Terrifying Lies. Craig Nybo
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Getting tired of sitting, you know.”
I remembered the long hours I had spent back at Marshall Jr. High School. I knew the sound of the clock all too well. Looking back, I don’t think it would have been much longer before I had lost my mind. “Why did you let me in?” I asked. “I’ll only eat your food.”
The man laughed, full and loud, laying his head back.
He settled down and put one of his baseball mitt palms on my shoulder. “What do you got there on your back?”
I eyed him dubiously and protectively raised a hand to the strap over my shoulder. “Guitar.”
He sniggered. “I know that, dumb-ass. What kind of guitar.”
“Gibson Custom Super 400 Hollowbody Electric.”
The man pursed his lips together and hissed out a weak whistle. His eyebrows raised in appreciation. “You know how to play it?”
“I used to be a professional musician,” I lied. But, hell, who was going to know anyways.
“That’s why we brought you in. Like I say, hardest part is passing the time.” He smiled and held out one of his hands. “Name’s Sparks. I’m on bass.”
It hurt, but I shook his hand anyways. He ignored the traces of blood I left on his palm.
“You ain’t no country bumpkin are you?”
“What?”
“If you go wanting to play that Clint Black, Toby Keith shit, I’m telling your right now, I’m going to order the boys to open up that gate and I’m going to throw you back out there.”
“I hate country,” I said.
“That a boy.” Sparks put a hand on my shoulder.
We walked toward one of the refinery buildings.
“Don’t tell me you are into that pansy-assed, yuppie rock,” I said. “I might as well let you know, I’m not playing any Eric Clapton, Hendrix, or Allman Brothers.”
“We got a joke around here among the boys who can play,” Sparks said. “When any of us can’t stick a lick because it’s just a little out of reach, we blame it on playing like Eric. When you can’t play fast, it’s the Clapman. You just have to shake the Clap.”
I laughed. I was beginning to like Sparks. I was beginning to like him a lot.
Story Note
I composed and recorded a few songs about zombies a while back. I took on the persona of Lance King, a man trapped in a compound during an undead apocalypse with nothing but a guitar and a cache of dwindling supplies as I wrote these songs. I even put up a website about it. I planned to shoot a series of videos from “the compound,” and put out journal entries from Lance’s perspective. I called the whole project Zombie Sing-a-long. I think the abandoned site is still out there (zombiesingalong.com).
The project failed in a way. But the Zombie Sing-a-long songs turned into 3 albums of music and narrative about the undead (which you can purchase on iTunes or anywhere else). It also turned into an epic zombie novel that I have to date not released.
One day, I decided to pull up Lance’s incomplete journal from zombiesingalong.com and finish the story. “The Bloody Journal of Lance King” is the result.
By the way, you can watch me, as Lance King, perform 5 of his zombie folk songs online. The songs are called: “Grandma,” “Come March with Us,” “Ship of Zombies,” “So Tendor,” and “All of My Best Friends are Zombies.” Go to the GangreneProductions YouTube channel to check them out.
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