Craig Nybo lives with his lovely wife and five children in Kaysville, Utah. He works as a creative director for mediaRif.com, a digital creative agency.
Craig became a writer at a young age when the results of a 5th grade aptitude test stated that he should consider becoming a career humorist. He first looked up the definition of the word humorist, then became one.
Craig enjoys writing novels, screenplays, short stories, comedy sketches, essays, and articles. Aside from his writing, Craig enjoys composing, recording, and performing music.
For more information about Craig Nybo, visit these sites:
www.craignybo.com
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Other Books by Craig Nybo
Fiction
Allied Zombies for Peace
Small Town Monsters
Bieber’s Finger
Funk Toast and the Pan-Galactic Prom Show
Non Fiction:
TotalHuman: The Complete Strength Training System
Musical Albums
With Rustmonster
Last Voyage of the Black Betty
Flight of the Filthy Vicar
With The Big Sky Country Boys
Beer
As a Solo Artist
Zombie Sing-a-long
Zombie Sing-a-long: Whistler and the Children (Part 1)
Zombie Sing-a-long: Whistler and the Children (Part 2)
Terrifying Lies
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Craig Nybo
Nybo Media LLC. Books Edition, December, 2015
©2015 by Craig Nybo
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Nybo Media LLC. Books, Utah.
ISBN: 978-0-9884064-9-0
www.craignybo.com
Dedicated to my mother, Jean Nybo.
You gave me all of my greatest attributes.
Author’s Note
I love short fiction. Sadly, short stories currently are not in demand. They belong to a bygone world where people subscribed to pulp magazines like Weird Tales and Amazing Stories. There are still periodicals and anthologies around, but they just don’t sell well. It seems now that we short story writers have lost our readers to smart phone aps and social networking. Oh well, times change. Call me a relic, but I still enjoy a good yarn written in 1,500 to 7,500 words.
Short story writing is a craft in and of itself. I have read too many short stories that are nothing more than a snatch of time during a character’s every-day life, or a description of a rogue walking down a dark street. Characters that make life-changing decisions and suffer the consequences drive the best short stories. I hope you enjoy this collection. Consider them peeks into the lives of mostly unfortunate souls as they face their penultimate hours of elation or dread.
The problem of presentation order beset me as I put this compilation together. In the end, I decided to put them in order from longest to shortest. I think it might give you the sense of reading downhill. It’s always more fun to run down than to trod up.
---clnyb
The Bloody Journal of Lance King
1. 1 - May 3, Year 1
I just wiped the bloodstains from my guitar. Somehow a pair of those undead monsters got in through the service door on the back of the building. I didn’t hear them coming until it was too late to get a proper weapon. They pushed through my recording studio door and caught me with my pants down.
I went at them with my ax. I’m not talking about a rail splitting ax; I’m talking about my Ibanez acoustic. It isn’t even a great guitar. It has a laminate top rather than spruce. It has nickel strings that give it an annoying high-end buzz. But it’s the only guitar I have. I’m hoping to make a pilgrimage to a music store if I can make it through the wreckage and zombies. But that will have to wait until I can muster up more courage and bullets.
I’m happy to be alive I suppose. But I broke the head of my ax off in the fight. I’ll have to find some glue to fix it. I can’t live without music. I miss standing on stage in the limelight playing for real, living, breathing people. But there aren’t any people around anymore.
I’m not much of a journal keeper. But this incident in the studio has prompted me to put down some kind of record, both in word and in song, of my story. I suppose it might help someone who comes along later if this epidemic—or whatever it is—runs its course and kills us all.
For now, suffice it to say: greetings, my name is Lance King. I live in an abandoned school. I’m surrounded by zombies. I’m a musician with no audience. And I’m running out of bullets.
2 - May 10, Year 1
I can’t stop thinking about Suzanne White. A strong link connects childhood sweethearts. I’ve had many girlfriends since the 4th grade when I pushed her in the swings, all shy and blushing. She asked why I was treating her so nice. I know she’s had many boyfriends since too. I know because I can list them. There was Marshall Dunn in Jr. High who played on the basketball team and treated everybody like his welcome mat. There was Billy Iverson with his pencil neck and mathlete letter. There was Jack—although everyone called him Jewell. There was Pierce who I swear practiced moving his eyebrows in the mirror every morning. The list goes on.
Last time I saw Suzanne, she was well on her way to turning undead. There was dirt in her usually beautiful hair. Her smell went beyond body odor. I was lucky to get away alive. I wonder where she is now. I wonder if the mercenaries got her or if she’s still just wandering around out there, all lonely and terrifying. I wonder if, in some strange way, she’s still beautiful.
3 - May 13, Year 1
I went to junior high school here at Warden. I’ve even taken to using my old locker from the 9th grade to store what weapons I have. It’s cold most of the time; but the season is on the change. I’m sure I’ll be roasting within a few weeks.
Living in an abandoned school feels a bit murky. There are a lot of rooms, some of which I have locked undead insurgents into and left them to their own devices. They pound on the doors. They moan. Sometimes they even gut out a semblance of words, although I don’t understand their rasps and snatches at language. They do everything in those rooms but die.
Yesterday I decided to go out to the grounds to shoot a few hoops. It seemed quiet and zombies tend to lurch along slowly so I wasn’t worried about an attack. The basketball courts are surrounded by a 12-foot chain-link fence so there’s plenty of time to run if visitors decide to drop in.
As I shot hoops, I spotted Mr. Barry standing in a copse of sycamores off the east side of the basketball court. He just stood there looking at me. I almost thought I caught hint of forlornness in his expression.
Mr. Barry taught gym class back when I was at Warden. I think he was still here when the outbreak happened. Back in the 8th grade, Mr. Barry broke up a fight between me and Lem Shipley out at the bike racks. Lem broke my nose and I was glad Mr. Barry came along. Both I and Mr. Barry knew Lem was a bad seed so it didn’t surprise me when he gave me a pass on our brawl and saw to it that Lem was suspended.