Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

  She was so tired.

  Neeta carried a chainsaw. Now she understood her Amazon biceps.

  “This is crazy. They’re everywhere.” Something grabbed her ankle and reflexively, she cut off the zombie’s hand.

  Gordon laughed. “We got them right where want them; now we can’t miss.”

  “Stupid Jarhead!”

  “Once a Marine, always a Marine. So, ready to bolt?” Gordon asked.

  “You leading or me?” she demanded.

  “Go, go, go,” Gordon cried. He ran down the trunk and leapt off, swinging his chainsaw and decapitating the zombie trying to get them from behind.

  “Semper fi,” he yelled, and a zombie with a “Death Before Dishonor” tattoo on his arm turned away from them.

  “Yaaaa,” LaCenta yelled and ran after him, taking out a zombie at the right and maiming the one behind it. No way was she losing to that pumped-up jarhead. She needed the money to buy a home gym.

  She heard the roar of an engine and saw an H5 tearing across the road, its combat-grade, totally reinforced and puncture-proof safety wheels kicking up glass and its front bumper mowing down zombies as it raced toward a Lexus parked at the side of the road. She saw a helmet with Neeta’s logo.

  She felt real sorry for whoever was in the Lexus.

  * * * *

  Katie lifted up her visor to smile at the children. “Don’t be afraid. It’s just me.” Several of the smaller children, already terrified beyond reacting, simply hid their faces in the legs of a parent, while others glared at her scornfully.

  “Everyone, listen to me, please. In a few minutes, the B to Z truck is coming here to get us out.” She let them cheer a moment and held up her hands. “Now, I heard an ambulance coming, and we’ll have them take as many wounded as they can carry. Uninjured people will crowd into the truck. We want to cram as many people as possible, so please skooch in.”

  “Lady,” a child cried. She stood near an unconscious woman, holding her hand so tightly her knuckles were white.

  Katie knelt down. “Oh, is this your mom? You can go with her. It’s okay.”

  The child shook her head. “Don’t want to go. The ambulance is sick.”

  Confusion made Katie laugh. “Sorry. What?”

  “The ambulance is sick.” The child pointed.

  Katie turned just in time to see the ambulance, swerving along the road like a drunken thing, hit the median and go into a spin.

  Behind her, Roscoe led a cheer at something going on, on the front. Their voices drowned out the screams of surprise of those in the back as the ambulance flipped and slid toward them.

  It stopped mere yards away.

  Immediately, a couple of EMTs left the group and ran for the ambulance. Together, they pulled at the doors, opening the bottom one, and one peered inside.

  “Run,” he screamed and backed away.

  “What?” Katie yelled. “What is it?”

  A hand too pale and stiff for the living clawed spasmodically at the door as a zombie in torn clothing crawled out of the ambulance, tugging IV tubes and EKG wires with it. It rose and forced its mangled body toward them, groaning.

  The child beside her whimpered.

  “No,” Katie whispered, then with growing strength: “No. No, no, no, no—NO!”

  She whipped out her sword and ran toward them screaming, “You will not take the children. NO!”

  * * * *

  Roscoe was leading his “civilian troops” in a cheer as LaCenta jumped down from a blue Mustang when he heard children screaming.

  “Stay here. Guard the front,” he shouted to the nervous group, then ran to the back.

  It took only moments to round the group, but when he got there, Katie was already making mincemeat of the zombie, having sliced off its arm and a leg and its head in three places. She was still hacking at it with the sword, screaming incoherently.

  Everyone was staring at her, now more afraid of her than the zombie.

  He approached cautiously. “Katie?”

  “No, no, no! You will not do to them what you did to Bergie.”

  “Katie, it’s over.”

  “You horrible, unnatural—” She stopped swinging to kick the corpse.

  “Katie!” Roscoe ran behind her and grabbed her, pinning her arms. She continued to kick and scream and try to slash at the air with her sword.

  Because of that, they didn’t hear people shouting that a second—and third—zombie were approaching.

  Roscoe tried to drag her back and finally arched his back, picking her up off the ground entirely. “Oh, honey, you weigh more than you look,” he grunted.

  Katie, thrashing, kicking and now screaming epithets she’d blush about later, twisted, and Roscoe saw the zombiefied ambulance attendants reaching for them.

  Roscoe turned and put Katie between them. Her wildly swinging sword sliced through the face of the first one.

  Roscoe dumped her to fight that one, and pulled out his bottle of Porcelain Sparkle to take on the other, a lovely 30-something woman but for the dazed, angry expression.

  “Bring it, baby,” he found himself yelling. “Let’s get real!”

  * * * *

  Neeta swore in Dari, enjoying how the syllables tripped off her tongue. It was oddly relaxing, and made a nice counterpoint to the corpses bumping off her fender. She’d have preferred the radio, but when she started the engine, LA’s Philharmonic Plays ABBAs Greatest Hits was in the CD player, and she couldn’t find the off button. In fact, all she’d managed to do was activate the loudspeaker so that it broadcast the music.

  Of course, it did get some of the zombies stopping to sway together in groups.

  A zombie leapt onto the hood. She turned on the windshield wiper fluid and it screeched and fell off. She bounced in the seat as the rear tires bumped over it.

  She kept accelerating toward the still-idling Lexus until she wasn’t sure she could brake in time, then stomped on the brakes with both feet and jerked the wheel to the right. She could hear the squeal of the tires over her swearing, the zombie groans, even the enthusiastic all-violin rendition of “Dancing Queen.”

  She panted as if she’d run the entire distance, took a deep breath to slow her heart, and took in her surroundings.

  She came to a stop beside the Lexus, its side mirror mere inches from her door.

  And in the process, she’d somehow bumped the off button for the CD. All right!

  In front of her, lining the shoulder of I-5 just past the police barrier, a half dozen looky-loos stood outside their cars, holding up cell phones to record the massacre.

  Not all right.

  She grabbed the mike and cranked the volume to full.

  “Listen up over there,” she called in her most commanding voice. “There are about a hundred undead heading your way, so unless you want to join them, get in your cars and go. I repeat—”

  Something knocked on her window. Her jaw dropped.

  Bruce Twiddle, Attorney at Law?

  I could go, she thought. Drive back to the fray, save those worth saving—

  She lowered the window. Everyone was worth saving, even Twiddle.

  All part of the job.

  Even as she was drawing a breath, he started, “Do you mind? Some of us are working here.”

  “Get in your car and get out of here,” she shouted. “The zombies are headed—”

  Her ears caught up with her brain and she shrieked, “Working?”

  He continued self-importantly. “When all this is done, there are going to be a lot of people who will need representation, and Wanker, Wanker, and Twiddle prides itself on…” He paused, his own brain doing catch up.

  “Neeta Lyffe, if that’s your car, I’d say you’re not doing so bad.”

  “Look, Twiddle, you have to get out of here. Zombies are coming!”

  He sneered. “You mean other than the ones crawling up your bumper?”

  She swore as she saw a head pop up from the grail. Ignoring Twiddle, she threw t
he car into reverse, cranked the wheel hard to the left, just missing Twiddle’s Lexus again. She hoped he appreciated that, unintentional as it was.

  Then she shoved it into drive and rammed the fender into the cement wall.

  “Whoa,” Twiddle yelled, holding up his cell phone to get a shot.

  Neeta kept her foot on the gas until she was sure the midsections of the zombies were nothing but goo. Then, she hit reverse, spun around and smashed the backside of the H5 into a wall. She was rewarded with a crunch and a groan.

  She leaned out her window. “Twiddle, can’t you see—”

  But he did see. He leaned out of his window, frozen and staring at the crowd of undead shambling his way.

  “Get in your car and drive,” Neeta yelled.

  For once, he listened. He ducked into the car. She heard it give a couple of mechanical clunks and die.

  With a scream of frustration, she pulled up next to him again.

  “It’s dead,” he shouted.

  How long had he been idling in this heat, part of her wondered. The rest said, “Try again.”

  “I have been!”

  “Then take this one. Just take it and drive. Worry who it belongs to after you’re sure you’ll live.” She jumped out of the van, pulling her chainsaw with her.

  He dashed out, gathering his iDoAll and phones. When he saw the seats, he stopped.

  “I can’t sit in that. It’s covered in…gross.”

  “I’m covered in gross. Excuse me for working!”

  “I’m not sitting in that. I might get contaminated. Do you want that on your conscience, too?”

  “What I want—” she started then caught herself. Didn’t matter. They were coming while she argued with this baka tare. She grabbed the passenger door and tugged it open. Under the seat, as she expected, she found an unopened winter emergency gear kit.

  “Unless you want me touching the tarps, pull them out yourself and drape the seat.”

  “I hardly—” he started, when a moan cut him off.

  “Duck,” Neeta yelled, and raised her squirt gun. She shot the zombie full in the face, and it fell onto its rump, shaking its head.

  “Get in, use the tarp, get out—and take those idiots with you.” She swung the butt of her gun toward the couple of cars still hanging around.

  Again, he obeyed, and while she made real music with her chainsaw, he clambered in, locked the doors. A few minutes later, he drove off, ABBA again playing on the loudspeakers.

  The zombies paused, watching him go. Then, deciding Neeta made a better target, they advanced, slowly, as if each one had loved Night of the Living Dead in life.

  “I could use some help by the red Lexus,” she called over the radio.

  “Neeta, get out of there,” were the replies she received.

  She looked about her. The only way out was I-5, and she was not luring the horde that way. She yanked the top off a bottle of B to Z and poured it over herself then threw it toward the horde.

  “I can’t! Backup, please!”

  Static answered her.

  She bared her teeth behind her helmet, and sprayed the area in front of her. They stopped, torn between the repellent scent of the toilet cleaner and the lure of her own sweat.

  For the first time in a long time, she prayed. I don’t want to die, God, but if I go, let me die fighting.

  And please make them bury me with my severed head in my hands.

  * * * *

  Spud heard Nasir swear as he struggled with the duck tape. “I’m sending the last bomb Neeta’s way. What else have we got?”

  Gordon replied. “Try to vector it between LaCenta and me and Neeta. Maybe we can cut through.”

  “That’s stupid,” LaCenta countered. “We’ll all be killed. There are too many. We need a vehicle.”

  “Neeta’s van?” Roscoe chimed in.

  “Tires blown out. Zombies swarming it.”

  “The news choppers,” Katie called. “Maybe they can land?”

  “No place safe,” Gordon replied.

  “I’ll call anyway,” the new cameraman offered. “Maybe they have a ladder.”

  “Spud here. There’s an ambulance c-coming this way. I’m going to flag it down and take it.” He trotted down West Burbank.

  “Oh, Spud, be careful.”

  “Will do. I got too much to live for.” Despite himself, his hand went for his pocket, making sure the ring box was still there in his jeans under the exterminator suit. Regardless of their jobs, he didn’t think a gore-splattered engagement ring was all that romantic.

  “Spud, you stud, we’ve almost got the victims packed in. Pick me up, and we’ll get her together.”

  “Roger, Roscoe.”

  Nasir said, “Until then, what can we do to stall?”

  “Neeta, you can’t die,” Katie shrieked over the radio. “Just run! For the love of everything, just run!”

  “Anytime, guys,” Neeta grunted, and they heard the chainsaw grinding through zombie flesh.

  “Neeta!”

  Gordon cut off Katie’s frantic calling. “Neeta, do you copy?”

  All were silent, but all they heard were her grunts and the sound of zombies and titanium chain.

  “Her comms are out,” LaCenta gasped.

  “You’d better fear me. I’m Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator. I am your doom!”

  “Go, Girl! Oh, gawd, she’s hard core even now. I’m so in love. Well, lust.”

  Spud rolled his eyes at Roscoe’s comment as he waved his arms to stop the ambulance. That was Roscoe, right to the end.

  “Roscoe, shut your hole,” LaCenta snarled.

  “Nasir, just bomb her an escape route. She’ll know what to do.” Gordon said. He pointed to another car closer to Neeta’s position. They jumped to it.

  “I’ll blast cars,” Ted said. “Angelina can shoot the gas tanks, and I’ll ignite them. She’d rather brave fire than zombies, right?”

  “Right! Hey, Gordon, sing the Marine song, quick.”

  “From the Halls of Montezuma/to the shores of Tripoli…”

  LaCenta hollered in a drill sergeant voice. “Norks at eleven o’clock. Get them men! OOH-Rah!”

  Even from where he was climbing into the ambulance, Spud could hear an undead chorus shout “OOH Rah!” in reply.

  “Napalm away,” Nasir called.

  The cameraman broke in. “I sent the other drones to harass the zombies. So, uh, don’t do anything too spectacular, k?”

  “Air force,” Gordon snorted, then continued with the second verse.

  “Guys, I hope you’re planning something. I don’t want to die a virgin here.”

  “Look!” LaCenta paused in her swinging to point in Neeta’s direction.

  * * * *

  One brave zombie crossed Neeta’s line, and the rest followed. As she backed around the car, spraying and slicing, they advanced, cautiously, almost as if they knew who she was.

  “You’d better fear me. I’m Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator. I am your doom!” she shrieked.

  She didn’t make any feints, couldn’t waste the energy. She had to keep alive until help came—because she knew, even though she couldn’t hear them, that her plebes would find a way to save her.

  She hoped they’d be in time.

  The zombies lunged toward her one at a time, like in a bad karate flick. Like in those flicks, she howled, and kicked, and swung, knocking one back, spinning and chopping the arm off another, months of training in the simulator allowing her to now move on reflex. No trick shots now, though—decapitate or incapacitate. Her body knew. Adrenalin and effort made her feel feral and dizzy.

  But there were just too many, and after they’d backed her into the wall, not far from the smeared remains, fear began to get a finger hold.

  “Guys!” she called. “I hope you’re planning something! I don’t want to die a virgin here!”

  Suddenly, a camera drone dropped between her and the zombies.

  “This is what you’re goin
g to film?” she shouted, but instead the drone plunged into the thickest part of the zombies. They fell back, partly from surprise.

  Then a horn blared, and a van with a zombiefied cockroach on the top drove into the fray. The roach tilted as the hatch in the top opened and two Hollerman and Co. Exterminators popped out the top and started spraying the horde with 409.

  Neeta cheered and started to cut a path toward them.

  A moment later another drone dove into the horde on her right and exploded. Bits of zombie, aflame from the napalm, rained over the rest. Some tried to stop, drop and roll, bumping into their neighbors. Further back, she heard gunshots paired with explosions. Ted, no doubt. Did she hear the Marine Corps Hymn? What were her plebes doing?

  She climbed onto Twiddle’s car and made a running leap for Hollerman’s. Jason caught her.

  “Am I glad to see you!”

  “I’m glad to know you’ve kept your virtue intact, Little Girl,” he said, and for a moment, she was torn between laughter and tears.

  A thunderous droning sound distracted her, and she looked up.

  “Yes!” she screamed as the CL415 Superscooper soared past, circled fast and dumped 1600 gallons of ZERD-created antihistamine foam on the area.

  “My truck,” Hollerman wailed as some of the foam leaked in through the open hatch.

  Now sitting on the top, her legs dangling over the hood, Neeta wiped foam off her helmet and laughed as 213 zombies sank to the ground twitching and groaning and finally falling still.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The LA Zombie Massacre. That’s what local historians are already starting to call the incident at West Burbank and South Front Street where nine exterminators and a handful of police officers took on—and defeated—over two hundred undead…”

  Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild” sang over the news anchor’s report. Not taking her eyes off the screen and trying not to disturb the ice pack on her knee, Lacey reached on the table by the couch for the phone.