NARRATOR: In the shed, they found what would become some of the tools-of-the-trade for zombie exterminators: chainsaws, machete, even motorcycle helmets.
CAROL: There was a riding lawn mower. Jerry called the police. I found some duct tape and strapped anything I thought would be useful to the mower or to myself. I was a weapons master and defense instructor, and I taught my Marines to think of everything in terms of its use as a weapon.
NARRATOR: By the time they got the mower started, something was scraping at the door. With Carol wielding the chainsaw and Jerry at the wheel, they busted through the shed door, mowing down the two undead that had been seeking entrance.
Split screen here of Carol and Jerry running down zombies and footage of Carol discussing the incident. Maybe the trial footage?
CAROL: At first, we were just intent on getting out with our lives. Call the police. Let them handle it. Then lightning flashed, and we saw how many were clawing their way out of the ground. I only live a few blocks from there, your honor. I had a five-year-old girl at home. What if one of those things wandered that way while I was worried about my own skin? I wasn’t leaving until I knew none would make their way to my house or any other house.
NARRATOR: With Jerry mowing down those on the ground, and Carol hacking through those standing, they cut down the horde until the police arrived to join the fight. By morning’s light, the area had been cleared. Once the limbs were collected and the holes in the graves counted, police determined thirty to thirty-five zombies had risen that night—and nearly half of those had been re-killed by Jerry Lee and Carol Lyffe. Although the cemetery tried to press charges for damages, they received the Medal of Valor from Governor Cyrus of California.
NEETA LYFFE: (In her home, pan to some childhood pictures of her and her mom.) Mom was a hero, no doubt. Like a real hero, though, she didn’t care about that. She just wanted to keep people safe. It’s all part of the job. Most of our money went into training and researching new ways to fight off the undead. She helped found ZERD. She pushed for re-kill licensing and the Dead and Decapitated Act. She wasn’t always just whaling away at reanimated corpses—though I have to admit, sometimes, I think that was her favorite part.
My favorite part? I…I’m not sure. I suppose, just succeeding. Every time a zombie is re-killed, the world’s a little safer. That’s what I like best—knowing I’ve helped make the world a little safer.
* * * *
Neeta had just finished some stretches to loosen up her muscles and was again scrubbing down her suit. Not like she needed to worry about her van, after all. Cory had called earlier to let her know that despite the fact that it had made a good perch for the TV interview, the interior was too badly damaged by a flaming zombie, and she’d have to total it. How ironic could you get?
The phone in her cleaning room rang. She wiped her hands on a bleached towelette, but let the machine pick it up. Reporters, clients, neighbors—everyone had been calling her. She thought being on a TV show was bad!
After the tone, a rich voice with a slight Hispanic accent said, “Ms. Lyffe. I’m Miguel Hernandez of Hernandez HumVees. We own the H5 you—“
She snatched up the phone. If she were going to get sued again, she’d take it like a pro. “Yes, Mr. Hernandez. This is Neeta Lyffe.”
“Ms. Lyffe, I hope you do not mind if I have you on speaker phone. My staff is with me. Let me start by saying this morning they released footage of what you did with our car yesterday evening.”
She took a breath and sat down on the stool in her cement washroom. Here it comes…
“It was nothing short of incredible.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry, but there wasn’t any other vehicle I thought could do the job.”
There was a pause, then a cheer!
“Bien. We had hoped you’d say that.”
“Escusame?”
“Ai, mia! You are a hero, Neeta. You and your team saved my sales associate, Shirpa.” He paused for her to call out, “Thank you. Bless you.”
“You saved the couple who were test driving the car with her. Then you saved that man in the useless Lexus, giving him your means of escape and facing the zombies alone? What were you thinking?”
“I,” she started and paused. This conversation was not going as she’d expected. “I had to keep the zombies away from the Interstate. Without live bait, they’d have followed the car, and we’d have had a real massacre. I… You know, it’s all just part of my job.”
There was silence on their end as they processed her statement.
“Neeta, we want to thank you.”
She found herself slumping with relief. “You’re welcome.”
Miguel laughed. “No, you don’t understand. We want to thank you, tangibly. We heard your van was damaged.”
“Oh, um, wow, but it’s too badly—they said it can’t be repaired.” She stopped as anxiety clutched her chest. How was she going to run her business? Her car could hold some things, but not enough for a full raid. Besides, it needed a new transmission.
“Perhaps we can help each other?”
She tried to laugh. “I’m afraid even with a discount, I couldn’t afford a Hummer.”
“Not what we were thinking. Neeta, how would you like to own the HumVee of your choice, outright?”
“What? What’s the catch?”
He laughed again. She liked his laugh. It was boyish. “You’ve dealt with car salesmen before, then?” he teased, then turned serious.
“Neeta, the footage of you in our car went worldwide. Our phones have been ringing off the hook. We shut down to have this call with you. Corporate e-mailed to tell us the same thing is happening everywhere and to make you this offer.”
“Any car you want—off the lot or made to order. Yours, if you agree to drive it and promote it for the next five years.”
Despite herself, she snorted. “Brian’s gonna love this,” she muttered.
“Who is Brian?”
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. “What? No one. Never mind. Miguel, this is tempting, really, but… Well… Look, it was a lot of fun to drive, and it did get the job done. I adored the bumpers, but well, I need something lower to the ground and with a big back where I can put my equipment and get at it easily. That’s why the van—”
“Did you know Hummer makes vans?”
“—is so much better for—They what? When?”
“The first model came out last year. Slightly lower chassis, longer in the back. A little narrower, but not much. This is a Hummer, after all. We can’t have jokes of shrinking the designs in the wash,” he said, referring to a joke Rus made on The Tonight Show about the failed HumMini.
“Listen, you have time today? Let me have one of my associates pick you up and bring you to the dealership. We have a floor model. Take it and the proposed contract for a week. If you don’t like it, bring them back—consider it our thanks to you.”
“Serious?”
“You need something for your job, no?”
“Oh, si! All right. Okay. I’ll look. No promises, but I’ll look.”
“When is good?”
“Now?”
She imagined him waving one hand in a “why not?” gesture. She heard a female voice in the background.
“Shirpa will get you. She wishes to thank you personally.”
* * * *
Nasir paced in his small hotel room like a caged lion, one fist clenched so tight, his short nails were digging into his skin. The other hand had the phone pressed so hard against his ear, the tiny track ball was making an impression in his cheek.
“Answer,” he said and swore again. “Please, Badria, answer.”
On the TV behind him, footage showed the Iranian “rescue” forces opening fire upon a zombie horde that made yesterday’s look like a Hollywood publicity stunt.
The announcer was saying the undead were rising throughout his country.
When the doorbell sounded, he roared in frustration and threw the phon
e against the bed. If it was another reporter asking what he felt…
He flung the door open to find Gordon standing at parade rest. He jerked his chin at the TV.
“You’re going to need help. Count me in.”
* * * *
Two hours and an embarrassing number of thanks later, Neeta drove off the lot in a 2042 HumVan Sport, a contract on the seat beside her. She’d forced herself to keep composed while at the dealership, but once she’d turned the corner, she let loose with a stream of cheers. She called up traffic on the GPS, decided she could ask Eugene about the contract tomorrow, and used the Bluetooth to call Hollerman. His wife said he was at the cleanup, so she decided to take a chance and head over there.
The policewoman at the roadblock looked at her ID, and tears filled her eyes.
“My husband’s an EMT,” she said, her voice cracking. “He was here last night. Your plebes saved his life. I thought ZDE was just a show, but…” She mashed her lips together, then stepped aside and saluted as Neeta drove past.
Neeta did her best to commit the woman’s face to memory. All too soon, she knew, people would forget what they’d done, spectacular as it was. Life would go on, and exterminators would become forgotten heroes. It was just a job.
She found Hollerman consulting with Spice at a tent set up where they’d gathered the living just fifteen hours ago. They glanced at her irritably as she pulled up, but their looks turned to full glares as she rolled down the window and leaned out.
“You were warned,” Cory said.
She held up her hands through the window in surrender then slapped the door. “Hey, I just came for some advice. What do you think of it? I can get a sweet deal, but will it work for extermination?”
Soon, everyone who could get a few minutes off swarmed around her van, careful not to contaminate it, but examining it thoroughly, suggesting modifications, discussing pros and cons, most clearly envious. Neeta rocked back and forth on her toes, feeling more giddy than she had in ages.
Finally, Hollerman stood over her and demanded sternly, “How are you affording this?”
The others gathered in to hear her answer.
She bit her lip and hoped she didn’t sound like a complete sell out. “Advertising. I have to promote the brand for five years, and I can get my own van, custom made.”
“Noooo,” Gregory howled and sank to his knees, hands up in supplication. “Why do I never have such fortune?”
Boris and Karl wrapped their arms around their brother and pretended to weep.
Neeta leaned against the side of her loaner. Guess she had a keeper after all.
* * * *
Spud stood on the small stoop to Lacey’s townhouse and took a breath. He’d lost his nerve last night, and after calling his mom to assure her he was safe, he’d called Lacey to ask if they could talk the next day. She’d suggested a picnic on the beach. Even though he was relieved she wasn’t angry, he’d spent the night tossing and turning.
What was he going to do? He’d seen a jewelry store on the way to the studio and had bought the ring on an impulse. He’d planned to put it in a safety deposit box the next day, save it for when they were both ready.
He raised his hand to knock, drew his fist back to press against his mouth instead.
Why did he make that stupid statement on television? They’d only known each other a few weeks. He’d planned on waiting, inviting her to Idaho to meet Mom.
It was the zombies. All those monsters shambling toward me. I thought I was going to die. All I could think of was that I hadn’t told her how I felt, but this?
What do I do now? I’m committed.
What if it’s too soon? What if she says n-n-
He was so nervous, he was stuttering in his thoughts.
Mom was right. Never make a hasty decision.
Too late now. Just do it and hope for the best. Unless maybe he could ask her something else?
He was still trying out questions close to the one in his heart when Lacey opened the door and threw herself into his arms.
“Yes,” she squealed. “Yesyesyesyesyes!”
* * * *
Roscoe was standing in front of the mirror, examining his outfit. A pile of discarded shirts, slacks and robes sat by his closet door. This was going to be his first vidblog after his “Thank you, God, that I lived!” post he’d made before collapsing into bed. Now he was having trouble deciding which outfit projected the best “day after” image.
“Should have done this in the morning,” he scolded himself. “Ask Loreli always said, ‘White fluffy robe, such a symbol of goodness and casual sexuality for mornings or hotel getaways—and getting “surprised” at the door. Any other time is just tacky.’ Well, the moment is lost now.”
He undid two buttons, examined the effect, then threw up his hands and tore it off. It was just too refined.
It was too hot for the college sweatshirt trick, but what about a tie-dye tee? Plus his “Give me Woody!” button, just to show there were no hard feelings about his having the Z-mat team when they really needed them at the massacre.
He’d just finished checking the text of the button with a small level to be sure it was straight, when the doorbell rang. He found a man with a suit and a posture that said “hired security” holding out a small square envelope.
“Like the button,” he said as Roscoe suspiciously took the envelope and pulled out the heavy ivory parchment card within.
Woody Forrest would like to personally invite you to a reception in your honor
Luxe Sunset Boulevard Hotel
6 p.m. -10 p.m.
RSVP to Mr. Michaels
A limo is scheduled to pick you up at 5:30
unless other arrangements are made.
Roscoe screamed like a crazed fangirl and fainted.
Chapter Nineteen
Gary cracked his knuckles and stretched his shoulders before letting his fingers hover over the keyboard. This was it. He was going to sell The Zombie Syndrome.
Sharon had e-mailed him that morning with a phone number to the Discovery Channel’s main offices and a time. “With the LA Massacre and the Zombie Defense of Afghanistan, there’s no better opportunity. Pitch it, hard, Gary.”
Halfway into his fifteen minutes, Mr. Olesker had told him to come to the offices next week with a script and treatment.
He could kiss that woman. Maybe, when he had the contract, he would.
But first, he had to write the script.
“Shitty first draft,” he told himself. “Just get the ideas out, fix it later.”
Notes For The Zombie Syndrome
A Documentary
By Gary Opkast
Episode: Bring Out Your Dead!
Footage of a hand clawing its way out of a grave from a 2028 surveillance camera at the Leavitt’s Memorial Gardens in Lucky Acres, North Carolina. Rather than dramatically clawing its way out to stagger off in revenge, the zombie dragged herself out of her grave, then rose onto hands and knees, coughing and spitting like someone who had half-drowned. Next, she sat hard, clawed dirt off her face, then her hair. Finally, she sat for several minutes looking around stupidly (speed time here) before rising and shambling off camera.
NARRATOR: We don’t know what causes the dead to take on living abilities, and we don’t know what gives them the strength and agility to claw their way out of the most seemingly inescapable of graves. However, we do have some idea what motivates their actions. Dottore Virgilio Dante, foremost expert on undead psychology, explains his seven levels of living dead motivations.
VIRGILIO DANTE standing in one of the open plazas in the University of Turin. In the background, students rush back and forth between the arched walkways, some getting close to Dante and ducking expertly as his hands swing in their direction.
DANTE: Now, naturally, we cannot interview zombies, so all assumptions of motivation are made based on observed behaviors. I admit I have made a nod toward my ancestor’s work, The Inferno, of course, but I have cat
egorized the basic motivations into seven levels.
Need a graphic, maybe V. Dante standing at the gates of Hell and looking into a vortex, divided into seven levels. Each level full of undead, and signs highlighting the level as the narrator lists them.
NARRATOR: V. Dante’s seven levels…
Improper burial, which may not be a cause but simply makes it easier to arise
Denial of death
Habit
Vengeance
Unfinished business
Fear of crossing over, mostly found in certain religious groups
Type A Personality
DANTE: Sometimes it’s a combination—for example, the case of Giovanni Feliciano, who worked in a rather anonymous job at a Fiat factory near Brindisi. With no family and no friends, no one took much notice when he died in a car crash, or when he returned, undead, three days later, to resume work as a quality control specialist for dashboard auxiliary power systems. Only when they found his finger caught in a cigarette lighter did they suspect something was wrong.
NOTE: Wonder if we can get Sprint to sponsor? That’d be great if they ran the commercial of a zombie with an unfinished wireless plan commitment. Minuuutes....
* * * *
Of course, once Neeta was at the site, she couldn’t help but demand that she help “clean up her own mess.” After some finagling and a not a little whining that staying home made her victim to reporters and lawyers, Spice agreed to an hour. One hour turned to four; after which, he found her, a syringe in his rubber-gloved hand and a threat on his lips. Laughing and feeling tired but content, she went to the decontamination station and then headed home to repeat the same routine of last night. This time, however, her mind was full of happy thoughts except for one.
A winner. I have to pick a winner.
Gordon’s learned so much, she thought, remembering what LaCenta had said about his dousing her with TidyToidy.
LaCenta—brave and smart and has been since the beginning.
Spud kept his head as always. He’s not flashy or innovative, but you seldom need that on the job—sometimes, it makes things worse. Like giving your only means of escape to a lawyer who tried to talk the dealership into suing you, with him as the rep.
Neeta Lyffe, Zombie Exterminator Page 26