Cymbals Eat Guitars

By Josh Hanson

Three friends take their punk trio into a remote mountain town for an unplanned stop on their Farewell Tour. When the show is interrupted by a catastrophic train derailment, the little resort town is transformed into a landscape of terror, and the three friends must fight for survival against a populace turned suddenly monstrous.

 

But there is more than the infected to worry about, as one of the three carries a dark secret that will test the group's love, loyalty…and very survival.

 

Combining horror, suspense, and deep psychological drama, Cymbals Eat Guitars is the punk rock zombie survival story you've been waiting for.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macabre Minima
• Release date: Feb 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223164692

Book preview

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Chapter One

It wasn’t the middle of nowhere because that would be too central, too easy to find on a map. This place was on the back-end of nowhere, twenty miles off the interstate, down a long series of switchbacks and into a little valley of sheer, striated cliffs and twisted, dusty trees. Big A-frame houses sat back in those trees, their fronts all glinting glass and wide wooden decks. The road ran parallel to the river, and on the other side ran the railroad tracks. They’d kept pace with one seemingly endless train of coal cars, the slight difference in their speeds making it feel like the van was moving sluggishly, like running in a nightmare.

Colin had booked the show last minute. They were coming up from Fort Collins on the way to Bozeman, playing every shitty venue they could find on this easternmost edge of their tour, and Wyoming was one big blank. The edge of the big nothing called the Midwest, where every town was three hours away, and one minute you were in a John Ford panorama and the next you were on the moon.

So, yeah, it was off the beaten path, but everything was off the beaten path. And the guy paid three hundred dollars and included a place to sleep. So they’d jumped. And now they were cruising into the little town of Lost Swede, which was really just a wide spot in the road with a dozen buildings along each side and houses presumably hidden back in the trees.

It wasn’t hard to find the place. The town’s one bar and restaurant, the Lost Swede Bar and Grill, was a long building with rough timber siding and a sign hanging out over the road depicting a man in a big floppy hat, looking out over a line of green mountains. Seen from behind, the man was just a hat and a set of shoulders, presumably the poor, lost Swede.

Cy pulled the van into the gravel lot and killed the engine. It was about two, and all three of them were hungry, over-tired, and unwashed. Kim threw open the van’s sliding door and stepped out into the sunshine. Short and stocky with powerful legs, she stretched, arms above her head, back arching, trying to twist the stiffness out of her neck. In her cutoff shorts, scuffed boots, and black tank top, she looked like she would be comfortable on the back of a Harley. But her face was so soft and open, with her big eyes and upturned nose, her naturally smiling mouth, that she also looked like she might make you a batch of cupcakes.

She glanced across the lot, out to the street, to the sleepy little town. Not even sleepy. Dead. A ghost town.

Cy came around and stood beside her, slipping his hand into her back pocket. Rail thin and wiry, he wore his hair swept up in an eternal attempt to channel the spirit of Saint Joe Strummer. His chin showed the reddish stubble of a three-day beard.

We get paid no matter what, yeah?

We better, Cy said.

Because I have a feeling we’ll be playing to three drunks tonight.

We’ve done worse.

Colin stepped out of the passenger-side door.

The whole area around here is fishing and camping grounds. Rafting. Everyone is out on the water right now. Tonight, they’ll come in to drink. I’ve had it sworn to me.

Colin was taller than Cy, but he carried himself in a continual bow-legged slouch, so you couldn’t tell. His hair was shaved close, making his head look like a dark skull, his eyes sunken and dark. He chewed on a toothpick.

We shall see, Cy said.

Colin twisted around, his spine giving three sharp pops, and spit his toothpick into the gravel. We shall.

Inside, the place was big and dark, air-conditioned almost to freezing, all one room that ran deep, back to a stage along the back wall that stood a foot off the floor. Down the length of the place, hanging from ceiling beams, were at least a dozen American flags, and behind the bar was a black POW/MIA flag with medals and trinkets dangling all around it. The place seemed empty.

Colin strode back toward the stage to check out the power situation, and Kim went for the bathroom, leaving Cy standing in the middle of the room, surrounded by a half-dozen four-tops, each with a little glass candle at the center. He looked at the bar and thought of a beer, but really, he wanted food. Something bloody and hot.

The door to the right of the bar swung open and a huge man lumbered out. He was at least six and a half feet tall, with linebacker shoulders and a greasy