Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator

by Karina Fabian

  “Just act natural,” he directed. “Let the camera do the rest.”

  Nasir, baggy-eyed and frazzled from a long night of trying to contact his friends and relatives, let loose with a very natural stream of epithets, and the rest of the plebes gathered around him, adding their own barrage.

  Dave smiled. “Yes. Exactly what I want to see. The raw emotion. The competitors becoming comrades in a real-life tragedy.”

  “I won’t do this,” Nasir exclaimed. “I’m not going to sit here and let my grief entertain your audience.”

  He turned to storm out, but Dave grabbed his shoulder. When Nasir spun to punch him, he grabbed his fist in a stunning show of agility and slapped a check into it.

  “Think carefully,” he advised.

  LaCenta gasped. “You ass. You really think you can, can pay him off?”

  Dave ignored her outburst. “Wouldn’t you just be sitting around watching the television anyway? Think about all the damage those American dollars can repair.”

  Nasir looked from the check to Dave, and his eyes welled with tears.

  “I hate what you have made me,” he growled.

  He stormed to the seat.

  As he sat, the anchorwoman was using the last 45 seconds to sum up the two-minute speech made by the UN representative from Iran. “Once again, Iran says it’s ready right now to offer medical and emergency aid to what Permanent Representative Riza Mohammad Danaii called ‘their brothers to the East.’ This is in response to the earthquake that devastated that country. We have reports there are still smaller earthquakes—like aftershocks, but far worst—that continue to damage the country.”

  As she finished, the camera panned back to take in her anchorman partner. They gave each other sad, sympathetic looks.

  “It’s good to see someone taking decisive action,” the anchorman said.

  She nodded. “It’s tragic, just tragic. Can we see that clip again?”

  On the screen behind them played the jerky yet now-famous cell phone footage of a hospital collapsing.

  Nasir moaned. Badria worked in that hospital.

  * * * *

  The phone rang just as Neeta was heading to the shower from her workout. She took a deep breath and held it to stop her panting, then answered.

  “Lyffe Undeath Exterminations. No job too big or small.”

  “Neeta, it’s Sharon.”

  Neeta’s stomach tightened in panic, and she whirled toward the clock. “I’m not late, am I?”

  “No, no, but you might want to come in early today.”

  Neeta noticed Sharon was speaking lower than usual. “Something wrong?”

  “Just...come in as soon as you can. Studio C.” She hung up.

  Neeta looked at the phone, now beeping to declare the empty line. She clicked it off, dropped it onto the table, and went to get a quick shower. If Sharon had to be circumspect, Dave was probably involved—and that couldn’t be good.

  In the car, the news was about the latest on the earthquake. Afghanistan had responded to Iran’s offer of aid with what amounted to “stay off our doorstep.” Iran was now petitioning the UN to force the country to accept their help. The US was protesting, citing a buildup of forces on the Iran/Afghan border and warning of invasion.

  “When have we heard that before?” the DJ commented sarcastically.

  Neeta shut off the radio. Nasir must be going out of his mind. She’d tried to call him last night but kept getting a busy signal. Maybe he just wanted to go home—could that be what’s going on? Nasir wants to leave, and Dave’s refusing to let him? Could he even get home?

  Maybe on one of the relief flights, Neeta thought as she pulled into the studio parking lot. Whatever, if he wants to go, we need to help him. I need to help him.

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the budget ledger in her computer go from black to red. She hated herself for thinking about that—and for the sick feeling it gave her in her stomach.

  She headed straight for Studio C, guilt now working in conjunction with the mystery of Sharon’s call to darken her mood.

  I should have driven to his hotel, she thought. Then she shook her head, remembering how when her mother died, so many people kept dropping by to distract her from her grief, she didn’t get a chance to think, much less grieve.

  No, probably the last thing he’d want is a near stranger hanging around, she decided.

  She walked into the makeshift lounge and saw him, watching the television and surrounded by the rest of her plebes, four “near-strangers,” each offering support, and she felt her face burn red in shame.

  Then she saw the glint of light off the lens of a hidden camera, and she burned for a different reason.

  No one had noticed her yet. She surveyed the stage, counted five cameras.

  She stormed straight up to the camera, saying nothing, scooping up a tissue box and yanking them out in angry jerks. Suppressing the urge to smash her fist into the cameras, she used the tissues to cover each lens. She ignored the protests coming from the stage crew.

  Next she smacked her palm against the off button of the television, cutting off Lisa LaStrade’s sympathetic noises as she commented again on the cell phone video.

  As if she’d broken the spell, the others looked at her, and then at the cameras, then back to her before ducking their heads in embarrassment.

  She squatted in front of Nasir and took his hands.

  “Do you want to go home? I can make that happen.”

  His body trembled in a shiver she felt more than saw. “Do I have a chance of winning?” he asked.

  She wanted to tell him yes. She wanted to give him the money right then, but that was hardly fair to the others. “As much as any of you,” she replied.

  He straightened his back, tossed up his chin. “Then I will see this to the end. I...cannot help there right now, and here, I stand a chance of doing more good in the long run.”

  LaCenta, sniffling like she used to tease Katie about, threw her arms around Nasir, while the others patted his shoulder.

  “Beautiful,” Dave cried, breaking the moment. “Poetry! I could not have scripted it better. Pity about the cameras. Can we go for a second take?”

  “No,” everyone snarled in unison.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Anchorwoman Lisa LaStrade shuffled the papers she never read, and smiled at the camera.

  “In other news, thousands of people have crowded around the BUDDy theater, where the premier of Unwashed Unholies 10: This Time, We Get It Right! is expected to start at six o’clock. Preceding—and more important than the movie—is Woody Forrest’s press conference, where he is expected to announce his intentions to run for President of the United States. We’ll be reporting that live at five.

  “First, this just in. While US veto has prevented a UN resolution applauding Iran’s rescue efforts, Iranian Permanent Representative to the UN Danaii has announced that his country’s relief teams have crossed the border and are on their way to Kabul. Here now is Pete Hicklin with more.”

  On the screen behind her, Pete Hicklin, dressed in clean if rumpled kakis and a light jacket, stood on the shoulder of a four-lane highway known as “Independence Road.” Behind him, trucks, personnel carriers, tanks and soldiers swarmed past. All bore a red cross symbol, but the soldiers also carried rifles.

  “Lisa, behind me is the first wave of relief efforts on its way to help the people of Afghanistan. This is first of what Iran asserts will be several such movements. We’ve been assured by the commander of the relief efforts that the tanks and armed guards you see are only there to ensure the supplies get through in a safe and timely manner.”

  Lisa asked, “Pete, how is the situation in Afghanistan?”

  “Lisa, it’s just heartbreaking. The earthquakes have decimated this country. Entire towns just flattened. Families digging in the rubble for their loved ones. Horrible—painful to watch. Here’s some footage we took earlier...”

  * * * *

  Dave decided that to
announce the final challenge, they should “go back to the classics,” so Neeta stood on a raised platform on a black stage with her plebes lined up before her. She wore her actual zombie fighting gear—hazmat suit and high rubber boots, chainsaw held at rest in her right hand, while her left cradled the motorcycle helmet against her hip, turned so her company logo showed. Frankly, she thought that was the only part of her that didn’t look ridiculous, but Dave insisted she looked intimidating.

  “—and hot,” he added with a wink.

  She was hot. Studio C had become unbearable in the heat, so they’d made arrangements with Disney to rent one of their smaller studios for the filming. However, its a.c. had given out twenty minutes into rehearsal. Until the studio tech crews could get it repaired, they were making due with fans and ice. Naturally, having her hair blow would ruin the effect, so everything was directed toward her feet, which were getting uncomfortably cold even as sweat trickled down her back.

  They’d already filmed her announcing the challenge—four times, because since everyone already knew what the challenge was, they’d had a hard time getting the right amount of surprise and horror in their reaction to suit Dave.

  Before her, LaCenta, Nasir, Spud, Roscoe and Gordon waited, each with two duffle bags in front of them. LaCenta and Spud both watched her with confidence born from their experiences in the last episodes. Nasir did his best not to appear preoccupied with the problems at home; she thought Dave must love how well he was failing. Gordon stood at strict parade rest, belying his nervousness. Roscoe shifted his weight as he tried to appear bored but anxious. Neeta suppressed a smile. His contract said he wouldn’t win, but she wondered how far he would go.

  He really is a good actor, she thought. Could be a good exterminator, too.

  Their Wild Card, Ted, stood in the wings, dressed and carrying his flamethrower. She tried not to look in his direction.

  “Action!” Dave called.

  Neeta forced her face to an impassive expression.

  “So, you five remain. You have trained. You have studied. You have faced challenges equal to and beyond what an average apprentice faces in their training. You have been briefed on the final challenge. Now you must decide.

  “You see the bags in front of you? They mark your final decision. In the smaller one on the left is $30,000. Choose that bag, and you are out of the game. You may take the money and your experiences and walk out right now. The bag on the right contains a state-of-the-art extermination suit fitted for you. Choose that bag, and you are accepting the final challenge. Once you decide, there is no turning back.

  “Before you decide, know this: In my judgment as Master Exterminator and your trainer, you are all worthy to be called Exterminator. You may have some local requirements to fill wherever you go, but you can do this job. I’m proud of each of you.”

  She paused to let that sink in—and for the cameras to record their reactions—then nodded. “Choose now.”

  LaCenta, Spud and Gordon each grabbed up their suits without hesitation. Nasir wavered, eyes darting to each of his companions as if assessing the competition, then he, too picked up the suit duffle. Roscoe bent toward the money, almost grabbed it. He clenched his left fist, grabbed the suit with his right and stood.

  He was sweating. Neeta wondered if it was the heat, the acting, or actual fear.

  Didn’t matter. He’d perform—like an exterminator.

  She grinned, satisfied. “All right, then. As each of you chooses to remain, we have one more order of business.

  “This challenge calls for you to work in pairs. As you know, exterminators usually work in teams of two. Having someone watch your back could save your life. The final challenge is geared toward that reality. However, there are an odd number of you. Therefore, we are bringing in an additional participant.”

  None of them spoke, but she could see their reactions. In her mind, she heard Dave’s scripted narrative and imagined whose expression would accompany it. Was it Crying Katie? Nervous Alexis? Had Heisman’s foot grown back?

  “Plebes, welcome your new teammate.”

  The strobes snapped on, and Ted strode into the light and stood, legs spread, shoulders squared, flamethrower cradled in his arms. The rakish grin on his face made her heart skip, and she forced herself to keep a neutral expression lest Dave’s camera’s pick up her reaction.

  She needn’t have worried; her plebes gave enough reaction for Dave’s cameras.

  “The cameraman?” LaCenta howled.

  “You can not be serious,” Roscoe joined in.

  “You’re not saddling me with that fobbit,” Gordon snarled.

  Neeta held up one hand, and they quieted.

  “Ted Lyons has been undergoing a private apprenticeship, and has been involved in some of your challenges. Gordon, you may not recall, but in Warehouse Eight, he used his camera to knock back a zombie heading toward you. While he’s not had the academic training, when it comes to the practical aspects of fighting, I would be glad to have him at my side—and I am confident enough to place him at yours.”

  LaCenta asked, “Does this mean he gets a shot at the million?”

  Ted laughed and hefted his BelchingDragon M2-7. “Hell, no. I just want to take ‘my girl’ out for a spin.”

  LaCenta rolled her eyes. “Well, all right then.”

  Ted whooped and strode forward. He smiled at Gordon.

  “Semper fi!” he told him.

  Gordon glared. “Don’t say that. You have not earned the right to say that.”

  Ted shrugged. Roscoe jerked his head to the spot between himself and Spud, and both scooted over to make him a space. As he passed, Roscoe held out his fist, and Ted smacked it above and below with his own.

  Neeta turned her head and nodded to someone off stage. A leggy blonde wearing a parody of a hazmat suit consisting of a halter top, hot pants and high-heeled rubber boots, strode up with a velvet bag in her hands.

  “LaCenta, Spud, Roscoe. Step forward,” Neeta commanded. “In the bag are the names of our three other plebes. You will draw to select your partner.”

  The blonde held the bag to LaCenta, and she dug her hand into it.

  “Ted,” she read.

  Behind her, Gordon clenched his fist and pulled it in, in victory.

  Spud gave the busty assistant a quick smile before pulling out the strip of paper.

  “Gordon, it’s you and me,” he said.

  “Yes.” Gordon cheered.

  Roscoe turned and gave Nasir a flirty look. “Well, Afghan man, looks like it’s up to us to show these losers how it’s done.”

  “Oh, in your dreams,” LaCenta snapped.

  “Honey, you are not in my dreams,” Roscoe retorted. “Of course, I totally understand if it’s true the other way around.”

  Dave called, “Cut!” as LaCenta sputtered, and sent them off to individual corners so he could film their reactions separately.

  Neeta called to the warehouse and spoke to Elouise. They were checking the last of the safeties and would be able to loose the zombies on schedule. Left to her own devices for the next half hour, Neeta peeled off the shirt of her hazmat suit and squatted in front of the fan, letting the ice-chilled air cool her skin and dry her muscle shirt. One of the stage crew whistled. She ignored him.

  “Neeta! 9-1-1!” her phone suddenly called out.

  “What the—?” She reached into the suit pocket and pulled out the phone. The ID said “Hollerman Exterminations” rather than the 9-1-1 switchboard. That meant real trouble. She sat back from the fan and pressed the button.

  “Neeta. What is it?”

  “Big pile up on West Burbank and Front Street. Blue cheese truck—broken bottles everywhere—”

  “Oh, no. Which way’s the wind?”

  Hollerman laughed. “What little there is? Right to Bedder Rest.”

  Neeta swallowed back the rising panic. ZERD last estimated nearly two hundred undead in that factory. “Where’s the LA Z-Mat?”

  “Politic
al rally. Woody Forrest is running for president—you know there’s going to be undead trouble there. I’m stuck in Anaheim on a 409. Once we finish, we’ll get there, but we’ll need to resupply first. Neeta, you and those plebes of yours are the best defense we’ve got. It’s a huge pile up—thirty-two cars last count.”

  “Are they on the move?” Neeta didn’t say zombies. She didn’t need to.

  “CHP has a uniform with binoculars watching the factory. Last call, he said he’d seen some stirrings, but none had exited yet. That was about five minutes ago. Neeta, they’re doing their best to evacuate everyone, but traffic is backed up thanks to the rally. 9-1-1 has put out an all-call, but you’re closest. I know LaCenta is good. What about the rest of your plebes? Can they handle this?”

  “I trust them.” Even Ted—but seven against two hundred undead—plus panicky civilians to protect? “I can’t force them.”

  Hollerman swore, but not at her. “Take who you can and get there fast. Gotta go. Call Missy at dispatch when you’re on the road. She’ll get you details and clearest route.

  “Right.” She hung up and stood, striding fast towards the center stage.

  “Plebes to me. NOW!”

  The command in her voice caused them all to jump from their seats and hurry over. Dave, who was encouraging Gordon to express his rage at the addition of Ted, scrambled after them, overtaking the group and getting to Neeta first. He grabbed her arm.

  “What do you think you’re doing? We’re not done.”

  Neeta pulled her arm out of his grip. “Shut up. This is real. Listen to me—we have a Class One migration in the making. An HLV!”

  “A what?” Dave demanded. “People, get back to your—”

  “It means ‘Helluva Lotta Zombies’! Now, shut up,” LaCenta yelled, and Gordon yanked him behind the group.

  “Where?” Spud asked. “Is it a cemetery?”

  Quickly, Neeta filled them in on the details she’d learned from Hollerman.

  Behind the group, she saw Dave’s eyes get big. She knew exactly what he was thinking. To the other side, one ambitious cameraman was still filming. Let him. He wasn’t getting anywhere near the mess.

  “I can’t ask any of you to come—but I have to go. I swore an oath, and if you take that same oath, you may someday face this same situation. Even more, there are at least thirty-two cars involved in this accident. That’s at least thirty-two drivers, plus passengers, plus the fire department and ambulance technicians who are there to help the injured. Fresh meat for the horde.”