Rock and Roll and Zombies

By Craig Nybo

After the zombies rise, a rock star, holed up in an abandoned school, decides to strike out in search of other survivors.

Rock and Roll and Zombies follows Lance King as he searches for whatever form of humanity might remain in the face of a global zombie apocalypse.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Craig Nybo
• Release date: May 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9780997053401

Craig Nybo

Craig Nybo lives with his beautiful wife and kids in Kaysville, UT. He works as a creative director for mediaRif.com, a digital agency. Craig writes novels, short fiction, and screenplays. As a musician, he has released several records with friends under the band names, Rustmonster and The Big Sky Country Boys. Craig also records solo work. He has released three records under his own name, Zombie Sing-a-long, and a sequel album, Zombie Sing-a-long: Whistler and the Children (Part 1). As a filmmaker, Craig has written and directed many short films. He also writes and directs many commercials and industrial videos as part of his profession. Aside from writing, Craig enjoys playing in the Rocky Mountains, rock climbing and canyoneering.

Book preview

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