Terrifying Lies - Craig Nybo

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unmolested by the undead. It’s a funny thing. When I first dove into the dumpster last night, I though there would be no way to sleep in the midst of all that garbage. But one rises to the bar in desperate times. After only a few minutes, I became used to the stench. And, after jockeying around amongst the trash, I found comfort and warmth.

      Within an hour, I drifted off. And not into the light, useless catnap snatches of sleep to which I have become accustomed. I have slept for over nine hours. I feel great.

      I don’t know if it’s because the stench of the dumpster has acted as a repellent to the undead or if the foulness of the garbage has merely hidden my human scent, but I remain unharmed. I haven’t so much as heard one of them shuffle by. I’m hoping that the now deeply seated fragrance will cloy. Maybe I can pass among them without drawing their attention, at least by their senses of smell. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not going out on any dates any time soon. For all I know, I’m the last living human on the face of the planet. So I plan to go out into the world smelling like rotting cabbage and fish guts. Hello world.

      I’m headed for the guitar store today. I’ve never owned an ax any nicer than my mid-level Ibanez, which I left back at Warden. It would be nice to move up to a high-end Martin or a Paul Reed Smith. So its out of the dumpster with me and back onto my ride. I’m hoping I’ll be rocking out by dinnertime tonight. If only I had a few friends to jam with. Oh well, I guess I’ll have to be content as a solo act.

      Late Afternoon

      I have to admit, I felt a little guilty as I threw a brick through the window at Wanesgard Music. All I have seen as I have ridden my motorcycle down the streets, sidewalks, alleys, and across vacant lots, is broken windows, smashed windshields, shattered department store entrance ways, shards of glass all over the place, winking the sun back into my eyes as I ride. I have been careful to roll around the glass in order to avoid punctured tires. But as I stood there in front of the music store with a red brick cocked back, ready to let fly, I took pause for a moment. Breaking and entering even in these circumstances goes against the nature of what I am.

      In a way, this gives me hope. Maybe there is a part of us, even after we have every excuse to debase ourselves to our most animalistic instincts, to be civil.

      I threw the brick.

      The window shattered.

      I kicked away a few shards of the stuff and stepped inside. The familiar smell of every guitar store—polished and oiled wood, upholstery and leather, a hint of cigarette butt leftovers—hit me. I stood for a moment, eyes closed, just taking it in. Along my ride I enter and leave patches of spoiled earth. In my mind, I call them dead zones. In dead zones, I smell bloated flesh, crawling with maggots. There’s nothing to do in dead zones but close off my nose, lean into my handlebars, and push through.

      Wanesgard Music felt like the opposite of a dead zone. The place welcomed me with its scent alone. It was almost like I forgot about the world’s fall. In the middle of so much war and death, Wanesgard Music felt like a neutral zone.

      I took in racks upon racks of musical instruments, amplifier stacks, music stands, display cases of method and theory books, window-cases of microphones, and autographed posters of rock stars, my eyes teared up. The place brought on such a swell of nostalgia, such a longing for the way things used to be, that my emotions threatened to overcome me.

      I found a chrome bar stool with the Fender logo printed on the seat and sat down. For a moment I didn’t move. I just looked around, my hands shaking at the expanse of the place. It felt as though the building itself welcomed me. I almost heard it whisper into my ear, Lance, you belong here. Stay as long as you like. Take what you see. You are welcome to it all.

      I wandered to a rack of electric guitars. The bottom shelf held the cheap, hot sellers, instruments for newbies. I used to teach private lessons before the world rolled up. Inevitably, parents asked what kind of guitar they should buy their young, aspiring rockers. I always advised that new players didn’t have the experience to know a good guitar from a bad one. I advised parents to let their kids buy a guitar based on shape, color, and personality. Buying a guitar, when you are a new player, is more about seeing how it looks on you in a mirror than testing it for tone and action.

      The newbie guitars hung on the bottom row, painted in outlandish colors, cut like axes, devils, and flying V’s, every extreme shape, size, and demeanor. I ignored them and looked up at the top shelf stuff. I traced along the row of American strats, Gibson Les Pauls, and SGs, all great guitars. My eyes stopped on a natural spruce Gibson Custom Super 400 Hollowbody Electric. Saliva flowed. In another world, I could never afford such a guitar. The Super 400 Thinline came in at no less than thirteen-thousand dollars. But the instrument backed up every penny with tone and precision.

      I found a little two-step ladder and climbed up to where I could reach the instrument. I hooked it from the clip and brought it down. I sat on another bar stool, this one appropriately tagged with the Gibson logo, and strummed. I wished almost beyond reason that there were electricity to power one of the tube amps sitting right beside me, but there was no hope of ever hearing the deep tone of the dual ’57 classic humbucker pickups. But the tone of the spruce open body still caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand.

      When it comes to guitars, some require anger and sweat to play. It’s almost like these types of instruments exude an attitude; I dare you to play me, you chump. Just try to get a good tone out of me. As a guitarist, I always feel like I have to put in double the effort to get even a reasonable sound from such mean-spirited instruments.

      But the Gibson Super 400 Thinline greeted me like an old friend. As I rested my fingers on the maple neck, the thing seemed to sigh at my touch. I strummed an A-minor 7th chord to test it for feel and everything in my body relaxed. I played, at first a few simple blues riffs to get to know the neck. Gradually, I changed over to more complicated and enjoyable changes. It felt as though I and the guitar were on a team. And we were focused on shutting out all of the stench and gore of the fallen world with our music.

      I sank into a fugue of playing. Only musicians understand this, how one can start simply then explore, using chords, licks, and refrains as footsteps through a forest, a city, a mountain, a world of love, hate, and indifference. Before I knew it, I had played for an hour, sometimes singing along, sometimes just sitting on that bar stool watching my hands work the strings.

      Being so ensconced in the musical world I had created, I became unaware of the danger around me. Something clattered near the entrance of the shop. I looked up to see a mob of undead coming at me, too many to count. The world of music I had created crumbled all around me in discord. I stood and pushed the Gibson over onto my back where it hung, neck down.

      To my knowledge, the way I had come in was the only way out of Wanesgard Music and between me and the front door were nearly a score of undead, their skin pale, their fists bunching up and slackening as they eyed me. I scrambled back, knocking a pair of newbie guitars from the rack to clatter on the floor. I was faster than them. But they were pairing out into the store. I couldn’t tell if they were deliberately attempting to flank me or if they were merely finding their own paths through the display cases half-stacks, and music stands.

      I drew the Glock .9mm from my waistband and fired. I hit the closest of them, a teenaged kid wearing a Batman t-shirt, in the chest after missing twice. The kid whipped around at the bullet’s impact, but then righted his course and kept coming. I kept firing. Finally, I dropped the kid in the Batman shirt with a headshot after emptying most of the magazine. I fired the rest into another of the walkers, a woman with sunken cheeks, flaking makeup, and a rat’s nest of graying hair. Out of four shots, I hit her once in the shoulder. The Glock dry-fired with a disparaging snap. I swore and tucked it into my waistband.

      I backed away from them, scrambling for anything I could use. I settled on a B.C. Rich Warlock—an appropriately evil looking guitar sold to greenhorn players who were more concerned about looking goth than in obtaining any kind of clean tone. I wielded the B.C. Rich like an ax, body up, head down. I took on a batter’s stance. I’m no athlete, but I do remember the single baseball lesson I got from Coach Flint, my high school P.E. teacher. Cock your right elbow for maximum power. Lead with your left foot. Step into

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