Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

  LaCenta asked, “Okay, Jace, what’s the plan?”

  Hollerman pointed with his chainsaw. “Police saw the zombie heading down this alley. It might just be passing through. Thing is, there are other dangers in this area. Lots of gang activity, drug dealing, etc. We stick together. We see something...questionable, remember: our first duty is saving lives from the zombie. We tell them to clear out, find a populated area. Got it?”

  “I understand,” Nasir said.

  “Got it,” LaCenta said. “So we’re not splitting up?”

  He shook his head. “If we run into trouble, defend yourself.”

  LaCenta held out her weapon—a hilt and curved hand guard, with a short, narrow blade. Just a stub of a sword, but when she pressed a button near her thumb, the blade lengthened and widened as the microfilaments extended. Power surged through them, causing the sword to both shed a gentle but lethal light and emit a hum.

  “Don’t need to tell me twice,” she said.

  Hollerman smirked. “Let’s go re-kill something.” He lowered his visor.

  They set off with Hollerman on LaCenta’s right and Nasir on her left. They started down the alley, supersoakers in hand. The moon bathed everything in a silver light, and the motion-oriented security lights shed conical brightness as they approached. The effect, combined with the fact that some of the warehouses had been built over a hundred years ago, made LaCenta feel like the heroine in a noir film—a modern and well armed, but out-of-place heroine.

  As they came to dumpsters or breaks between buildings, Hollerman or Nasir would turn and point their soakers toward the darkness, checking, while LaCenta kept an eye in front of them. Sometimes, she’d turn and look behind just in case.

  They finished checking the first alley and started back down the one on their right, heading back toward the parking lot with the van. They’d made it about halfway there, when LaCenta said, “Guys, there’s something on the left.”

  They ran forward and caught a hooker earning her pay from a none-too-particular john.

  “Oh, that’s so gross,” LaCenta said. Nasir just cleared his throat and turned to keep an eye on the area ahead while Hollerman went to warn them. The woman screamed, and the john whirled on Hollerman. He jumped back, arms up in a show of peaceful intent. He spoke to them in quiet, urgent tones. LaCenta turned her attention to the way they’d come, glancing back now and then.

  Hollerman offered to hose them down with cleaner. The prostitute agreed with a “Hell, yes, honey,” but the john argued that he hadn’t gotten his money’s worth, and he wasn’t going to “finish his business covered in Draino™.”

  LaCenta turned her head to see Hollerman raising his huge squirt gun at the girl, who held her arms wide. The man jumped in front of her, and they began to scuffle.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake!” She tossed her head.

  The camera caught a ghost of movement.

  “LaCenta, watch the rear,” the cameraman shouted. “Something’s coming your way!”

  She turned and was nearly knocked over by large black man in the high-water skinny jeans and pocket T-shirt some objectionable teen singing craze had made popular a decade ago. He grabbed her by the shoulders, as much to steady himself as her.

  “It’s after me. You gotta stop it! He wan’ snack my brains.”

  “Spray me. Spray me!” The john shrieked.

  “Let her go.” Nasir turned and interposed himself between LaCenta and the man, shoving him back.

  “Man, you gotta believe me. He’s following me.”

  The prostitute screamed and ran down the alley, her boots clunking heavily on the sidewalk and echoing off the corrugated steel of the warehouse walls.

  Nasir said, “You’re bleeding. Were you bit?”

  “We’ve gotta zone.”

  “Were you bit?”

  The man started to swear. “He’s coming. Man, you gotta download me—”

  “I load,” LaCenta shouted to be heard above the noise. “Now shut down, ‘fore he bead us!”

  The man took a great swallow of air and nodded.

  “Level. Now, he snack you?”

  “I...Chained me, I think. Smash me good on a wall. Brownout, but I romanced him ninja and peeled.”

  “What?” Nasir demanded.

  “Zombie smacked him into a wall. He hit his head, almost blacked out, but doesn’t think the zombie had time to bite him. He knocked it down and ran.”

  Hollerman appeared at their side. “They took off—hopefully toward their cars.” He paused to let out a long puff of air, a sign that he’d tried to chase them before giving up and running back. “I’m getting too old. Which way’d you see the zombie?”

  The man pointed down the alley and to the right.

  “OK. LaCenta, since you speak GangtaWoW, you get him back to the van. Find out anything you can from him and report to us. Check him over for zombie scat. You know how to do that, right? Good girl. Nasir and I’ll go after the zombie.”

  LaCenta grabbed her charge by the arm. “Come on. Let’s zone to our van, get you checked.”

  “The zombie, he—”

  She pulled the sword off her belt and activated it, then shut it down, but kept a hold of it. “Zombie ain’t got nuthin’ on me, baby.”

  She pulled him toward the van while her partners moved off in the opposite direction. Her charge shuffled along, and not just because his pants were too tight. He glanced fearfully into every corner and dark crevice, which she appreciated, but paused before each darkness, which she did not.

  After yanking him into action for the fourth time, she said, “I’m LaCenta.”

  “Rips.”

  “We’re almost to the van, Rips. End of the alley, cross the parking lot. We take that at a run. Copy? What’re you doing out here, anyway? Never mind. Not my business, right?” She spat that last.

  “He shouldn’t have come back.”

  LaCenta stopped, turned to face him. The camera wouldn’t show it, but he was pale and shaking slightly. His eyes were wide.

  “Liberty said we done it right. Back of the neck.”

  “Liberty was fighting the zombie?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Liberty home...” Suddenly, he swore and squeezed his fingers into his pocket. “Liberty home! Jackson not get me, go for Liberty.”

  “Jackson?”

  He pulled at the phone in his pocket, moaning in distress as it only moved in inches. “He shouldn’t have come back. Your posse gotta tank him.”

  “Tank? You been aggro’d?” she shrieked.

  “Liberty said we done it right.”

  The cell phone popped out of his pocket and clattered to the ground. He crouched for it.

  LaCenta backed up and sprayed him with several blasts of her supersoaker.

  “What you doing?”

  “Saving your life, fool! Zombie aggro you, you stay aggro’d. Stick close and we run.” She grabbed him and sprinted out of the alley and across the parking lot. As they ran, she hit the switch for her radio.

  “Jace, Nasir. Our man is a target. This zombie is after him personally.”

  “Spray him now,” Hollerman ordered. “We’re coming.”

  “Done that. Sprayed the trail, but he’s been bleeding. We see the van—”

  She slowed as she saw the cameraman pounding on the window and pointing behind them.

  “LaCenta!” Shogun’s voice sounded in her earpiece. “Behind you!”

  LaCenta released her grip. “Zone the van!”

  As soon as he released her and ran, she primed her supersoaker and spun, spraying a protective circle around herself. Then she slung the squirt gun behind her and activated her sword, scanning the parking lot for her target. She saw it shuffling quickly past a half-collapsed warehouse forty yards away.

  She stood directly between it and the van.

  The moonlight shone on the tall, thin zombie, giving its pale limbs an even more sickly glow. As it passed under a lamppost, LaCenta saw that its pleated sh
orts and once pressed polo shirt were crusted with drying mud. Seaweed hung from its shoulders, and sand coated its boat shoes. Its head lolled oddly and bounced as it moved. It dragged one side of its body, more like a stroke victim, and it moved its head only with an effort of shoulders and trunk.

  When it saw Rips, it let out an odd, strangled scream and shambled forward faster than LaCenta had imagined. She gripped her borrowed sword in both hands, braced her feet as much to keep herself from running as to ensure her balance, and waited.

  Ten yards.

  Over her helmet, she heard Shogun shrieking, “Where’d he go? Where’d he go?” but she ignored him. If Rips were smart, he’d duck under the van and pound on the door on the other side. She didn’t think he’d be smart. No matter.

  Three yards...

  If it had been daylight, she could have seen the zombie’s face, but the angle of its head cloaked its expression in shadow. Didn’t matter: its breathy screams spoke of outrage and murder. LaCenta shivered, but didn’t let her eyes move from its form.

  She heard the police siren, but ignored that, too.

  Almost there...

  As she’d expected, it skirted past her circle, barely taking in its or her presence. As it brushed past, she turned to track it, swinging the sword high. She saw its back and swung down hard with a cry of her own.

  She barely felt the resistance as electrified monofilaments sliced though skin, bones, muscles and nerve. In fact, it took her by surprise as the blade exited the front of its neck, and she nearly stumbled.

  It moved forward another step then crumpled, the head sliding from the body as it fell.

  “Now, it’s over,” LaCenta said. “What was its problem?”

  Carefully, sword still at the ready, she used the toe of her boot to push the body onto its back. Even waterlogged, she could see the small holes in its chest.

  LaCenta swore.

  “LaCenta,” Hollerman called. “Are you all right?”

  “Where’s that kid?” She scanned the lot, saw him heading back toward the alley. She started to run. “Nab him. Don’t let him get away!”

  Nasir ran toward him. The police car raced toward the alley, too.

  Hollerman, however, was heading toward her. “What about the zombie?”

  “Never mind that. It’s done. Get the kid!”

  “Why?” Hollerman started.

  The police car made it to the alley and blocked it. As the policemen jumped out, Rips changed direction, heading straight toward Nasir, and then jinking away as he saw the exterminator. Nasir made a flying tackle and knocked him to the ground.

  Rips swung and kicked as Nasir grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back, and pressed down with all his weight.

  Rips jerked his head back to break Nasir’s nose with the back of his head. It impacted against the exterminator’s helmet.

  The gang member groaned and fell still.

  LaCenta and Hollerman caught up to them just as the police did.

  “What’s going on?” the officer demanded.

  “That boy’s a murderer,” LaCenta declared. “His victim is over there.”

  “Are you certain?” the officer asked, though he pulled out his handcuffs.

  Rips protested groggily. “Not me, man. Liberty. I was kiting. He said we done it right. Thing aggro’d me. Almost killed me. Liberty said we done it right, and it came back to kill me.”

  The policeman looked from LaCenta to Rips then shook his head. “You have the right to remain silent,” he said as he took Nasir’s place and handcuffed the gang member.

  His partner turned to LaCenta.

  “Good work back there,” the female officer said, jerking her head toward the now-truly-dead corpse. “All things considered, I think we’ll need to call city morgue on this one.”

  Hollerman bowed his head. “Best news I’ve heard all night. I’m glad to have you clean up the mess.”

  She snorted. “We sure this area’s clear? No more undead? ‘K. I’m going to need to get your statements. The guy in the van, too...” Her voice trailed off as she looked toward Hollerman’s van.

  The cameraman had rolled down the window and was being noisily sick out of it.

  Hollerman groaned. “You’d better have missed the interior,” he shouted.

  * * * *

  Spud sat in the jump seat of A to Z Exterminations next to Lacey Cuthbert, holding the slim young woman’s wrist while she leaned in the opposite direction and made a little hum of pleasure. Across from them, the cameraman, Jake, shared a look with Spud as he filmed her stretching exercises.

  In the front, Gregory Cuthbert spoke to the police over the phone. The dispatcher had just reported to them about LaCenta’s and Nasir’s success not only in taking down a zombie but also a potential murderer. Now the driver, Boris Cuthbert, was griping about how dead Burbank was.

  “It’s going to get more dead if you don’t turn on that webcam while you’re talking on the phone,” the dispatcher chided.

  Studies had shown that “hands free” cell phone use while driving did nothing to reduce the number of accidents, and of course, the introduction of mobile video phones, which put the person’s face on the GPS screen, only added to the problem. A study by UC Berkley showed the real problem was not that the driver wasn’t holding onto the wheel, but that he or she was having a conversation with someone who was not also in the car and watching traffic. The real problem, it asserted, was the lack of a second person to yell, “Watch out!” as the distracted driver failed to see, for example, the garbage truck moving into the intersection.

  Two years after the study went public, the State of California required all cell phone users have a second webcam facing traffic. That way, the person talking to the driver could see the street ahead and call out warnings if necessary. California hadn’t seen a decrease in traffic accidents yet—though experts asserted they needed to wait a few years until people were “used to the technology;” however, the use of cell phones while driving had decreased significantly, especially among married couples.

  “Sweetness, you know I love you better when you don’t watch me drive,” Boris retorted.

  “Oh, that’s so much better.” Lacey hummed. She set her heel on Jake’s seat, then bent down, shrugging out of the shoulder belt so she could touch her nose to her knee. “That LaCenta has got it together, but don’t you two worry. We got something special planned for tonight. She leaned her head up to wink at the camera then switched legs.

  Boris and the dispatcher finished their repartee about his driving. “Well, I’m hanging up then before I get in trouble for not turning you in. I’ll give the kids a kiss for you when I get home, but I don’t think I’ll wait up. Been a long night. You doing a ZERD run?”

  “Yeah. Not much else going on. Gotta give our star here some royal treatment.”

  “Maybe I won’t sleep until you’re home then. Be safe, all right?”

  “Always. Too much to come home to.”

  “Love you. Now uncover that webcam. I’m sending Torrenson out there to keep an eye on things, and you know how he is.”

  Spud waited until he’d heard the click of the phone and saw Boris reach over and remove the bandana he’d tossed over the camera. “What’s a ZERD run, sssir?”

  He barked a laugh. “Neeta not mentioned those yet?”

  Lacey Cuthbert rolled her shoulders then moved her arms in wide circles. “Told you, brother, she’s saving it for her final exam.”

  She turned to Spud as she crossed her arm in front of her and used the other hand to push the elbow. “Where do you think ZERD gets its lab rats? It’s not like zombies leave their bodies to science.”

  “Why not?” Jake asked.

  Lacey rolled her eyes and followed the motion by rolling her entire head. “Come on, who expects to become the living dead? Can you imagine how much trouble it would be to keep a bunch of corpses on ice, hoping for that one in a thousand to rise up? Much more effective to hire some bodysnatchers.�
�

  “Wait a minute. We’re going to capture some zombies?” Jake’s camera fell onto his lap with a thump.

  “Karl will meet us at the Bedder Rest Mattress Factory with the truck. ZERD has a very nice cage for us to use—heavy plexiglass on wheels. Airtight. Zombies don’t need air, you know. Plus there are some nifty little devices in case we miss one or they get too frisky.

  “You do know that Bedder Rest is like Zombie Central for the Los Angeles area, right? We send in some remote cameras into the outlying areas, find a few who aren’t with the herd, and bring them in.”

  “How do we g-get them into the c-c-cage?” Spud asked.

  Lacey rotated her ankles then leaned down to pull the laces of her running shoes tight. She twisted her head toward him to wink. “With bait, of course.”

  The Bedder Rest Mattress Center was a long, two-story building designed to look like a pillow-top mattress when seen from above by the drivers on West Burbank. It took up over half the roughly oblong cement slab between South Front and the I-5 exit, with its back to South Front and the high walls that braced the hill on which Burbank ran. The parking lot faced the sloping three-lane exit to I-5. Once its entering and exiting delivery trucks had been a menace to traffic—now a different menace lay behind the eight-foot chain link fence and razor wire.

  Boris switched off the headlights as he turned off the exit and into the open gate. They pulled into the factory parking lot next to Karl’s truck—a short semi, nondescript except for the multitude of warning triangles indicating hazardous materials.

  “Everybody out,” Boris said, “and stay quiet. We don’t want to attract any attention until we want to attract attention.”

  They donned their protective suits, except for Lacey, who grabbed a spray can and a liquid-filled plastic bag from the trunk next to her seat. Spud looked at the cameraman, who nodded and gave him and Lacey a lopsided grin. Everyone grabbed gear and exited the van.

  Boris led them past the truck. The rear doors were opened wide, and the attached elevator lift rested on the asphalt. About a hundred yards away, in the shadow cast by the rising street, a man in a yellow Hazmat suit was hunched over some controls. They walked in silence until they got near him. Lacey moved to one side, set down her flamethrower and sprayed herself with the can she’d carried.