as the temperature around it. The Guildhaus Initiative cost the government $100 million, employed 5000 people across the 50 states. By mid-tern, the results were in—the mean temperature of the United States was slowly decreasing.
By 2028, the initiative had completed and the mean temperature had dropped three degrees overall. The opposing party declared that Guildhaus Initiative had created a Global Cooling Emergency in the United States, and their candidate won on the promise of preventing a Global Winter. As soon as he was in office, he created an investigative committee to study the Global Cooling Emergency, which in turn appropriated studies. The Global Winter Accountability and Negation Operations (GWANO) initiative cost the government $400 million dollars, employed about 1000 specialists in five key states and by the end of President Standish’s term, came to the conclusion that America’s industries and use of artificial chemicals and fossil fuels had caused the problem. He was elected to a second term to enact legislation to help solve the crisis.
Meanwhile, the rest of the world had also begun changing their temperature tracking stations. As recorded temperatures decreased, the UN blamed the United States for starting an “environmental pandemic.” The nations proposed to punish America with several billion dollars in fines and enact economic sanctions, which the United States vetoed.
Neeta’s mom had told her zombies were easier to understand than politicians.
Brian sighed, but with good humor. “You’re missing the point. All the cartoons we talked about our first date? Those bands are going to be there, singing their theme songs. Miley Cyrus, Echo and the Bunnymen—”
“They Mite B Robots?” Neeta asked.
“Yep, and Sashimi Ice—”
“I loved that one. ‘Throw the card/Fight another world,’” she sang.
“Bowling for Soup is opening.”
An uncharacteristic squeal escaped Neeta’s mouth. “Bowling for Soup? I loved Phineas and Ferb!”
Roscoe dropped his club and pulled off his helmet. “Are you talking about the ‘Jackets for the World’ Tour?”
“I can get us tickets—front row—and backstage passes—”
“When? When?” She bounced on her toes, and in her excitement, ignored the group as they either dropped their weapons to gather around her or simply dropped onto the floor, panting.
“Friday,” Brian said.
She groaned. “We have patrol duty that night.”
“You can’t change it?”
Roscoe leaned toward the phone. “Did you say, ‘backstage passes’?” Neeta shoved him away.
“I can’t,” she said. “We’re filming. Hollerman already agreed to take LaCenta and Nasir and a cameraman with them that night. The Cuthberts have Spud and another cameraman. I’m taking 9-1-1 duty with Roscoe and Gordon and Ted. A lot of people already made their plans, and there’s a full moon—”
“Oh, please.” Roscoe yanked the phone from her hands.
“You are so losing the big picture here,” he snarled at her, then turned his back. “Hello, Brian? Roscoe, love, how are you and that delicious Cassie? Good, good to hear. So, about this concert. Oh, I am so with you. It’s a can’t-miss opportunity. Honestly, the only real question here is can you swing three more passes?”
“What?” Neeta yelled. “Roscoe, we have work that night.” She lunged for the phone, but Roscoe jerked and evaded.
“You have got to get past this martyrdom kick, girl. Ted?” he called. “A little help?”
> Ted grabbed her by the arms.
Roscoe grinned and turned his back on them. “So, Brian, didn’t I hear that Sashimi Ice had a concert canceled in Nagasaki because of zombies? He did? You do? Will he say something, you think?”
Neeta struggled and snarled, but Ted held fast. “I want to see They Mite B Robots,” he told her.
“Fabulous,” Roscoe said into the phone. “So I will make this gold with Dave, and you talk to whoever it is that can make a little camera action happen backstage. Oh, gawd, it was the best day in the world when you asked Neeta out. Yes, yes she is. Do you want to say ‘goodbye’?” He held out the phone, a smug smile on his lips.
Ted released her, and she snatched back her phone. “Brian?”
“Don’t worry, honey. Roscoe’s got a brilliant mind when it comes to this sort of thing. I’ll call you after work in a couple of hours—or shall I just show up at your doorstep with pizza again?”
The memory of that evening softened away her protests. “How about Thai? I can only do pizza once in a while.”
“I know the place. Seven?”
“Sounds great.” She hung up, face smiling so hard she could feel it to her hairline.
“Well, can I make it happen, or can I make it happen?” Roscoe purred.
She busied herself with putting her phone back in her pocket, and when she looked up again, her face had composed itself into something stoic and dangerous.
“Why are all of you out of formation?” she demanded.
They glared at her, stunned.
“Get in line!”
They scrambled into their spots, fumbling with chinstraps and getting proper grips on their weapons. Ted gave her one of her switches back, winking, and took the other to whip the camera crew into place.
“We’ll discuss this later,” she told Roscoe, but she knew from his smug expression he’d seen through her tough act.
Not that she intended to drop it, anyway. “All right, Form Two. Take two steps away from the person beside you. Watch where you swing. Ready. Cut right. Step. Block left. Swing down. Watch that blade—remember Heisman!”
Notes from The Zombie Syndrome
A Documentary
By Gary Opkast
Episode: Zombie Behavior
NARRATOR: ...and of course, they are more active when the moon is full.
Clips from various horror movie scenes with the full moon prominent in the background: Werewolf, Dracula... Get the iconic scenes—high drama, low action.
NARRATOR: There’s always been something about the full moon that calls to the human senses. It speaks of mystery, of romance. It calls to the living...and the undead.
NEETA LYFFE: (Start clip at the shrug—she’s so cute when she shrugs and leans against the arm of her chair.) Yeah, I do get more calls on full-moon nights—one or two more. That’s what—twenty to twenty-five percent increase? Thing is, people are out more. Most of my extra calls come from couples out parking. (Laughs.) One time, though, I did get a call from this guy...I can’t be sure, but I think he was about to break into someone’s house when the previous owner, deceased, decided to come home. He saved that family’s life, though, got to give him that.
DR. HANSEN: There actually is some evidence—not just anecdotal—that there is a lunar influence upon zombie-ism. However, it’s not biological, but cultural. In other words, cultures that still harbor the idea that a full moon does influence human behavior see greater zombie activity during those times. This is terribly exciting for us at ZERD—but not just at ZERD. The implications are...phenomenal! Proof that cultural icons not only subvert the conscious mind, but embed themselves so firmly into the human psyche that when all that’s left are a few misfiring neurons, as in the case of zombie-ism, those cultural icons are the ones running the show.
* * * *
Roscoe grabbed Neeta’s arm and squealed like a fangirl. “Oh gawd, isn’t this amazing? We are surrounded by the cultural icons of our generation.”
Roscoe spread his arms dramatically and spun to take in the “cultural icons,” most of whom ignored him, more interested in having a pre-gig snack or working out some last minute detail with one of the stage crew. A member of Cassidy’s Fall nudged his buddy and pointed their way, rolling his eyes.
Gordon caught the look and hissed at Roscoe. “You’re making a scene!”
“Oh, gawd, Sergeant Straight. What do you think this is all about?” He turned to the two snickering band members and posed. They turned their back on him.
Roscoe snorted and called them something nasty but without much malice.
Gordon clenched his fists and pulled his neck into his shoulders, as if trying to shrink his six-foot-four frame.
Meanwhile, Ted grinned like a kid in a candy store.
Neeta told them, “Just remember if that phone rings, we’re gone. Got it?”
Roscoe tossed his head. “Yes, Mother. Honestly, Brian, can’t you loosen her up?”
Brian smiled and put an arm around her waist. “I think it may be a long-term project. However, I think I know what might help. Ready to meet Sashimi Ice?”
“Really?” she said. “Right now?”
Her crew laughed and Brian with them. “I love when your eyes light up like that,” he said, kissing her cheek. “He’s been wanting to meet you. For one thing, he wants to thank you for the extra security.”
Neeta laughed. Earlier that day, she’d combed the theater and surrounding area, assessing it for zombie threat and setting out a few “traps”—trip alarms that would warn authorities of an undead shambler. “All part of the job. Thanks for arranging for me to get paid.”
Roscoe sighed and let go of her arm with a pat. “Such modestly. Between you and me, girlfriend, if it were anyone else, I’d vomit. I would. You, though, you just wear humility so well. Now run along and enjoy your time with Sashimi Ice. Meanwhile, I think Gordon here wants to meet Indira from They Mite B Robots.”
Gordon pulled his gaze away from a woman in steampunk grunge pulling her garter into place. “So that’s really her? She’s even more beautiful in person.”
Roscoe leaned toward Gordon and crooned in a conspiratorial whisper. “I hear she likes Marines.”
“You shitting me?”
Roscoe tossed his head. “Maybe—but we’ll never know until you meet her, right? I wonder if she remembers me from the Governor’s Ball? Oh, who cares? I remember her. Come on, I’ll introduce you. Semper fi and all that.”
He pushed into the crowds with a now-tall-standing Gordon in tow. Ted, small camera at his side, hesitated. Neeta could almost see him imagining the choices before him: serious interview between Neeta and an international star, or meet his favorite band and possibly get something for the blooper reel.
“Brian?” Neeta set her head on his shoulder and spoke into his ear. “Think we can meet They Mite B Robots after the show?”
Brian had also been watching Ted’s angst. “As long as Gordon and Roscoe don’t screw things up.”
Neeta linked one arm through Brian’s and the other around Ted’s. “Well, let’s not waste any more time, then.”
They found Sashimi Ice, aka Kyun Bae, in his dressing room, IM-ing with his wife while playing Battlespace Online. While they waited for him to post a battle interrupt command and sign off with his wife, Ted spoke to his publicist and private guard about a good camera angle. They greeted each other with bows and gushing compliments, then did it again with Ted filming.
“You speak Korean,” he exclaimed when she greeted him.
“Some. My best friend as a child was half Korean, but I’ve forgotten so much,” she replied, then switched to English. “We loved your music. We would play White Lamppost for hours.”
He laughed. “I was very young then, but after Nagasaki...” He looked away, toward the spray bottle of Raid she’d sent ahead as a gift.
“Who was it?” Neeta asked.
“Uncle. Very...tight...in the business. He got me my contract to sing for television—the Ba
ttlespace Roaring Mutant Pre-Adolescent Ninja Armadillos.”
“BROMPANAs was a cool show. I’m sorry about your uncle, and that you had to see him like that.”
“He was part of a larger horde. Twelve died that night. Three came back, I am told. It has been many years since I could sing again.” Then his eyes lost their faraway look, and he straightened and faced her.
“Now, however, I am on comeback tour. I have a new album, Sunrise in Headsets.” He spoke to his publicist, who handed a thumb drive to each of them with a bow.
Neeta clicked on the cover button and a picture of Bae wearing a VR headset came into view. A Pacific sunrise colored the lenses of the headset.
“This is great. Thank you.”
“I have more. Thanks—and a favor. Your work is very important, Neeta. Please, I would honor you tonight. You come, on stage. I sing a special song for you.”
“Me?” For a moment, she just blinked. She looked over at Brian, who grinned, then back to Bae. “Wow. I—but not just me, right? I have a team—”
“Yes, yes. All of them. Very important work. I am just a singer. You—always risking your life—”
As if on cue, Neeta’s pocket shouted, “Hey! 9-1-1, Neeta!”
With a moan more suited to Roscoe, she snatched her phone out of her pocket and went from gushing fangirl to zombie exterminator. “Lyffe Undeath Exterminations...okay...where? Elysian park’s pretty big. Can they be more specific? Are they certain this is a zombie? Okay. Call in the police, just in case. The woman—she’s in her home now? Tell her to lock the doors, turn the TV on, and gather as many insecticides and cleaning supplies—You’ve got it. Great. We’re on the way.”
She hung up and pressed Roscoe’s number. “Neeta—is Gordon with you? Well, snag him and meet us at the truck ASAP. We’ve got a dead one.”
She hung up and bowed low to Kyun Bae. “Bae, it was such a pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry, but—”
“Please, go, but be very careful.”
She kissed Brian on the cheek. “Be back if we can.”
She and Ted dashed out of the room.
* * * *
Neeta stopped the van at the police roadblock and rolled down the window. The policeman stepped out of his car, made a careful look around and then ran up to her. A small bottle of wasp spray bounced against his leg from where it hung off his belt. He started a little when Ted twisted around Neeta to point a camera at him.
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