EXTRACT FOR
Bug-Stompers of the 21st Century
(Author Unknown)

Prologue

    

    Run Like Hell...The Prequel

    

    Unreal...surreal...inconceivable...far-fetched. Pick a cliché, any cliché...but facts are facts, even in the light of complete, unabashed insanity. How can something that damn big...bulky as a tractor-trailer with legs no less...possibly see fit to pursue little old insignificant me cross-country like a starved wolf sniffing out a cornered rabbit? Talk about your 'if it weren't for bad luck I'd have no luck at all' scenario, this shit is utterly ridiculous. Not that I had a slew of choices at the time, but I picked this damn sewer drain mainly for its limited size, thus what I considered a safe escape route-out of sight, out of scent...or so I thought. As usual, it never pays to think.

    Ahhh, but I shouldn't be the least bit surprised...it isn't as if this latest in a series of bad breaks transpired all at once. Pondering on it, the entire trek's been a real pisser. Why should it switch gears just because I'm above ground instead of that flaming pit that's the source of the whole nightmarish shebang?

    Worst of all, we managed to stroll right into a textbook booby-trap from the word go, and they call humans the smartest species. Well, such egotistical, cock-sure theories are made to be broken...sometimes it's just a matter of time...and really, really bad timing (laughs). Most intelligent my ass...more like lambs to the proverbial slaughter, one and all. All our so-called experience and job-related knowledge meant exactly squat, as did the modern techno-pesticide weapons that were supposed to save our collective rear-ends if faced with such a freaky scenario. Might as well have been fighting 'em off with a can of Raid...or maybe chunked a box of Combat baits into the hive for all the good Pretty Boy Floyd's experimental armory toys did us.

    The drain reeks of excrement, ammonia, mildew.

    Then again, fighting off my gag reflex is definitely a minor annoyance at the moment. I get the feeling this whole sick-fuck scenario is gonna conclude resembling one of those classic Hollywood sci-fi bug flicks, only with no happy ending in sight, no sir. The planet as a whole will be these ugly SOB's oyster. A nesting to end all nestings, so to speak.

    Today, New Horizons sub-division...tomorrow, the World! Like I said...what a pisser.

    Lord, it's hard to believe such an abomination really exists.

    If I hadn't seen it, seem them, with my own eyes. One thing's for damned certain, no matter what the outcome-the pest control business is in for one major league overhaul. The days of the one percent pesticide, ninety-nine percent water mix in the old B&G have gone the way of the cordless phone and cable TV.

    Shit...running out of gas big-time-no wonder...legs feel like they've been shoved through a wood chipper. Main thing is not to dwell on it. Have to maintain focus here. Just...keep on trucking...rockin' and rollin'...take it one step...or limp...at a time 'til I reach pay-dirt-wherever the hell that might be.

    Think of the others...how they...how they perished as honorably as one can while fighting a foe that simply refuses to die. Think...think of Beth. Yeah, that's it. If I'm roughly half the trooper that sweet Bethy was, I'll find a way. She sure as hell would've.

    Lungs on the verge of imploding-heartbeat pounding on my chest cavity like a jackhammer...all I can think about is how good it would feel just to lay down and sleep for a year or three. Not sure of the distance stretched between us, but I sure as hell can't allow that hungry bitch to get within pinching distance in case I happen to stumble along the way. Moreover, I've got a sinking feeling the two of us ain't alone in or outside this here intestinal tin-can. With that in mind, a half- million ravenous storm-troopers hot on one's heels has a way of bringing out that extra gear you never knew you possessed. That and the mental image of being buried alive by their masses as they chew you into meatball puree. All the way to the bone marrow, baby. I've seen what those merciless little bastards can do to the human body in a relatively short span of time. Seen it up close and waaaay too personal in the past half-hour, in fact. Wish like hell I could erase the memory, but that ain't likely in this or any other lifetime. To quote the obvious, it wasn't at all pleasant nor pretty. Soooo, just keep the mind focused and maintain the stamina level. Can't be more than another fifty yards or so, then I'll poke my head topside and search out an authority figure of some kind-for whatever good that'll do.

    Hate to bring it up, much less dwell on it, but a few million lives just might hang in the balance depending on how quick I can produce a suitable warning. Shit, if they only knew their very futures lay in the hands of a limping, beaten-down, near-psychotic pest control tech from East Virginia, I get the feeling the majority would be bending down to kiss their own butt-cheeks sayonara right about now. If so, I can only pray I've got enough gas left in the motivational tank to make 'em regret such negative thinking. Yeah, that's it...something to keep my mind occupied even as the body falls apart at the seams...pray to a higher power that this ain't the end after all. Pray and keep moving...yep-that's the plan-just concentrate, keep on truckin', and don't...stop... praying...

    



BUG OUT, PART ONE

    

    Mysterious Benefactor

    

    Day One: The Initial In-Brief (Translation: The Initial Offer)

    Location: New Horizons Corporation Headquarters, New Horizon, Ohio (formerly Davidson, Ohio-once infamous as the location of South Cleveland's most notorious project housing units)

    Date: September 17th of the year two-thousand sixteen

    

    As if to validate his well-publicized persona of erratic, borderline psychotic behavior, Gil 'Doctor Death' Braggs entered the room dancing a wild jig while decked out in full 'MD' regalia, complete with stethoscope, ankle-length lab coat, and mirrored hand-band. Just as he neared the conference table, we all watched with a mixture of bland curiosity and mild disgust as he bent down and scooped something off the slickly waxed floor. In lifting the wriggling object towards the fluorescent lighting above, he slowly separated the fingers grasping the mystery item before turning to us wearing a comically warped grin. He cupped the medium-sized German cockroach in his palm like a small child gently cradling a prized pet before quickly whipping his head back around and tossing it between parted lips. The muffled crunching noises that followed were mercifully drowned out by the round of grunts and guffaws that followed. Clearly annoyed by the gatherings lack of enthusiasm of his prop-comic act, Braggs took a seat without further fanfare. Obviously, the art of verbal exchange wasn't the man's strong point. Then again, if industry scuttlebutt was even partially factual, 'Doctor Death' and his many minions (forced to dress in similar medical garb) had become a major player in So Cal, Washington State and Oregon, opening branches in as many as eighteen cities. Celebrated nut-job, court jester indeed- seemed more like 'crazy as a fox' status to yours truly.

    Twelve seats were filled within the next half-hour, the entire group facing a small burnt oak stage and similarly styled podium. In looking about, I recognized most of the others from various internet ads. Always pays to recognize the enemy in this business, and I'm not referring just to the insect prey from which we make our living.

    In fact, considering the plethora of elephantine egos present, it was becoming crystal clear that one stood head and shoulders above all others as King Megalomaniac himself. Yes siree Bob, that dubious distinction belonged to one Virgil 'The Cleaner' Hobbs, three-time Exterminator of the Year as voted by the USPS (United States Pesticide Suppliers) and self-proclaimed 'Intercity Eradicator' for his hand-picked teams 'miraculous' clean-up of Philly's Southside projects during the Crimson Termite swarms of two-thousand fifteen. Just listening to the man prattle on about his own unsurpassed greatness was beginning to twist my gut, and from the sour expressions worn by those around me, the feeling appeared to be mutual. Definitely brought to mind an old twentieth century joke, late nineteen seventies if I'm correct, as in 'pull the cord on the Virgil Hobbs doll and it tells you how good it is. '

    Personally, it had taken less than five full minutes in the man's ultra-cocky, overbearing presence to garner my vote as Prince Prick amongst even the stiffest of competition. Painful but true, the casual observer might well have considered our little gathering to be that of a group of pampered, overpaid, self- important professional athletes discussing past playing field heroics-or perhaps even a gaggle of former high-ranking military officers regaling one another with the type of glorified, overblown war stories normally reserved for bargain- basement techno-ebook novels.

    "Damn Virg, you housing a pair of artificial lungs or is it that ya simply don't require a breathin' pause in-between spoutin' such a heaping, healthy pile of self-adulating horseshit?"

    Virgil refused to acknowledge the comment, much less its originator, pretending instead to wipe a clump of invisible dust from the sewn-on patch of his immaculately pressed uniform shift.

    "Yep, same old Virg. House plants possess a better sense of humor." This time, Hobbs did at least turn and scowl at the man sitting a few chairs over to his right, curling his lips like a growling canine before huffing loudly and facing front once again.

    "Same old Cloudy," he finally whispered, though loud enough to overhear in the relative silence,"mouth nearly as big as the dustbowl state he calls home."

    Scuttlebutt was that Gaven McCloud, AKA 'The Texas Terminator' had once upon a time shared route time with Virgil Hobbs, though I'd heard wildly varied locations mentioned-everywhere from East Philly to Little Rock to Cheyenne, Wyoming. Needless to say, I wasn't nearly interested enough to dig about for clarification, and it seemed the feeling was mutual among all present. Alas, verification of such useless tidbits about our fellow Exterminators wasn't necessary. I couldn't give a Norway Rat's freshly lain turd about anyone's past, present or future lives. The roomful of rogue pest control tech's I shared space with only cared about two things at present time: the mission and the money.

    Cut and dry, as it always was in this nasty little business. Nature of the bug...er, beast, I'm afraid. Shelve the personalities-leave all personal problems and inter- personal squabble at the door. No one gets involved in deep-sixing the world's bug population for the glory of it, and it sure as hell isn't the life-long friendships in a business long-legendary for its massive turnover rate in personnel. Just show me some bugs to stomp and then the money, baby, in precisely that order.

    I heard Beth sigh a chair over, reaching up with both hands to massage each temple through her latest hairdo, a dark-maroon, spiked job that resembled something from one of those virtual reality Sci-Fi video games. As if the jade- shaded scorpion tattoo on her forehead or the newly implanted, titanium-based fingernails adorning each slender digit wasn't enough in terms of attention getters. Ah well, the girl had never been accused of being shy. Sweet Bethy possessed the physique of a back-alley Tai Juk Do fighter and the profanity- laced vocabulary of a veteran street vamp. No wonder I'd fallen for her so damn hard all those years ago. Definitely my kinda woman, minus the demure, subservient qualities all guys still secretly fantasize about. Talk about your fictional traits. Still, classic Holly-weird flicks remind us that such women did exist at one time. Please your man. Greet him at the door with a frosty brew while wearing an adoring smile and the flimsiest see ??"through nightly imaginable. Yep, must've been the ticket alright, if such a Shangri-La did indeed ever truly exist. Personally, I never witnessed a trace of such behavior in my own numerous, mostly fruitless affairs. The bug-stomping business isn't exactly pegged as the most romantic of career choices. Ah yes, the aroma of BO and pesticide may be considered many things, but an aphrodisiac definitely isn't one of 'em.

    "Jesus, what's the hold up? Let's get this show on the road already. Time is money, for shits sake..." Beth grunted, flexing meticulously toned biceps while leaning back to stretch out both her bare, darkly tanned arms.

    "You got that right, sweets. Free plane ride and hotel digs be damned, somebody needs to step forward and spills the beans on this little mystery," echoed Luther 'The Ebony Assassin' Bohannon in a voice so deep and gravelly it was almost comical, though I'll be damned if anyone present possessed the cohunes to express a similar opinion with even the most inconspicuous of giggles.

    I saw Beth openly cringe at the 'sweets' remark, though she wisely chose not to challenge a man whose overall stature was akin to that of amedium-sized moving van. No doubt Bohannon's well-noted past as both a pro circuit wrestler and internet porn star aided in enhancing his own legend as a man not to be trifled with. Still, it was one of the few times I witnessed such hesitation in a woman who normally regarded such blatant chauvinism as nothing less than a declaration of war.

    "Patience, people, patience. Have faith in the powers that be," a new, notably more refined voice chimed in with a noted British twang,"I'm sure there's a justifiable reason that twelve of the World's most celebrated exterminators have been called together for noontime tea.

    In due time. All in due time," spewed forth the senior member of the invited guests, one Delbert 'Clean Sweep' Prescott, he of the eight 'Exterminator of the Year Awards' of Great Britain fame before relocating to the US East Coast following the new millennium.

    "Ah, patience my ass, old man. Took me six blessed hours to fly here from Jersey, counting flight delays. Whatever it's about...it damn well better be worth the trouble," blurted Brad 'Killer Bee' Bedford in a whiny, nasal moan that was as annoying as it was cringe-inducing. Easily the youngest of those present, Bedford was not without his own fast-building rep in the industry. Quite the eccentric group-the 'Dirty Dozen' of the pest control industry, one might say. Not really sure if I felt honored or downright embarrassed to be counted amongst their ranks. Regardless, there I sat, along with my former live-in lover and business partner of the past nine years. In Beth's case, it wasn't necessary to ask for an assessment of the situation. I could read her expression like the weathered pages of a well-worn paperback. Ticked off scowls and perturbed moans aside, she was on the verge of orgasmic delight at the prospect of something new and out of the ordinary-in other words, anything to escape the daily grind and mundane universe that made up the whole of commercial pest control.

    "Not to worry, Mister Bedford," still another alien voice rang out from the rear of the conference room,"I'm quite certain our impending offer of employment will soon sooth the brittle nerves of all involved."

    The dude was young; painfully so, probably no more than thirty on the outside. With his oil-slick, close-cropped do and shiny-slick black three-piece suit, he looked every bit the stereotypical preppy CEO type. The room instantly filled with the scent of high-end cologne straight from Sachs Fifth's 'Elite' on-line catalog, the type that requires an upfront fee in the thousands just to browse. It was a sickly sweet aroma I'd become accustomed to while treating homes belonging to the upper crust of society. Striding to the front of the room with two similarly decked out cronies on either side ('hired muscle' Beth had whispered, nodding my way), the man's very walk exhumed arrogance, just as his snooty, sarcastic tone had earmarked his lifelong standing among the privileged few.

    "Let's hope so, slick," Luther Bohannon barked, struggling as not to shatter the woefully undersized chair parked beneath his massive bulk. Swear to God, the man's neck was as thick as my waist, no small feat considering my recent rediscovery of carbohydrates.

    "I'm a busy man. Too busy to have my precious time wasted, know what I mean?"

    Slick turned to face us wearing a smug, Cheshire-cat grin that screamed insincerity, crossing his arms across his chest as his two stoic cohorts took up position a few steps to his rear.

    "Understood, Mister Bohannon sir, and I consider it a safe assumption that each of you feel a similar apprehension as to the rather...vague invitation that led you here this day."

    Gaven McCloud laughed aloud, tossing his shiny bald head back like a baying wolf. His thick, walrus mustache bounced about like a live caterpillar.

    "Vague? Hell son, that's puttin' it mildly. Gotta say, if not for the free ride, digs and cash advance, this old boy would be smack-dab in the middle of his annual early summer gnat slaughter. As it is, I left the keys to the kingdom in the hands of a tech staff I trust about as far as I can heave a dump truck. In other words, spit it out as quickly as those gloss-coated lips can manage so I can get back to day to day operations."

    "Here, here, old boy, by all means please educate us," Delbert Prescott added with a mild clap, igniting a loud murmur between several others sitting to my rear.

    Shoving his chair back from the conference table with a loud screech, Virgil Hobbs then stood and slammed the palms of both hands against the table, causing everyone present save perhaps the unflappable Gaven McCloud to flinch as if back-handed.

    "Would you people just clam up and give the man a chance to speak, for Christ's sake? I for one am shamed by the childish behavior on display from my...so-called peers."

    After a moments silence, McCloud cackled aloud. Beth and I exchanged grins as Hobbs retook his seat amidst a spattering of giggles.

    "Always the drama queen, right Virg? A real spotlight magnet you are. Some things never change..." McCloud concluded as the head suit cleared his throat and prepared to enlighten us.

    "Gentleman...and lady..." he began, glancing overhead at some unseen object while wringing his hands like the expert salesman I was sure he most certainly was, "allow me to place squarely on the table, so to speak, what might well be the most potentially lucrative offer you will ever bare witness to in your chosen profession..."