Ted Palmer checked his Rolex.  10:30.  Where the hell is he? he thought.  He knocked again on the glass door of Billman's Pest Control.  The early morning drizzle had turned into a steady downpour outside.  In the deserted hallway, tiny beads of water rolled down Palmer's overcoat, slowly making little puddles on the tile floor.  Well somebody's got to be here, he told himself.  He tried the doorknob and to his surprise it was unlocked.  Somewhere in the distance the distinct wail of a police siren cut through the sounds of the gathering storm, reminding Palmer of the neighborhood he was in.  Not a very cautious man are you Mr. Billman? thought Palmer as he stepped into the office.  Looking around the room, he began to wonder if he had made a mistake.  When an associate of his had suggested this place, Palmer never expected it to be such a run down dump.  The office's only window had a faint tint of yellow to it, undoubtedly caused by years of cigar or cigarette smoke judging from the stale odor of the room.  Heaps of papers littered the floor and a crumpled brown bag atop a dull grey metal desk sat in the middle of the room.  An outdated calender hung alongside the window.  Although it was April, the calender proudly displayed Miss July of the previous year.  Miss July apparently liked to wear a bikini while fine tuning her old Harley Davidson.  An electric heater in the corner of the room hummed monotonously, but it did little to cut the chill in the air.
        Palmer studied the dim room.  It was just the kind of place one hoped never to visit.  Somewhere one might end up after taking the wrong directions in a bad part of town.  But Palmer had the right directions and he had followed them impeccably.  He had always been a stickler for details and he was definitely at the right address, though he was undeniably in the wrong part of town.  It was the kind of place people forgot about if they had the chance, the kind of place people tried to avoid, the kind of place one would expect to have to visit to find a killer.
 Palmer heard a rustle from behind the desk.  Cautiously, he stepped across the litter on the floor and peered over the edge of the metal desk.  For a second he thought a dead body lay before him on the floor, then he caught the smell of scotch and noticed the figure's chest rising and falling rhythmically.
        "Ahem," grunted Palmer.  The man on the floor rolled over and started to snore.
         Mr. Billman?"  Palmer asked, a little louder this time, as he leaned over the desk.  Still no noticeable response.
        "I don't have time for this..." mumbled Palmer as he reached into his suitcoat pocket to retrieve the stun gun which he always carried for protection.  He adjusted the setting on the gun to mild, thought better of it, and changed it to moderate.  After all the guy looked pretty wasted.  Kneeling beside the figure on the floor, Palmer reached out and zapped the man on the crown of his head.
 Convulsions rippled through the man on the floor.  Palmer stood up rapidly and slipped the stun gun into his suitcoat pocket again.  When the jerking motions had subsided, Palmer asked again, "Mr. Billman?"
         Upon hearing his name, the man on the floor sat bolt upright.  He had a glazed look in his eyes and it was unclear whether this was from the electric shock or from the scotch still in his system.  Either way, the man was obviously not completely aware yet of what was going on.  A thin trail of smoke rose from his head where the jolt of electricity had singed his greying hair.
        "Ah..yes, yes. Uh... excuse me I must have dozed off...," Walter stammered, "...or something."  Struggling to his feet, he noticed the empty bottle of scotch on the floor and tried to nonchalantly nudge it with his foot under the edge of the desk.  For some reason Walter was having difficulty focusing his eyes, and for a few unsettling moments he had no idea what his first name was.
        "Sorry, the door closing must have startled you," said Palmer.  Grinning broadly, he added, "I'm Ted Palmer, Mr. Billman.  Or shall I call you Walter?"
        Oh yeah, that's it.  Of course, Walter, thought Walter.  "Whichever you prefer, Mr. Billman...say do you smell smoke?"
        "No. I don't," said Palmer, ignoring the name slip and quickly changing the subject. "Do you mind if I sit down?" he asked, gesturing toward a metal fold out chair in front of the desk.
        "Please, please sit down."
 Palmer sat down and watched Walter closely.  Again he began to doubt the fortitude of this man he had chosen.   "Walter, I have a pest problem, that's why I'm here."
        "Well, I figured that much out for myself.  Why come to an exterminator unless you have a pest problem?"
        "Yes...exactly."
        "Exactly what sort of problems have you been having, Mr. Palmer?"
 Palmer stared out thoughtfully into space for a few seconds before answering.  "I have some sort of infestation that seems to be spreading throughout my waste facilities in the inner city."
 Billman looked up at the mention of waste facilities.  "Wouldn't that fall under the jurisdiction of the city's sanitation department?"
        "Oh I tried them, believe you me," said Palmer rolling his eyes. "Several times in fact, Walter.  Even threatened to sue the city if nothing was done.  But it seems people just could care less about what happens to the inner city. ‘Let it go to pot,' they say. ‘Who cares?' they say.  All of them just itching to pump that money into some new strip mall, or theme park.  But try to suggest fixing up the old inner city, and suddenly you're the invisible man.  Nobody lives there, so nobody votes there.  No votes...you might as well wipe the place off the map and put in one big parking lot."
        Generally Walter considered himself apolitical, but he felt Palmer's words warranted some sort of comment.  "I know what you mean about those guys,"he said. "Freaking bureaucrats promise everything, deliver nothing."  Walter thought it at least sounded good, even if he wasn't exactly sure what a bureaucrat was.
        Palmer was pretty sure Walter had no idea what he meant, but he said, "Well, I'm glad we see eye to eye on this then."
         "Definitely, now if you could just help me here for minute..." said Walter as he rummaged through his desk for the site information forms.  Pulling a few of the blank forms out, he asked, "Mr. Palmer, do you have any idea of the type of pest we're talking about here?"
         "I have an idea but I'd really rather leave the diagnostics up to you if you don't mind.  What I want, Walter, is to pay you an obscene amount of money today and never have to worry about this problem again."  Saying this, Palmer leaned forward on his elbows as if he were giving a command rather than making a request.
         Walter shuffled in his seat a little uncomfortably, but what Palmer had said about money had more than grabbed his attention.  "Well I'll certainly do what I can," he managed to get out, "Let's see, first I'll need to come out and inspect the site so that I can give you an estimate."
 Palmer chuckled and leaned back in the metal chair as best he could.  Crossing his legs he said, "I'm not sure you understand me.  Let me ask you a question."
        "Sure," Walter answered, puzzled.
        "What is the highest fee you have ever been paid for a commercial job?"
        Walter knew immediately the answer.  He had once been paid a lump sum of five thousand dollars for a year-long contract with the State University to control fireants on all the athletic fields.  But why let Palmer know this?  He had tons of money and Walter sensed that he should at least hold out for all he could get.  So he tried to act as if there had been, so many.  "Let's see, that's a tough one...," he said nodding.  Ten thousand did not seem unreasonable. "I've had a couple of jobs paying around twenty grand, I guess."  Damn it!  Too much.  Too much, you idiot!  thought Walter.
        "Fine," replied Palmer without blinking an eye, "I have five sites that need... ah, servicing, so I'll make you a check out for a hundred thousand."
 Walter stared ahead blankly, the words not quite registering.
         "Oh come now, Mr. Billman.  You and I both know that's much more than adequate compensation for a job of this nature, so let's just dispense with the game playing, shall we?"
 Say something, Stupid, before he comes to his senses!  "Of course Mr. Palmer.  That will be fine."  He was afraid to say more for fear he would break into song and jump up on the table and begin dancing.  Somehow, he managed to keep control.
         "Excellent," said Palmer.  "I'll make the check out."
         Walter tried to control his racing pulse as he watched palmer make out the check.  He was in awe at the effect a long string of zeros on a check had on a person.  He was afraid he might pass out.  Palmer tore the check out and reached toward Walter, but stopped just short of letting go of it.
         "Walter, look at me," he ordered.  "After I pay you this money, I expect you to take care of the rest.  End of problem.  I don't want to have contact with you again or worry about this any longer.  God knows I've lost enough sleep over it already."
         Walter looked him dead in the eye and said, "Go home and forget about it.  I don't care what I find out there, I'm telling you now, I'll kill it."
         Palmer stared back at him for only a moment longer. "Good then," he said as he handed the check to Walter.  Reaching into his pocket he brought out a folded sheet of paper.  "Here are the addresses," he said.  The he turned to leave the office.  "Thank you and good day, Mr. Billman," Palmer said over his shoulder, and with that he was gone.
        Walter leaned back in his chair, staring at the check in his hand.  He counted the zeros again.  Then he counted them backward just for the fun of it.  This time he could not hold back his smile.  Staring over at his gun drawer, he shook his head as he began to laugh.  He lifted his eyes upward and said, "Thank you, God!"

         The next couple of hours were busy for Walter.  After relaying the good news to Kay, he followed her advice and went straight to the bank to settle his debts.  This took longer than he had expected, and by the time he left First Financial, it was well after five.  Walter figured he still had a good two hours of sunlight left, plenty of time to run by at least one of the addresses Palmer had given him.
         It had been several years since Palmer had been so deep into this part of the inner-city.  Things had grown so rapidly in recent years that Walter found himself in somewhat unfamiliar surroundings.  Of course the street names were the same as they had always been.  He checked the first address on the list Palmer had given him.  4343 Beaumont.  Walter turned onto Beaumont and began to count off the street blocks, 1900...2300...2700...3100.  Before he even reached the 4300's, he realized he had made a very grievous mistake.  It was now 6:05 pm, which should have given him another hour of sunlight.  But with the endless lines of ancient skyscrapers towering thousands of feet into the air, only a tiny patch of faint glow far above suggested that there was indeed a sun.
 Walter turned on his headlights.  Nearly all of the electric streetlights were out, either broken or bulbless.  Occasionally Walter would pass a flickering but still functioning light.  He wondered how many hours a day these automatic lights must burn.  With the skyscrapers filling nearly all of the sky, and the smog blocking out what little sunlight there was left, he figured this area of the city was lucky to get an hour of light a day, on a good day.   Chances were these lights burned around the clock in perpetual darkness.
         As best he could make out from his headlights, Walter was surrounded by asphalt, concrete and steel.  No plants, no trees, no flowers, not even a blade of grass could be found to attest to the fact that there did indeed exist things in this world not created by man.  The streets were deserted as were most of the buildings, judging from the plywood across their windows and entrances.  Walter felt more like he was on a deserted planet than deep in the heart of one of the biggest cities in the world.  The only hint of the bustling metropolis nearby, was the enormous amount of trash littering the sidewalks and alleyways.  He guessed most of the filth had been blown here from other parts of the city.
         4343 Beaumont.  Walter pulled over and got out of the car.  He was immediately struck by a strong steady wind which whipped around his clothes and felt as though it may at any moment, lift him up and whisk him away.  Gripping the side of the giant building for support, Walter fumbled in his pocket for his flashlight.  Without his car headlights he was a blind man.  Finally he managed to get his flashlight on.  He shone the beam in front of him and carefully made his way toward the north side of the building, where Palmer had said the problem was.
         He turned the corner and gasped.  His flashlight revealed before him a dead end alley formed by the sides of three buildings.  Filling the alleyway were heaps and heaps of garbage.  The refuse near the front fluttered in the gusting wind and looked to be only a few feet deep.  Against the back wall of the alley, however, Walter guessed the trash reached at least twenty-five or thirty feet high.  If such could be said of garbage, it was an awe inspiring sight.  He stood for a moment wondering how in the world he was ever going to be able to exterminate whatever it was that lived in this hellhole.
         Overwhelmed, Walter had begun to turn to go back to his car, when out of the corner of his eye he sensed more than saw, something moving along the opposite edge of the alley.  Figuring he would not have much better light tomorrow, he quickly moved in to investigate.  The trash was more heavily packed on the other side of the alley.  Crouching down, Walter shone the flashlight forward and saw what appeared to be a burrow about two feet high, curving off into the darkness deep beneath the mountain of refuse.  In all his years of pest control, he had never seen anything like this before. He moved forward into the garbage.
         Long ago, he had mastered his fear of small scurrying things.  One did not last long as an exterminator if one could not control such fears.  Snakes, spiders, mice, rats -- he had seen it all and he doubted any of these nuisances had any surprises left for him.
         Suddenly something launched itself at Walter.  He caught a quick glimpse of a small pale figure in the flashlight's beam, before he was struck violently on the chest.  Though there was little force behind the blow, it caught Walter off guard and he tumbled sideways into the trash, dropping the flashlight.  Its light now somthered by the garbage, Walter found himself in total darkness.  His hands searched frantically for the flashlight, but he knew there was no way he would find it merely by touch in this heap of garbage.
         He began to feel very uneasy, laying there practically sightless.  He heard whatever had hit him scamper out of the alley and across the street.  The sound of his attacker fleeing made him break out in a cold sweat.  Walter had come face to face with probably every kind of vermin known to man, and nothing sounded like this.  Whatever was running down the empty street in the darkness was, without a doubt, two-legged.
         Walter became aware of other sounds in the darkness around him.  A rustle here, a scratch there...then another.   He strained to focus his eyes in the dark.  Oh God!  He thought, I'm in a nest!
         Before the thought could completely register, the alleyway erupted in an explosion of noise and movement.  Bodies rushed past him in the dark.  Walter heard a high pitched scream and realized it was his.  Then something in his mind clicked.  These things were trying to get away from him, not attacking him.  He reached out blindly in the blackness.  I'll be damned if I'm leaving here without knowing what the hell I'm up against, he thought determinedly.
         He could feel the nest's inhabitants rushing past him.  Rather than fur however, he felt bare skin.  Suddenly his hand found a limb, and he instantly wrapped his arms around the creature.  It howled and began to flail at Walter's chest with its tiny hands.  Walter let it go, awareness beginning to dawn on him.  The alleyway emptied and he could hear the horde racing away up the street.
         Walter slowly got to his feet and felt his way along the sidewalk back to his car.  Somewhere along the way he began to cry.  Once inside the car, he flipped on the overhead light and reluctantly looked down at his shirt to confirm his suspicions.
         "Nooooooooo!" he screamed into the night.  Clearly outlined on his white dress shirt were several small, dirty hand prints.  Children's hand prints.

         "They're children, Mr. Palmer!"  Walter shouted into the phone.
         "Biologically speaking," Palmer conceded calmly. "And need I remind you that our deal was for you to take care of this problem without bothering me further."
         "Surely you can't expect me to-"
         "I expect you to do what you were paid to do.  Well paid I might add!"  Palmer's voice had become very loud and he paused while he brought it back under control.  "If you really want out of this why don't you just give me my check back?"
         Palmer heard silence only from Walter's end of the line.  "Exactly as I expected.  You see Mr. Billman, I'm well aware of your financial situation.  Or, shall I say your former financial situation?  I must confess that as a sitting member of the board of directors of First Financial, I played more than a small role in getting the bank to call your loan."  Palmer paused a few moments to let it all sink in. "And I can guarantee you, Walter, that if you don't hold to your end of the bargain, I'll cancel my check and take your house and business so fast, you'll be living down in the trash with the little vermin before you even knew what hit you."
         Walter shivered at the thought.
         "Now, there's no reason to prolong this.  Just give me your answer and I'll act accordingly.  Are you going to fulfill our contract, Mr. Billman?"
         Walter shut his eyes and swallowed.  Then he spoke clearly into the phone, "I'll do it, you bastard."

         Walter was able to round up about ten trap cages that he had ordered from a catalog some years ago.  At the time he thought he could use them to help catch stray dogs for Animal Control.  When he found out Animal Control wasn't the least bit interested in paying him for stays, especially live ones, he scratched the idea.  He never imagined he would one day be using them to catch children instead.
         They did work pretty well though.  Every evening around sundown he would set the traps out, baited with hamburgers.  Returning before sunrise, he would take up the traps and empty the kids into a small warehouse he had rented with some of the extra money from Palmer's check.  He continued to feed the captured children at the warehouse as he went about his nightly routine.
        He noticed none of the children spoke anything that sounded even remotely like a language.  They merely grunted and hissed at each other.  Many of them seemed to prefer moving about on all fours.  They actually were much more vermin than man. At least that's what Walter kept telling himself.
         After three weeks he was convinced he had them all.  For a while he thought he would keep the children, nurse them back to good health, clean them all up and get them in some sort of shelter.  But sadly, the limitations of these plans became evident as Palmer's check dwindled away rapidly.
         All total, his warehouse held seventy-three dirty, malnourished, feral children.  In the end Walter did the only thing he could.  With the remainder of Palmer's check, he rented the largest truck he could find and loaded seventy-three of the most wretched beings humanity had ever known into the back of it.
         It took Walter a day and a half to find open countryside.  He pulled to the side of the deserted road and got out.  Walking to the rear of the truck, Walter told himself again that this was the best he could do for them. More vermin than man, he kept thinking.  But he didn't buy it for one minute.
 He lifted the backdoor of the trailer and his wild cargo swarmed out past him.  He watched them scurry out across the countryside, just like animals.  Yes, more vermin than man.
         Turning back toward the truck, Walter felt a tug at his pants leg.  He looked down and saw a tiny, pale-skinned girl with dark brown eyes and wild hair staring back up at him.  Walter guessed she could be no more than five or six.  He wondered what those five or six years had been like for her.  What horrors had those dark eyes been witness to?  He jerked his leg back and said in as firm a voice as he could muster, "Go on now...shoo!"
         He turned and walked quickly away from her.
         More vermin than man.  Yes that's right.  That's exactly what I am.
         He felt another tug at his pants leg.
         Damn.
         Not knowing what else to do, Walter whirled around and screamed at the child, "Go away!"  The girl jumped at the noise.  Her bottom lip began to quiver.  Walter stared at the girl, and watched in amazement as she began to cry.
         Do vermin cry?
         The rest of the pack was quite some way across the field now.
         "Get the hell outta here!" Walter shouted again, this time shaking his fist in the air for emphasis.  With tears streaming down her face, the girl took one last look at Walter, then bolted out across the countryside.  No food. No shelter.  Walter gave them six months to live at best.
         On the drive back to the city he kept telling himself, more vermin than man, more vermin than man, more vermin than man.

         Perhaps because it was Friday, or perhaps because the memory of seventy-three dirty little naked children scurrying across the open countryside haunted him relentlessly, Walter Billman had brought a bottle of scotch with him to work the next morning.  At 8:30 he started drinking.  At 10:00 he started eying the gun drawer.  Shortly before noon, despair overtook him.