Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

  “Mom, yeah, yeah. I’m watching iNews, too. Yes, the boys are there. Well, obviously, they left me here. No, they missed all the fun—sorry, Mom. Okay, okay. I know, I’m sorry. I just meant they got stuck in traffic and didn’t get there until after the plane blanketed the area.”

  On the screen, footage from a news helicopter showed the area swathed in white foam save for a few smoking cars and the brightly colored hazmat suits of the people working to clean up the twice-dead and make sure there were no undead missed.

  “Victims of the accident say the exterminators—primarily the cast of the well-known reality TV show, Zombie Death Extreme—performed a minor miracle, with only four deaths and three new cases of zombie-ism—and those due to a spontaneous regeneration of Gloria VanBuren, 35, an accident victim who died and came back en route to the hospital.”

  Lacey leaned back, waiting for the interviews. “They’re doing the cleanup,” she told her mother, then laughed. “See why I said they missed the fun? I dunno. City’s paying, I guess. Yeah, I know. I suppose it’s a good thing, but we were making such good money.”

  The announcer continued, “But what do these intrepid exterminators have to say?”

  Lacey leaned forward. “Mom...Mom, hush and listen a minute. It’s him!”

  Gordon was standing on the fender of Neeta’s battered van, which had been towed away and hosed down. He held a zombie’s head in a plastic bag for all to see. The rest of the team was gathered around him, including some of the officers and the B to Z team. All were dripping wet from the decontamination procedures, and those who did not have suits were in hospital gear provided by a supplier only three blocks away.

  “We came. We saw. We kicked zombie ass and took heads.” He held the head high.

  Around him the others cheered and laughed.

  Sitting beside him, one foot propped on the fender and an arm resting on the knee, Neeta chuckled and shook her head, like a bemused schoolteacher of an unruly but high-achieving class.

  “We’re not taking the heads,” she said for the reporter’s benefit, “except to ZERD for research or to the incinerator.”

  Gordon pulled the head close and caressed it. “Spoils of war. I love this head!”

  “It’s leaking,” Roscoe said casually.

  “Yah!” Gordon tossed it away, toward the reporter in fact, who jerked back with a screech of his own. The others started laughing, and Roscoe and LaCenta did a high five—down low because their arms were so sore from waving the swords around. Neeta reassured the reporter the bags were ten times the rated industrial strength and airtight enough to keep viruses out—or in.

  The reporter, trying to regain his composure, asked the group what the biggest surprise of the day was.

  “No, Mom. Not that moron. To the right. Blue muscle shirt, short blond hair. Shy smile. ‘Smitten?’ Jeez, Mom! Who says ‘smitten,’ anymore?”

  Roscoe was waxing poetic about Neeta’s lunatic drive to save the looky-loo. “It was breathtaking. Edge. Of. The. Seat! I’m sooo sorry for whoever owns that H5. Oh, gawd, such heroism when she jumped out and just gave it to that guy to make his escape while she faced the horde alone!” Roscoe pretended to swoon into Gordon. Instead of snarling, Gordon laughed and pushed him upright.

  Neeta shrugged. “His car died. Vapor lock, probably.” She glanced back at the soiled Lexus. Every officer, out of spite, had stuck a ticket for a different traffic violation under its wiper. She shouldn’t get joy from that. Really.

  The cameraman caught her smirk.

  “All right, maybe I am smitten. Here! Here! Listen.”

  “I’m just glad to be alive,” Spud told the reporter. “Really, tha-that’s the largest surprise of all. Uh, can I, say something to someone? Lacey, I hope you have t-time to see me tonight. There’s something we need to t-ta-ta.” He ducked his head, grimacing, then took a breath and looked straight at the camera. “I have to ask you something,” he finished.

  “What?” demanded the reporter. The others joined in.

  “What?” Lacey yelled at the television. “What? What do you want to ask me?”

  On screen, Spud just shook his head, blushing slightly.

  The camera moved back to the reporter. “There you have it—the heroes of the day. Crowing their victory, keeping a level head, patting each other on the back—and hiding secrets.” He smiled at his last comment.

  LaCenta grabbed the mike and stuck her head next to his.

  “Now, we are going to ride into the sunset, like heroes do. See ya in a bit, Mom, Jamal, Moe.”

  The anchorman laughed his well-practiced laugh. “This is—”

  Lacey smacked her uninjured leg in frustration. “Mom, what could he possibly... No! Are you sure?”

  She grabbed the remote and backed up the feed.

  “There’s something we need to t-ta—”

  She froze it, dragged the cursor to his front right pocket, and enlarged.

  Just as her mother suspected, there was a small, square bulge in his pocket.

  “Yes,” she screamed at the television, dropping the phone, whamming her fists against the couch cushions joyously and bouncing so the ice pack slid off. “Yes, yes, yes!”

  * * * *

  Hollerman pulled his truck up to Neeta’s curb and unlocked the doors. She looked at the door handle. It almost seemed too much effort to open it.

  “Need help, Little Girl?” he asked.

  She shook her head tiredly but with affection. “I’ll be fine.” She leaned her head against the seat and tilted it toward him and his partners in the back.

  “Thanks for saving me.”

  Jose shrugged. His cousin, Elina, kissed her own hand and caressed Neeta’s cheek. Hollerman gave her a fatherly smile but merely said, “All part of the job, right?”

  “All part of the job,” she repeated. They all held up their helmets and clicked them together in a toast.

  “Now get on out so I can get home. That AH spray really is making me drowsy.”

  She got out and shut the door on the second try. As she dragged her duffle and herself toward her welcoming green door, her eyes were on the sidewalk, and her mind on what would happen next. A shift on cleanup, no doubt, then figuring out the damage to her van, and finally seeing if Eugene could recommend a good lawyer. No doubt, Twiddle was lining up the owner of the H5 to sue her.

  She mounted the steps still on automatic. Of course, tonight, she had to toss her gear into the sterilizer and scrub everywhere. A steamy shower sounded good for her sinuses, too.

  “Hey, hero.”

  Her key halfway in the door, she stopped and blinked at the man smiling invitingly from the porch swing. He wore dark jeans, just a bit too tight in the right way, and a white silky shirt unbuttoned, showing off a smooth, tanned chest.

  “Brian?” She paused to shake her head. Had they planned a date? “Um, what are you doing here? You do know what I’ve been doing?”

  “Of course. Why do you think I’m here?”

  Her eyes widened. How much of their recorded conversations had been aired already? “Brian, if this is about the virgin comment—”

  “Virgin what?”

  She raised her hand dismissively. It hurt. “Never mind. Why are you here?”

  He laughed, a warm, mellow, patronizing sound. “Neeta, honey. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

  “What?” She was going to need all her energy to figure out what he was talking about. She let her duffle drop.

  Taking that as an invitation, he rose and moved toward her, slowly. “Come on. You put up such a brave front for the others. You don’t need to for me.”

  “Front?” She seemed to understand one word in three and found herself repeating even fewer.

  “I understand. You have to be tough, but it’s okay around me. I know how traumatized you must be.”

  “Traumatized?” she repeated, then mentally slapped herself. “Why would I be traumatized?”

  “All those people you killed tod
ay.”

  “What?” Anger gave her energy to yell. “Is that what the news is saying? We only took out the undead.”

  “Right.”

  Her next statement started as an incoherent “bu—” She tried again. “What people, then?”

  Now he stopped, his whole demeanor twisting in confusion. “The zombies, of course.”

  She gaped at him. Didn’t they already have this conversation? “Brian, they’re not alive. They’re not people. They’re like cockroaches.”

  “Come on…” he coaxed.

  “I feel worse about exterminating ground squirrels.”

  “You are not so cold.”

  “Cold?” she squawked and then her voice did turn cold. “Listen, Brian. I am an exterminator. That’s my job. I remove pests, whether roaches, fluffy-tailed ground squirrels, or shambling rotting remains of what once was a human being. I don’t feel remorse. I don’t feel pity. Well, maybe for the squirrels, but not the roaches and certainly not the zombies.”

  His face clouded, and he lowered his arms. “How can you…?”

  “What I do feel,” she pressed on, “is filthy and tired and worried about how I’m going to deal with people out there who think I can destroy a shambling horde without collateral damage.”

  His crossed his arms, his whole body tense in anger under the soft folds of his shirt. “You just don’t get it, do you? I’ve tried. I really have. Neeta, I just want to be here for you.”

  “Be here for what?” she demanded.

  “To comfort you. To hold you. To hear your troubles and help.” He stepped toward her, then suddenly turned away, waving his arms and pacing. “All right! I get it. You are Neeta Larger-than-Lyffe, Bane of Zombies. The Great Hero of our era.”

  “Hey!”

  He spun back.

  “Don’t you think, just once, you could let someone rescue you?”

  For a moment, she just stared at him, stunned. Did he really say what she just heard him say? Had he bothered to watch the news all the way through, or had he decided to doll himself up to be ready to “comfort” her?

  His voice gentled. “Neeta, love—”

  She cut him off, her voice low, low in a way that the ZDE writing team knew meant “scoot your chairs back and duck!”

  “What do you think Hollerman did?”

  Brian just stepped closer. “Let’s not fight.”

  “What do you think Hollerman did? Were you watching when he pulled my posladko out of the fire?”

  “Okay, um, I meant—”

  “And Jesse and Elina? Or what about my plebes? Didn’t you see how they tried to blast me an escape route?”

  He jerked back as if struck. “Oh, are we on Ted again?”

  What? “Yes, Ted, and that officer—Angelina—and Nasir, and the cameraman—” Shoot! She didn’t even know his name. “What about Roscoe and Spud? They were going to hijack an ambulance and barrel down zombies to get to me! So you want to tell me again that I need to let people rescue me?”

  “You don’t understand what I’m saying,” he yelled.

  She shouted back, “And you don’t understand me!”

  The neighbor’s dog barked, startling them both. Neeta again realized she was standing on her front porch, arguing with her boyfriend, in full view of Mrs. Westerman and anyone nosey enough to have followed her home. So much for low profile.

  She pinched the bridge of her nose, trying to regain her composure. She was so goram tired.

  “Brian, I’m not trying to be a hero. I don’t need to be comforted for doing my job. I don’t put on brave fronts. This is who I am.”

  Suddenly, she felt tired and shaky and completely uninterested in continuing this conversation, now or ever. She pressed her posladko against the door in an effort to keep standing.

  “Brian, you’re a great guy. We’ve had a lot of fun, really, but…”

  “Right.” He spoke through gritted teeth. He turned on his heel and marched past her and down the steps. Then he turned, his eyes soft and melting her heart—or trying to.

  “Have a good life, Neeta.”

  She watched him until he got into his car, in part because she had to gather her strength. When he drove off, she wearily opened the door and forced herself to do her post-job errands. She took a long, hot shower, scrubbing her skin and under her nails and behind her ears and washing her hair three times.

  If she chose to cry there, it was her choice, not some man’s.

  Her last act was to turn off her phone and set her alarm. She didn’t remember hitting the pillow until she woke up drooling into it the next morning.

  * * * *

  LaCenta left the small party her brothers had arranged, claiming weariness, and made her way to the spare room her mother still kept up for her. She shut the door, sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her cell phone.

  “Oh, just eat the crow, LaCenta,” she snarled to herself after a good two minutes of debating and then dialed the number Sharon had given her earlier.

  “Hi, this is Katie Haskell.”

  “Katie, it’s LaCenta, girl. I didn’t wake you? Oh, now don’t be like that. It’s a reality TV show. Someone’s got to be the—”

  “What you were, Placenta, was a—”

  LaCenta pulled the phone away from her ear a moment then made herself laugh into it. “Girl, I do not believe you just called me that. You got hidden fire, that’s all I’m saying. No, no, I’m not mad. I guess I deserved it. Bygones, right?

  “Anyway, we just saw you on the TV, battling that zombie—no, the other one, the one that was still moving. Girl, you had some sweet moves.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “So, I can come back? You’re asking me to come back?” Katie squeaked.

  She did not just say that! LaCenta again forced a light laugh from her lips. “Oh, no, I’m not. You walked off the show. You gave up your chance at the mil’. Let’s not take bygones too far. Besides, you’ve got yourself a sweet gig, doing something important and hanging out with those hotties.”

  Katie laughed. “I know. Talk about fringe benefits.”

  “Well, I just wanted to let you know, you know, that you did good, and I’m glad you were there—and those guys you brought with you. What were their names?”

  “Guy and Denzel? Weren’t they the best? I mean, they are brand-new defensucators just moved here from Sacramento to help me promote B to Z, and lickety-splikety, they’re helping fight zombies.”

  “Their wives must be worried.” It was an obvious hint, but she knew Katie. The girl would natter on and never get to the point.

  “Oh, no wives. Corporate likes single reps. All the better to flirt with the customers. I don’t really agree with it, but sometimes, you have to deal with the boss. Dave taught me that.”

  She laughed, and LaCenta joined in with a real laugh of her own.

  Katie sighed. “Guy is so dreamy, with those big blue eyes. Just wish I could find a way to connect—outside of work, I mean, but I just couldn’t come out and ask him.”

  LaCenta lay back against the bed. How much easier could the girl make this? “Well, girlfriend, maybe we can help each other there.”

  * * * *

  Her business phone woke her half an hour before her alarm. Groaning and cursing herself for not having turned that one off, too, she answered and mumbled something she hoped sounded professional.

  “Just as we thought,” Dr. Spice said over the line. “Neeta, I’m calling you because we all know you and too well. You are not to return to the massacre site today.”

  “Massacre?”

  “Oh, yes. That’s what the press is calling it—crediting some unknown local historian. Pfaw! At any rate, we have the cleanup under control. Your services are not only unneeded, but if you should come by, anyway, you will be returned to your home—under sedation, if necessary.”

  “Cory, I’m fine.” In fact, she felt more than fine. She felt a growing warmth in her chest at her friend’s
concern…and Brian thought she needed rescuing.

  “Nevertheless, sleep in today. You deserve it.”

  “Doctor’s orders?”

  “Doctor’s orders.”

  He hung up then, and she put the phone in the cradle and leaned back against the pillows, thinking she could take advantage of the extra time and—

  That was the last thing she remembered until the sun woke her an hour after her alarm should have gone off.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Notes from: The Zombie Syndrome

  A Documentary

  By Gary Opkast

  Episode: Zombie Exterminators

  Clip from several past segments showing different ways of fighting off undead, ending with Zombie Death Extreme footage of Neeta whacking away at the zombies. NOT THE BERGIE SCENE!!! DO NOT LET ANYONE TALK YOU INTO USING THE BERGIE SCENE!!!

  NARRATOR: Despite efforts made to stem the tide of undead, the zombie syndrome remains—and probably will for a long time. While the average person has some means of defense, when it comes to tackling the problem—and decapitating it—you need a professional. The Zombie Exterminator.

  CAROL LYFFE (Be sure to credit the iNews Personality Profiles for the testimony): I never intended to become a zombie exterminator. My husband died, and I didn’t want to do the single mom thing as a Marine. I used my GI money to get exterminator training and set up a business with a classmate, Jerry Lee. Those first years were tough. I did a lot of overtime to make ends meet.

  It was February, and it’d been raining steadily for a week. The Sunnyside cemetery was having a problem with rats—they were just pouring out of there in droves, it seemed. We know now that’s a sign that an area’s infected with zombie-ism, but at the time, everyone blamed the rains. They had some bigwig getting buried there in a couple of days, so they needed the place cleared fast—and, of course, after hours.

  We were in rain gear setting traps and other “nonstandard” ways of getting rid of the pests—stuff I’d picked up in the Corps and adapted—when Jerry noticed one of the graves just, well, writhing. There hadn’t been a lot of zombie sighting yet, but it’s not hard to figure out what that meant. I grabbed Jerry and ran to the groundkeeper’s shed.