“Ignore him. What’s the situation?” she asked.
“We found couple of lovers parking, no one out in the woods that we know of. Got a few more units making sure the rest of the park and surrounding neighborhood is cleared out.”
“Any sign of the zombie?”
He shook his head. “We haven’t actively looked, though. Been more concerned with getting people out and securing the area.”
“Appreciate it. There’s nothing worse than civilians”—she cast a dark look at Ted—”getting in the way.”
He pulled out a map and pointed to a picnic area. “Last sighting was here. Lots of dense overgrowth, very hilly. Snakes’ll be more active in the cooler temperatures. Watch your step. Good luck.” The policeman went to move the barrier and touched two fingers to his brow in salute as they drove by.
“Civilian?” Ted protested as they drove up the hill. “Bet I have more training than him!”
“Remember it when we come across that zombie.” She pulled the van into the parking area, ignoring the barely visible lines, and shoved the gearshift into park. She kept the engine running. She turned her head toward the back where Roscoe and Gordon sat in the jump seats. “Spotlight in the bench.”
They passed her the handheld light and leaned over the front seats as she held it out the window and shined it into the playground beyond. The light cut a bright line upon the trees and equipment. They strained their eyes for signs of movement.
“Think it left?” Roscoe asked. He sounded almost hopeful.
“Why would it be here, anyway?” Gordon asked.
Neeta twisted the light away from the windshield and then started a sweep back. “Depends on the zombie,” she said. “Fond memories. Habit. Suicides return to the place they died.”
“Maybe it was heading to Dodger’s Stadium?” Ted suggested.
“Or the police academy,” Gordon added.
“Gawd, I hope not,” Roscoe said. “Those poor officers, having to shoot someone they might have known—we all know how traumatic that can be.”
Gordon shrugged. “As long as they go for the head, right, Neeta?”
“They’ve been trained,” she said. “All right. I’m not seeing anything. We’ll—”
“There,” Gordon called. “Ten o’clock.”
She jerked the light back to that position and caught a movement several yards into the trees. She thought she caught a glimpse of scraggly hair.
She pulled out her phone, pointed it in that direction, and then read off the compass directions to the others. She spoke while still casing the area with the light. “All right, plebes. Full gear, weapon of choice—nonflammable, Ted. We’re not setting LA’s oldest park on fire.”
Ted groaned, but just for show.
“Supersoakers are loaded. Everyone grab one. Spray first, and if it continues to approach, use weapons.”
“Come on, Neeta,” Gordon started.
Neeta turned her head to cut him off with a glare. “We don’t know what we saw is undead. We also don’t know if it’s the only one. Never assume. Remember the videos. Watch the signs. We spread out, ten-fifteen feet between, move in if you have to, as we get deeper into the brush. We keep in sight of each other. Full moon is going to help, but watch those shadows. What do you do if you see something?”
“Spray, then weapons,” the three chorused, Gordon, in a reluctant growl.
“Good. It’s me, Ted, Roscoe, Gordon. Ted, when we’re in the woods, stow the camera until after we’ve neutralized the threat. Dave will have to be satisfied with helmet cams.”
“Set them to night vision, then,” Ted said.
“Let’s go.” Neeta scanned the area once more with her light, just in case it had approached while she’d been briefing them. Then she pushed open her door and got out, hurrying to the back of the van. She didn’t intend to wait for Ted to get there before gearing up, but he beat her to the back and had the camera ready when Roscoe swung open the doors and Gordon tossed her the supersoaker. She slung it over her shoulder and accepted the chainsaw. She handed Ted an aluminum-handled ax with a titanium head.
“Be careful with that. It was a graduation present,” she told him.
Roscoe hopped out, holding his zombie basher like a ninja and winking at the camera, while Gordon jumped down, bearing a chainsaw.
Neeta took a look at the tight set of his jaw. “Ted, turn off the camera.”
“What? Uh, yeah, sure. Off.”
“Roscoe, Ted, keep watch.” Neeta stepped up until she was nose-to nose with the ex-Marine. “Gordon, this is not Korea. Got it?”
“What do you know about Korea?” he demanded.
“I know this isn’t it. Keep your head in the game. Got it?”
For a moment, he bared his teeth, ready to snarl. Then he shut his eyes, took a breath and released it slowly. “Walk in the park, Neeta.”
She slapped his shoulder. “Walk in the park, Gordon.”
They made their way quickly through the open area, Neeta growling when Ted paused to get some video of the moon through the crisscross of tent poles preset along the park. A breeze rustled the trees, sounding like the surf. A low moan broke the tranquility. Neeta glanced at her plebes, but none hesitated.
When they reached the tangle of bushes at the base of the hill, Roscoe groaned.
“Can’t we draw it out? I am so not wearing the right shoes for this.”
“You’re in a rubber suit,” Gordon retorted.
“I suppose you hike in galoshes all the time? What about the snakes? I hate snakes.”
“Quit whining.”
Neeta scanned the area, clicking her tongue as she thought. Roscoe’s wardrobe complaint aside, she didn’t like the terrain, either. Anything could hide under all that vegetation, and with the wind gusting, she couldn’t tell if the movement of the bushes was natural or undead. As she reported their position to the police, she reached into the pocket on the leg of her pants and pulled out four small canisters. She passed one to each of them.
“Combination antihistamine and air fresh,” she told them over their helmet mikes, then added for the cameras, “Low concentration of antihist, so it’s legal. It’s not enough to incapacitate the zombies, but if there are any hiding, it will bring them out—and probably make them mad.”
“Uh, do we want to bring them out if it will make them mad?” Roscoe asked.
“Make up your mind.” Gordon sighed. He hefted his chainsaw.
“I like the idea better than an ambush,” Neeta answered. “The wind’s in our favor tonight. Throw as far as you can. We want to drive them down to us. Gordon, put that down. We spray first.
“Don’t fire until you see the scabs. We don’t want to waste ammo, especially if there’s more than one. If we look like we’re getting overwhelmed, we make an orderly retreat back to the van. Got it?
“Okay, then. Throw on three. Roscoe, throw toward eleven o’clock. Ted, one o’clock. Gordon, three o’clock. Ready? Pull the pin. One. Two. Three!”
“Five,” Ted yelled as he threw his high up the hill.
Roscoe had a weaker arm; his only went half as far as Ted’s. However, no sooner had his landed than something rose from the bushes and started to shamble toward them.
“Here it comes,” Gordon yelled and fired up his chainsaw. He stepped forward.
“Spray, Gordon. Hold your position!” Neeta yelled.
Something was wrong. This zombie was paying way too much attention to the ground. It stepped around a bush instead of just plowing through it, and the way the moonlight reflected off its head...
Then the wind gusted a cloud of gas its way, and its hands went to its eyes as it started cussing.
No.
As he started cussing!
“Oh, no! Stand down!”
But Gordon was rushing forward.
“Gordon, no!” Neeta dropped her chainsaw and raced toward the man, who was now stumbling and swearing and trying to protect his eyes. Fortunately she was closer and
got between him and Gordon before he could bring the chainsaw to bear.
“Gordon, he’s alive,” she managed to shout before the wind brought another cloud of gas their way, and she, too, started gasping and swearing.
“It’s pulling its face off,” Gordon gasped out.
“It’s—” she broke off coughing. “It’s a mask.”
“What?”
The “zombie” raised his hands. “I’m not a zombie. I’m alive. Please don’t hurt me.” Then he, too, buckled over in a coughing fit as another cloud of gas wafted their way.
Gordon used the chainsaw to clear them a path, and they staggered upwind to the clearing, where Roscoe and Ted hurried to meet them. Though her eyes were streaming, she could see they were keeping formation, supersoakers up and watching the area around them. She wanted to praise them, but her lungs had other ideas for the air they took in.
I’m going to be smelling Mountain Fresh Spring for a week, she thought.
“Van,” she gasped out, snagging their imposter with one hand and scooping up her chainsaw with the other. As they walked, Roscoe used his walkie-talkie to let the police know the zombie threat was a hoax and asked for a squad car to meet them.
By the time they’d crossed the flat parkland to the van, everyone was breathing a little easier. Roscoe yanked open the van doors and hopped into the back. Neeta let Gordon pull off his helmet first, then handed him their impersonator while she yanked off hers. She tossed it up to Roscoe to stow. Ted passed up his helmet and ax and pulled out the camera. Gordon kept hold of his chainsaw.
The zombie impersonator was still partly buckled over. “My eyes,” he cried.
“Take off that mask,” Neeta ordered. She helped him wash his eyes with bottled water.
“Better,” he said after they’d gone through two bottles. He wiped his face with the towel Roscoe handed him from the truck, then looked at each of them slowly, beaming. “I cannot believe I did it. You’re the real deal, aren’t you? Zombie Death Extreme! You’re Roscoe. You’re Gordon. You’re...” He skipped over Ted, and when he came to Neeta, his voice fell into a reverent hush.
“You’re Neeta Lyffe. My friends are going to freak. I knew this would work. Yes!” He pumped his arms in victory.
“You did this...to meet us?” Disbelief made Neeta’s voice a raspy whisper.
“Bet your redeath, I did. And it worked. Neeta, I am your greatest fan.”
He gazed at her with wide star-struck eyes, and she fervently hoped she hadn’t looked at Bae that way.
“Who are you?”
“Tony. Tony Morales.” He grabbed her hand and began to pump it. “I’m the most active member of the ZDE fan club at Moorpark College. You probably remember my name. I run the ZDE fan website—the unofficial one—and the PeopleSpace fan page. Of course, I’ve written you after every episode. I mean, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but when I saw your show I knew my calling—”
Gordon glared at him with raised brows and a turned lip. “You want to be a zombie exterminator.”
“Guts and glory, man. Oooraw. That’s why after each show, I send you my analysis of what everyone did wrong. Figured I could get that inside track before the next season’s auditions.”
“Next season?” She didn’t think she was going to survive this season, and people were thinking she’d do this show again? “Why don’t you take a certification program?”
“Parents won’t pay for it. Besides, why would I want to waste my time with all the academics when I could learn as I work? I’m really a kinetic learner after all. I practice every day with my weed whacker—well, you know, when I’m not busy with the Zombie Death Extreme Unofficial Fan Blog or stuff.”
“You still have to—”
“You’re Neeta Lyffe. Why would I want to learn from anyone else? You are so awesome and hotter in person and—”
“What were you doing in a zombie costume?” she shouted.
“Well, you didn’t answer my letters, so I wasn’t sure you’d gotten them, and I didn’t want to wait until auditions. I mean, I’m 26 soon, and I’ll be off my parent’s health care and lose my government starter adult allowance, so I really need to know I’ll have something to fall back on. Besides, when I heard on the commercials that you were on 9-1-1 duty this week, and your boyfriend was going to take you to the Coats for Kids concert or whatever, I knew exactly how to get your attention.”
He paused and grinned. “Worked real well, too, didn’t it.”
Once again that night, she found herself blinking and speechless, but for a completely different reason. Was that how people thought of her now—a celebrity with an exciting job? Despite her best efforts, did they really see extermination like some kind of...adventure show?
I just wanted to pay my bills. She glanced at the hillside where just a few wisps of antihistamine gas chased across the brush like ghosts. I just blew $400 on a clueless fanboy...
“Neeta,” Roscoe called. “The police will be here in a couple of minutes. They’re going back to let folks know it was a false alarm.”
She started to tremble.
“Neeta?” Ted walked up behind her, camera down, and grasped her shoulder. “You okay?”
“Wow. I made an impression.” Fanboy Tony preened.
Neeta whirled and ran at Tony, slamming him against the side of the van.
“Impression? What about the impression you made on the people who live around here? There are lots of elderly and young families. Thanks to you, they got roused out of their homes—”
“They’re coming back.”
“Frightened out of their minds.”
“Oh, come on. It wasn’t real. They’re all safe. No harm done.”
Was this kid for real? “You caused a false 9-1-1 call to be made. You pulled a half-dozen police officers off their normal patrols—not to mention me and my crew. What if there had been a real sighting while we were dorking around with you?”
“That wasn’t so likely.”
“Do you know the penalty for what you’ve done?”
Now, his expression melted into confusion. “I figured once you understood my motives...”
Her lips curled back in a snarl. “You thought wrong. This is not just a show. This is real life, and until you’re ready to deal with that, don’t even think about dealing with the undead.” She shoved him once more before releasing him.
“I...” he started, then fell silent as she turned her back on him and stalked over to the open back of the van to shuck her hazmat suit. Ted, she noticed, abstractly, had filmed the whole thing.
Good.
Gordon gave her a sympathetic shrug as he walked past her and went to stand guard over their fan.
“And don’t ever say ‘OOH Rah!’ unless you earn the right and can pronounce it correctly,” the former Marine growled at him.
* * * *
Neeta sent Ted and Gordon to try to find the canisters when they heard a car coming up the hill.
Roscoe sighed. “The police. Finally! Maybe we can get back to the concert before it ends.”
Tony spoke up. “Neeta? Would you autograph my mask? You owe me that much.”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” Roscoe laughed in disbelief.
“No, wait.” Neeta stepped forward. “Toss over the mask.”
He smiled eagerly and yanked it from his pocket. As it arched through the air, she fired up the chainsaw and swung. When the teeth bit into the rubber, she cut the power so the slower moving chain mangled the mask.
Tony screeched.
“That cost $150 dollars!”
Neeta peeled it off the chain and dropped it on the ground. He fell to his knees and cradled it in his hands. The flayed zombie face fell in limp strips. He looked up, made vague protests.
“Next time you think about playing zombie, consider that that could have been your real face,” Neeta snarled.
After the police had taken their statements and driven off with their fanboy, they climbed into
the van. Neeta rested her head against the steering wheel.
“Neeta?” Roscoe asked. “Everything okay?”
“I don’t want to be a celebrity,” she murmured. “I don’t want to be famous. I just want to be able to do my job and maybe raise some awareness—”
“You’re doing that. Oh, gawd, Neeta, don’t let the Tonys of the world get to you.”
“He’s an idiot.” Gordon chimed in.
“How many people are like him, though? How many people watch this show and just think it’s—what? Fun?”
“Not as many as are watching it and learning,” Ted told her. “Come on. Remember all those letters?”
“I suppose...”
“Hey.” Roscoe leaned across the back of the seat and gripped her shoulder. “Let’s go back to the concert. Maybe we can still hear Sashimi Ice sing—and Gordon needs to get a certain bass guitarists’ phone number.”
“Bae!” Neeta jammed her keys into the ignition and started the car with a roar. “We were invited to go on stage with Sashimi Ice.”
Roscoe shrieked. “Drive, girl, drive. We are not letting some wannabe ruin our night.”
Her tires spat gravel as she tore out of the parking lot.
* * * *
The helmet camera flickered to life, revealing rows of dilapidated or abandoned buildings in a Los Angeles warehouse district, sharply defined in blacks and grays.
“Is this thing on?” LaCenta asked. “You reading, Shogun?”
Shogun, the cameraman for their team, replied, “Yeah. Looks great. Nasir, you’re fine, too. Go get it, guys. Wish I could say I’d like to join you, but that’d be a lie.”
LaCenta laughed. “Don’t you worry, Shogun. We’d rather have you safe in the truck, anyway.”
She turned her head and the camera panned swiftly until it focused on Jason Hollerman, with whom they were riding patrol. His exterminator’s suit bore a zombie roach being splatted by a giant flyswatter. His helmet had the same logo along with his name in letters that looked silver to the night-vision camera of LaCenta’s helmet.
Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator Page 13
