Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

NARRATOR: Some actually joined in the parade, and for a while, were lost in the crowd. Those that were more hungry attacked the parade goers. However, as they had risen just as the New York City zombie brigade passed the cemetery, the attack didn’t go quite as expected.

  NOTE: Weave in the shots with the testimony:

  —zombies reach the New York City group of parade shamblers. Get the clip of the one who grabbed the girl, where she lets fly with a roundhouse kick that goes right through his stomach.

  —the New York contingent goes nuts and rips apart the zombies, beating them with their own limbs. Sirens in the background.

  —parade shamblers getting hosed down by fire department and checked by paramedics.

  PARADE GOER: {bleep} man! Those {bleep}ing zombies. This is our parade here...They wanna muscle in on a parade, they can go after the {bleep}ing Vermont group.

  NARRATOR: By a miracle, only two of the thirty parade goers involved in the attack contracted zombie-ism. Authorities credit the costumes and the quick reaction by emergency teams. New Yorkers, however, tell a different story.

  DOUG CALLEN, PRESIDENT OF THE NYC ZOMBIE CRAWLERS: Hey, we’re New Yorkers. Zombies gotta do better than that if they want to shut us down!

  NARRATOR: Nonetheless, several of the same New Yorkers who had driven off the real zombies that day were later injured at the Zombie crawl-a-thon in Ohio. Gray Bales, a local hemp farmer, hadn’t heard of the event and mistook the costumed walkers for the real thing. He drove his combine into the parade, injuring seven participants before police were able to subdue him. He was charged with assault with a large farm device. An emergency executive order outlawed all zombie costumes outside of certain restricted situations.

  The Celebration of the Zombie had come to an end.

  * * * *

  Neeta luxuriated in the fact she didn’t have to have an alarm wake her up. Thanks to LaCenta and Spud, Dave had enough material to make “9-1-1 Night Out” a two-week show. He’d had paroxysms of joy, and given Neeta and her plebes a few days off filming. She’d told her plebes to go home and study for their certification test. It was the first vacation she’d had since she’d started work again after her mother’s death.

  She lay in bed another half hour, dozing and wondering if she could get away without talking to another single human being for an entire day. Then her own restless nature caught up with her, and she showered. She’d left all her windows open last night—not the best idea in her neighborhood, but it had cooled the house. She knew it’d get into the 90’s before the day was through, so she layered her haori over a spaghetti-strapped shirt. She loved the long, square sleeves of the light Japanese jacket.

  She made herself a mushroom-and-tomato omelet and strong coffee and ate it on the back porch. Bookkeeping today, but tomorrow, the garden, she decided as she ate and looked out over the wild disarray of plants that had somehow flourished, albeit messily, despite her neglect. Her mother had had the green thumb. She’d really like to hire a landscaper; here in LA, they didn’t cost much, but right now, she needed to save every penny she could.

  When the lawsuit’s paid, she promised the tangled grape vines and overgrown roses, and went in to wash her dishes before heading to her business office to tackle the paperwork.

  Half an hour later, she was regretting her decision.

  She set another bill into the “next payday” pile then grimaced as she realized she’d already put that bill off twice. She got online and made a token payment, noted it on the bill, and returned it to the pile. She was a good customer, and she’d explained her situation to the sales rep the last time he’d taken her order. Besides, she wasn’t using a lot of pesticides lately.

  Nonetheless, her hands shook as she balled them into fists. She hated being late on her bills.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t take a vacation,” she told the spreadsheet on her computer. “I have four days. I could get some exterminating jobs. Roaches and ants might be a refreshing change.”

  A knock on the door interrupted her one-sided conversation.

  “Hey! Customer,” she told it, and shucking the haori, she tossed on a T-shirt with her logo over the pocket and went to answer.

  Through the peephole, she saw a dapper gentleman in an expensive suit that said, “I expect air conditioning.” He held a briefcase in one hand and was texting on his phone with the other.

  Not customer. In fact, he looked like a Lawyer Larry.

  She opened the door slightly glad yet wondering why he hadn’t just walked in.

  “Yes?” she asked. She managed to keep the suspicious tone out of her voice, but no way was she going to ask how she could help him.

  “Ms. Lyffe? I represent Mort Bottums.”

  “I’m...sorry?”

  She grimaced. Perhaps that wasn’t the best choice of words. Before she could say anything to rectify her error, however, he forced a smile and continued.

  “Yes, Mortimer Bottums? From Bottums-Up Diet Drinks? ‘We minimize your gluteus maximus’?”

  “Okay.” Now she wasn’t sorry; she was just confused.

  Lawyer Larry cleared his throat in the uncomfortable silence. “Ms. Lyffe, we at BUDD watch your show faithfully. Mr. Bottums in particular. He believes you have a most stunning figure.”

  Neeta felt her face twist. A year ago, she couldn’t get a date—now she was getting propositioned by proxy?

  “Er...may I come in?”

  “No.”

  “This isn’t your place of business?”

  “Do you have a pest problem?”

  He paused, obviously thrown off-kilter. Which was fine by Neeta—she was, too.

  He pocketed his phone, looked at his shoes while he rocked back on his heels. Again he cleared his throat and met her eyes. “Ms. Lyffe, I’m here to make you a very lucrative offer.”

  “What do you want killed?”

  “No, no—”

  “Re-killed?”

  He shouted, “Nothing like that. We want you to be our next BUDDy!”

  “What?”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes with one hand. “May I please come in and explain?”

  She stepped aside.

  “Thank you,” he said as he brushed past her.

  “Be warned. I have plenty of lethal weapons within easy reach.”

  “Err...noted.”

  Once they’d settled on opposite sides of her desk, he opened up his suitcase and pulled out a portfolio. The cover held a collage of different celebrities—most of whom Neeta remembered only from childhood or sort-of recognized from her infrequent television watching. All held a bottle of “Bottums-Up” in one hand and pointed to their perfect waists with the other.

  “Larry” jumped into his business pitch. “We at BUDD have always dedicated ourselves to creating high-quality, nutritious drinks that not only help you cut calories but burn fat—”

  “I’m not on a diet.”

  “We have several lines. Minimize. Stabilize—”

  “I’m not getting fat.”

  “No. Not at all. Like Mr. Bottums said, you’re quite fit. Stunning, even. That’s what he said. Exact words.”

  “Look, Mr...”

  “Call me ‘Lawrence.’”

  “You’re kidding?”

  His face clouded. “No. Why?”

  She sighed. She was starting to feel sorry for the guy, but the piles of bills she’d shoved into a drawer stifled the impulse. “Listen, Larry. I don’t care what your boss thinks of my figure. Could you just come to the point?”

  He smirked and relaxed. “Of course. Ms. Lyffe, we want you to represent our newest line of drinks—Longevitize.”

  He leaned forward and flipped through the pages of the portfolio. Neeta caught glimpses of celebrities in before-and-after shots, famous athletes in uniform drinking “Bottum’s up” or bearing fruit-colored “milk mustaches,” the doctor from Real ER-Nottingham standing in front of a nutrition pyramid made of Bottums-Up cans.

  With a satisfied, “ah,” th
at sounded staged to Neeta, he pointed to the page with a still of Neeta from the Obstacle Course episode. She stood in front of the course she’d just run herself. The dummies all bore red marks in the kill zones, and her chainsaw dripped red paint. It’d been one of her best runs—did it in one take, too.

  They’d photo-shopped the picture so her hair looked less sweaty and her body more so. They also smoothed out her tan and airbrushed out the blotches she knew she got on her face after exercising. She wished she looked that good.

  On the lower right was a bottle of BUDD and a DoDroid screen with a schedule:

  9 pm–11 pm. Take out the undead

  Midnight–7 am. Sleep satisfied

  8 am–9 am. Chainsaw workout

  9:15. Longevitize

  “This is just a concept, of course,” Larry started in before she could raise an objection. “We envision a full spectrum. After the workout—Longevitize. Done with the undead—time to Longevitize. Some less gimmicky ones after we’ve established your identity—”

  “I have an identity?”

  “Yes, of course,” he backpedaled. “You’re Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator. I mean, your identity as Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator—and BUDDy!”

  Not sure if she was flattered or horrified, she flipped through the rest of the photos. All were concocted from the show except one. A photo of her and Brian on their first date.

  “Where did you get this?”

  The wine glasses had been replaced with bottles of Longevitize. The caption read: What’s more desirable in a romance than Longevity?

  Larry smiled. “Like it? We’re considering asking Brian St. James to be our male BUDDy. Think he’ll go for it?”

  “Who said I was going for it? You honestly think I’m going to endorse a product I don’t even use?”

  “No, no, of course not. You’re a woman of integrity. Naturally, we’ll supply you with BUDD products for the duration of your contract.”

  “What contract?”

  Smiling as if she’d already agreed, he slapped an iDoIt on her desk and pushed it her way.

  She stood and reached to shove it back—then her eye caught the dollar figure on the screen.

  “We’re not asking for a commitment right away,” he said into her silence. “We understand you need to finish your season of Zombie Death Extreme. Mr. Bottums himself is quite anxious to see what you plan for the final challenge. However, we know that others must be clamoring for your talents. Please, just consider it?”

  He tapped the small computer. “There’s all the information. Contract, sample campaigns, testimonies from other BUDDies, the works. I’ll contact you again in a couple of weeks. I’ll just let myself out.”

  She waited until she heard her door shut before flopping into her chair. In her mind, she could hear her bills arguing with her pride.

  She stood and made a beeline for the shed where she kept her gardening tools before they won.

  * * * *

  Dear Mom,

  You’re going to be seeing a deposit for $9,000 in our account. It’s my share from capturing some zombies for research. Kind of a long story, but you’ll see it on TV. I kept some of it for myself. I know you said to enjoy California while I can, and since we got a week off of filming, I’m going to go do some things with friends. I’ll tell you more later and send postcards.

  A knock on the door interrupted Spud’s flow of thought. He hurriedly typed in “Love, Pippin,” sent out the e-mail, and then ran to the apartment door.

  His heart actually skipped just a little as Lacey, a cast on her arm and a brace on her leg, smiled at him. “Ready to go? Boris is in the car. Hope you don’t mind a chaperone.”

  “No, that’s fine.” He reached back to grab his jacket and camera.

  She turned slowly and holding the banister in a tight grip, hobbled down the stairs.

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” he asked as he hurried to her side. He resisted the urge to grab her elbow, but stayed ready to help.

  She made an annoyed sound. “It’s whale watching—sit and look, right? I’ll be fine. Besides, I haven’t gotten to do this since I was a kid. You’ve no idea the ‘pity me’ act I put up for my brothers to get them to agree to this. What about you? Sure you’re up to having my brothers chaperoning?”

  “Ch-chaperoning? I, uh…” Spud froze on the steps. Did they think this was a date? Didn’t they approve? Or did they think he was going to take some kind of advantage?

  “I thought we were just g-going together as ffffriends. I mean, not that I wouldn’t w-want to-to—that is, I don’t want to b-be forward or anything, and if they d-don’t approve—or, or if you aren’t interested, I’m not t-trying to imply that you’re interested, I just... uh.”

  Lacey burst out laughing so hard, she buckled over. “Oh, my gosh. I think that’s the most words I’ve heard come out of your mouth at one time. You must like me, huh?”

  He felt his face redden. Why did he always have to act like an idiot around girls he liked? Back home in Middletown, Idaho, his nickname wasn’t “Spud.” It was “Stammer” for the way he got tongue-tied. He’d finally given up talking to girls, especially girls he liked.

  Problem was he did like Lacey—a lot. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her since the night they’d gone zombie hunting together.

  She was still looking at him, and her amused smile made his heart feel too big for his chest.

  I’m not in Idaho; I don’t have to be “Stammer.”

  He met her smirk with a warm, serious smile. “Well, yes. Yes, I do, Lacey. Very much.”

  He felt a small rush as he watched her expression gentle, and her cheeks take a slight pink tinge. She held out her casted arm and let him help her down the stairs.

  “So, maybe after we all see the whales, we send my brothers home?”

  “I’d like that very much, too.”

  * * * *

  “I cannot believe my sister is a hero,” Jamal said as he hitched his chair to the table. He gave LaCenta a big, proud grin as his mother set a plate of enchiladas in front of him. He swiped the Tabasco sauce from their little brother, who yelped in protest.

  “Your sister has been a hero since you were little,” their mother retorted. She squeezed LaCenta’s shoulder as she passed by on the way back to the kitchen.

  “Momma, let me help you,” LaCenta called to her.

  “Oh, no. You are the guest of honor today,” she called back. “People have been calling me non-stop since they saw you on the news. ‘Was that really your LaCenta going after zombies and murderers?’ I swear some of them must have thought you were acting all this time.”

  “I don’t know what the fuss is,” LaCenta said. “Police do it all the time, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “Yeah,” Jamal said, “but you set a zombie after him. That’s core.”

  “Fuze core,” Moe added and let out a pleased snort. “Tell you what—nobody gonna mess with me, having you for a sister.”

  LaCenta leaned across the table and pinned her youngest brother with her glare. “I don’t want you in a position where anybody has reason to mess with you, got that? Those days are over. You learn a lesson from that re-animated corpse.”

  Moe backed up in his chair, arms out in surrender. “Chill. I learned my lesson before that kid corpsified, remember?”

  The long scar across his dark forearm shone palely in witness.

  LaCenta sat back down. “Okay. As long as you don’t forget. You don’t need no gang to make you a man.”

  Their mother came in and set a plate in front of LaCenta before sitting down with one of her own. “We are all the family we need,” she added.

  “Besides,” Jamal chimed in, “when LaCenta wins that million, she’ll set us up for life.”

  LaCenta made a rude noise. “With a million? After the IRS takes its share, there ain’t gonna be much left—and it’s going into my business and your college.”

  Jamal’s head bobbed in gratitude, but
their little brother groaned. “I don’t need no college. I’m going into the Marines. Semper Fi, man. Hey, LaCenta. Think you can hook me up with that Gordon dude?”

  LaCenta rolled her eyes and dug into her lunch. “That loser? You don’t seriously want to be like him?”

  * * * *

  Dear Mr. Makepeace,

  You are cool. You are tough. When I grow up, I want to be tough and cool like you. U-rah!

  Gordon paused in opening his refrigerator to read the hand-scrawled note again. That lawyer, Eugene, had given it to him, along with a photo of a five-year-old boy playing with an action figure of him taking out zombies. Okay, so the action figure had been WWF Ken with a mottled green pattern painted on his skin and his hair cut off, and the zombies, broken and dirty remnants of the action figures from Lost, but it was the thought that counted. Though he wouldn’t mind having had the Shannon Rutherford figure on his side.

  Been too long, he told himself and pulled open the door. Too long with no action and too much reading. He needed a beer before he could tackle the next chapter.

  Someone knocked primly on his door, so he grabbed a beer and went to answer it, thinking it’d better not be that gay neighbor of his again.

  He yanked open the door just as Roscoe was raising his hand for another knock.

  “Same diff,” he said aloud.

  “What?” Roscoe asked.

  “Nothing. What do you want?”

  Roscoe was looking at the beer in his hand. “Please tell me you aren’t intending to get drunk alone. On that.”

  “I’m studying,” he growled. “Been studying all day. This is my first, if you must know.”

  “No, it’s not.” Roscoe brushed past him, snatching the beer from his hands and putting it back into the refrigerator. Only when Nasir followed did Gordon realize he’d been hanging out in the hallway. Have to work on that situational awareness.

  “I refuse to let you waste your evening on swill,” Roscoe said. “Go put on something presentable. Something that says, ‘chick magnet.’” Pawing through his refrigerator with one hand, Roscoe waved in Gordon’s general direction with the other.

  “What? I’m studying.”

  “Yeah? Tell me the last three things you read.”

  Gordon paused, his mind blank. “I hate you.”