Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

  LimbCollector—Please tell me you’re joking. That’s not going to help her.

  Momma—Zombies are meat. The person that was, is no more. Like Neeta said on the show, if you forget that, you will die...and come back.

  Re-DeadMan

  My uncle’s best friend was almost killed by a zombie. It was his old girlfriend. Uncle had to drag him into the car. Not saying what Neeta did was right, but you can’t think of zombies as people you know.

  Rigormortis

  Are you people reading? Neeta didn’t know. Roscoe said so on his blog. Here’s the link again.

  Incidentally, I used the address Roscoe gave us in WTF? Neeta sued? thread and sent her something. Got a thank you from the studio. Anybody else? Anybody know if Neeta’s getting the stuff?

  * * * *

  Neeta walked into the staff meeting carrying a stack of tabloids in one hand and her chainsaw in the other.

  Dave grinned at her in that oblivious-to-all-but-himself way of his. He waved his arms toward the screen showing a graph chart, its line on the rise. “Neeta, baby, have a seat. We are so on. Have you seen the latest viewer stats?”

  He applauded, and the others around the table joined in.

  Neeta tossed the tabloids onto the table, fired up the chainsaw and slashed the blade across the screen. The chain blade ripped through the stats, the screen, and the wall.

  The room went silent, save for a tiny “eep!” from Gary.

  “Okay,” Dave said, taking a seemingly casual step back. “I see that you’re upset...”

  Neeta pressed the kill switch and spun toward Dave. The chain stopped its angry rotations as the blade came inches from his chin.

  “Tell me, Dave, do you know how many zombie exterminators have had psychiatric care after lopping off the heads of a former loved one?”

  “Uh...” He turned his eyes toward Sharon, but she seemed happily focused on her DoDroid. In fact, she was making twitchy sounds.

  “About half of what it used to be. Do you know why, Dave? Because we prepare them as trainees. We give them skills to cope. Do you see where I’m going with this, Dave?” She gave him her best crazed serial killer look. She’d rented The Shining over the weekend and studied Jack Nicholson’s expression to get it just right.

  “Neeta, let’s be rational about this...”

  “Oh, I don’t need to be.” She jerked her head toward the table, where the tabloids had spilled to show their headline: “Unstable Host of Zombie Death Extreme Teaches Trainees to Kill Family Members. ‘They’re Just Meat!!!’”

  “Funny how liberating it is having half the world think you’re a serial killer in the making. If I decide to remove your scheming mind from the rest of your back-biting body, I think I have a good shot at an insanity plea, don’t you agree, Eugene?”

  “My name’s—” The lawyer started automatically then coughed. “A good case, actually.”

  She winked at him and then gave her attention to the director. “So here’s what we’re going to do, Dave. You’re going to let me decide the challenges. You’re going to discuss any and all changes with me. You’re not going to do anything without my approval. You will not so much as add in a sneeze without my approval. Got it?”

  He met her eyes. She held his gaze for a moment then looked toward her right hand. As he unwittingly followed her gaze, she caressed the trigger with her index finger. He gulped.

  “We’ll do it your way, but the ratings—”

  “Will be what they will be. Got it?” She chucked his chin gently with the flat of the blade.

  “Wha-whatever you say, Neeta.”

  “Good. I’m glad we had this little talk.” She relaxed her eyes from their strained, too-open expression, and lowered her chainsaw. Then she sat down at her usual place, smiling as if nothing had happened. She dropped the chainsaw in front of her on the table and leaned back into her seat.

  “Oh, hey, help yourselves to a copy,” she told the stunned crew. “I got enough for everyone.”

  Ted reached over and grabbed one. “Nice likeness,” he said, grinning at the cover bearing a doctored photo of her in a bloody, torn t-shirt and jeans, hair wild, eyes wilder, bearing a butcher knife in one hand.

  “Thanks. There’s an even better one of LaCenta beating the crap out of me. Wonder where they got that still?” Her gaze drifted toward the cameraman who had been filming LaCenta’s challenge, and her hand stroked her chainsaw.

  He paled and ducked his head.

  Neeta smirked. He wouldn’t be sharing any more candids, no matter how anonymously. “So, I was thinking for our next challenge, we take this show on the road. Split them up in pairs and team them up with working exterminators on some 9-1-1 patrols. You should get some action for the show, plus a nice human angle, and they’ll be working with professionals. I already talked to the guys who helped evaluate, and they’re game. What do you think?”

  They all practically bounded out of their chairs to agree, except for Sharon, who continued to coo at her DoDroid. When Neeta glanced her way, however, the executive assistant gave her a smile and a wink.

  After what Neeta thought was a very productive meeting, the lawyer approached her as the others left. “Miss Lyffe, may I see you in my studio office?”

  With a philosophical shrug, she followed him into the office in a small bungalow just off the set. Unlike his lush, Hollywood office, this one was small, utilitarian, and crowded. A large blue mailbag slumped in the only chair.

  That was fine. She didn’t intend to stick around. “You going to legally chide me on my behavior toward Dave?” she demanded.

  “Not at all.” He unbuttoned his suit coat, which he wore despite the heat, and settled into the chair behind his cheap desk. “Dave has crossed the line a few too many times. You, however, are the only one to have ever brought him back at the point of a chainsaw.”

  “Chainsaws don’t have points.”

  “I do have a point for bringing you here. These have come for you the past couple of weeks.” He indicated the mailbag.

  She grinned like a cat that ate the canary—if the canary gave the cat indigestion. “Hate mail. Great. Thanks for bringing it to my attention, Eugene.”

  Eugene cleared his throat. “Not quite. There is hate mail—I can forward it to your home if you wish—save any death threats which are automatically forwarded to the police, of course.”

  “Death threats?”

  “Don’t worry until we tell you to. You’re actually quite well thought-of. At any rate, these are of a different caliber. Go on.”

  Neeta reached into the bag and pulled out an envelope. “It’s opened.”

  “Of course, we screen all mail. It was in your contract, if you recall.”

  Not answering, she shoved the mailbag off the chair and sat, feet resting on the bag.

  Inside was a letter and a child’s drawing of a stick-figure Neeta lopping body parts off squiggly zombies. It was signed in all caps: Justin, age 5. Neeta snorted and showed the picture to Eugene, who nodded before turning his attention to his computer. She read the mother’s note.

  Dear Neeta,

  Four years ago, I lost my husband to zombie attack. When he came back, I almost lost Justin and my own life.

  I heard about the lawsuit. It stinks—they obviously don’t understand the danger they were in. I’m sorry. I’d like to help. It’s not much, but it’s all I can afford right now.

  You keep lopping off heads and don’t let anyone tell you different.

  Patricia Whilte, aka Rigromortis on the ZDE forum

  Paper-clipped to the note was a five-dollar bill.

  “Uh, Eugene...”

  “There’s approximately $8000 in that mail bag alone, and I don’t think it will be the only one. If you wish, I can establish a non-profit fan organization—”

  “I can’t take this money! Besides, I’m not giving Twiddle the satisfaction of having someone else bankroll his new sunroom. Can we just pass it on to the Exterminators Survivors Fun
d?”

  Eugene smiled. “I thought you might suggest as much. I’ll make the arrangements. Do you wish to read the letters?”

  She looked at the mailbag. It was huge—and just the first? She looked back at the picture lying open in her lap.

  Take the accolades where you can, Mom used to say.

  “Yeah, I would. If that’s all right...”

  “I already have an intern sorting out the cash and sending the usual replies and cast photo on behalf of the studio. The one you opened is the only one with actual cash in it. She’s made a note of each donation on the envelope in case you wish to personally reply. “

  She gaped. “How long will that take?”

  “Depends on whether you have help, I suppose.”

  Maybe she should ask Roscoe. He must deal with this. Or maybe Brian...

  The door banged open and Dave bounded into the room, Sharon and Ted close behind. “They told me you were in here. I knew something was brewing.” His wild, enthusiastic gaze moved from the lawyer to Neeta to the bag at her feet. “Eugene, is that fan mail? For our Neeta? Yes! I knew there was something. This is perfect for our weekly website candid. Is this all? No? Of course not—Neeta’s a star!”

  His gaze turned inward to some vision in his mind. He snapped his fingers. “Sharon, baby. Gather up this mail. Call the stage crew. I want the lounge setup—let’s add a large coffee table to scatter the letters with careful abandon—careful, not careless. These are adoring fans. Then, stacks of thank you cards, pens, pictures of the cast—you know the drill. Call our plebes. They need to be here an hour or two early. Ted, block the scenes. I’m going to want emotions: tender, heartfelt feelings of gratitude. This will be a real bonding moment.”

  Neeta frowned. “You don’t think you’re wrecking the ‘tender, heartfelt’ of the moment? I’d really rather look these over in private—”

  Dave spread his hands, “Neeta, baby, moments like this are meant to be shared.”

  * * * *

  Notes from The Zombie Syndrome

  A Documentary

  By Gary Opkast

  Episode: Zombies—Dead or Alive

  News footage of the 2027 protests—focus on the signs “Zombies are people too!” or “Don’t re-kill my son!”

  HANNA NADALMAN, RE-GRIEF COUNSELOR AND AUTHOR OF NO LONGER THE ONE YOU LOVE: THE TRUTH ON DEATH AND THE UNDEAD: The classic first stage of grief is denial. We don’t want to let go of the people we love, no matter what the circumstances. So when the dead started returning, of course it was natural to believe it was some kind of miracle—and you have to remember, the popular literature of the time, from Twilight to Generation Undead, made what were once classic embodiments of evil seem very human, even romantic—but in reality, that’s a fatal assumption.

  NARRATOR: Unfortunately, zombies will occasionally show characteristics in death that they held in life, which can influence their loved ones. The classic case is that of Jebediah Gump of Winston Lake, Tennessee. Three days after his burial, Gump showed up at his home, let himself into the trailer he had shared with his wife, Josie, and sat down in front of the television.

  2021 Interview of Josie taken by local news station.

  JOSIE: (30-something dishwater blond, dyed brassy copper. Leopard patterned blouse over straining black sweats.) Well, I woke up, and he was just there. So, you know, I got him a beer, and it’s just like he’d never, never...I’m sorry, I—

  REPORTER: So has he told you what it was like? To die and come back?

  JOSIE (wiping eyes): Oh, he weren’t never much of a talker. Now, he just grunts when the channel needs changing or wants another beer. But, well, between you and me, it has changed him. He’s a lot gentler. There’s no—well, you know—but I figure dead takes a lot out of a guy.

  REPORTER: What about the smell?

  JOSIE: Now, listen here. I had been in mourning, and Jeb has special needs now. If I can’t keep up with the housework, that’s none of your damn business.

  REPORTER: No! I meant—

  (Camera angle goes nuts as Josie manhandles both reporter and cameraman out. Last scene is diagonal angle of her on the four-board porch shaking her fist and shouting obscenities. End before the dogs start mauling the reporter.)

  Various shots of tabloids and magazines with Josie on the cover.

  NARRATOR: While the world watched on at a respectable distance, the Gump house seemed to function as normal. Josie even claimed to family and friends that now Jebediah didn’t eat and didn’t seem to mind cheaper beer, she was actually better off financially than ever. Then came the fateful phone call.

  (Need some kind of stills to go with the radio show.)

  DR. WILSON: You’re talking to Dr. Wilson. Who’s this?

  JOSIE: (sniffles. Reruns of Jerry Springer in the background) Josie Gump, doctor.

  DR. WILSON: The Josie Gump? Wow—how can I help you, Josie? Things not going so well with Jebediah?’

  JOSIE: Well, I know I shouldn’t complain, and I really am grateful to have him back. A house needs a man, if you know what I mean; but all he does is sit there and stare at the TV. Night and day, day and night and—

  DR. WILSON: Have you told him how you feel?

  JOSIE: It’s grunt for a beer, and grunt for another. I don’t even know where they all go. Literally, Doctor. He never, never gets up from that chair—

  DR. WILSON: Have you talked to him, Josie?

  JOSIE: And when that reporter talked about a smell, I thought he was criticizing me. He was trying to tell me about Jeb, and I sicced the dogs on him. I feel so bad about what Buford did to his—

  DR. WILSON: JOSIE! Have you talked to him?

  JOSIE: The reporter? I sent him a nice card at the hospital.

  DR. WILSON: Jebediah, dear. Have you told Jebediah how his behavior makes you feel?

  JOSIE: You don’t think I tried? All he does is watch TV. He don’t even look at me, anymore.

  DR. WILSON: You have to make him look at you, Josie. Didn’t you turn his head once?

  JOSIE: I’m not that pretty anymore.

  DR. WILSON: Every woman is beautiful to the man who married her. Get yourself dolled up, Josie. Get dolled up, turn off the television and remind him you’re his woman and you need—no, you deserve—his attention, too.

  JOSIE: Welllll, I thought you might say that, so I got pertied up before I called.

  DR. WILSON: Go, Josie. Set the phone down so we can hear what happens. I promise to hang up if it gets too...attentive.

  JOSIE: Giggles.

  Sounds of heels clacking on linoleum. Josie purring Jebediah’s name. A flat male grunt. The television sound suddenly stops. The grunt turned into an inhuman bellow.

  DR. WILSON: Josie?

  JOSIE: Now don’t get so mad. I just want a little of your—no! no!

  DR. WILSON: Josie? (slightly muffled) Lulu, call 9-1-1!

  Sounds of things crashing, dogs barking.

  JOSIE: You’re not the man I married. You’re not even a man. You’re a CORPSE! You lied to me for the last time.

  (Shotgun blasts.)

  NARRATOR: Through a miracle and the heroic effort of her toy poodle, Pinkie, Josie Gump made it out of her trailer alive and uninfected. She went on the talk-show circuit telling everyone about her experiences.

  Footage from Josie at the Evening Show—the one where she’s all cleaned up—her hair straight and sandy brown, wearing that pink suit.

  JOSIE: It was wishful thinking. I wanted Jeb back, so I didn’t question it. I didn’t question a lot in those days. Maybe his returning and my near-undeath experience was the best thing to ever happen to me. I dunno. Still, this I do know: No matter how much they act like the people you loved, that’s not them. When somebody dies, that’s it. What comes back, ain’t human.

  * * * *

  “Drunk,” the group had called as Neeta flashed up a clip of a man staggering down an alley. She switched videos.

  “Zombie.”

  Switch.

 
“Stroke victim?” LaCenta asked as the others puzzled over the video of a man leaning against a hospital wall and dragging himself along with twitching steps.

  “Yes, very good, LaCenta.” Neeta beamed at her.

  Gordon snorted. “Come on, Neeta; when are we going to confuse a zombie with a stroke victim?”

  Neeta sighed. “April 21st, 2023. Paul Moran, exterminator in Queens, answered a call at a hospital. Zombies don’t always come out of the ground, as you know, and some had risen from the morgue, still dressed in hospital gowns. Fortunately, Moran always fired off a shot of 409 before following up with more lethal means.”

  Gordon replied with a shake of his head, but he paid closer attention to the clips until Dave came to get them for the filming.

  * * * *

  “Oh, my gawd. Neeta, Neeta, you got a letter from Josie Gump.”

  Roscoe hopped up from the casually lumpy couch someone had dug up from the props room and walked over to the Queen Anne chair where Neeta slouched, her feet propped up on the mailbag. Dave had loved that casual pose she’d had in the lawyer’s office and had the props department bring the mailbag onto the set and switch out chairs until they found one that met with his “vision.” While he’d fussed over the sets, she’d spent time with her plebes going over the undead identification procedures they would need to know for their license to re-kill.

  Roscoe handed her the envelope and leaned over the back of her chair to read, careful not to tear the child’s drawing that one of the stage crew had pinned to the cushioned wing of Neeta’s chair. “Josie Gump. I so admire that woman.” He crooned happily deep in his throat.

  “She did a lot to deflate the ‘Zombies are people, too’ movement,” Neeta agreed.

  “So true, and the transformation she underwent after her experience with that Jebediah corpse? It was like watching a daffodil bloom.” He sighed then shook himself. “So, what does she say?”

  The others looked up from their letters to listen. They’d rehearsed this “spontaneous scene,” and Dave had made Neeta read the letter aloud so many times, she had it memorized. “Dear Miss Neeta,” she started.