Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  Praise for Mark Henry and his

  Amanda Feral Zombie Novels!

  Battle of the Network Zombies

  “Clever, fast-paced and so delightfully trashy that it should have been printed on Hefty bags, Henry’s third Amanda Feral novel smartly skewers popular culture. Henry gleefully delivers a sharp-edged whodunit with some smart and funny twists.”

  Publishers Weekly

  “Amanda’s back and serving up her deliciously bitchy snark in the oh-so-talented Henry’s wildly bizarre whodunit. No one can match Henry when it comes to gross and hilariously twisted shenanigans.”

  RT Book Reviews

  “Hysterical! An epically riotous page turner.”

  Fresh Fiction

  Road Trip of the Living Dead

  “What can I say about Road Trip of the Living Dead? It’s irreverent, gross and disgusting. All in a good way. I LOVED it!!”

  Jeanne C. Stein, author of Legacy

  “In turns hilarious and twisted, Road Trip of the Living Dead is a book I’ll never forget. Who knew fashion-obsessed flesh eaters could be so engaging? Fans of any genre won’t be able to put this book down as they fall into the darkly comedic world of Amanda Feral and her undead companions. Edgy and evocative, Road Trip is a must read! I’m looking forward to reading future works from this talented author.”

  Anya Bast, author of Witch Heart

  Happy Hour of the Damned

  “Dark, twisted and completely hilarious. I loved this book!”

  Michelle Rowen, author of Lady & the Vamp

  “Call them the splatterati—werewolves who always know what to wear, zombies with bodies to die for, and vampires who know their fang shui—just don’t call them late when it comes to happy hour, or the drinks might be on you.”

  David Sosnowski, author of Vamped

  “Happy Hour of the Damned—is it a comedy? An urban fantasy? A whodunit? Who cares! Mark Henry’s written such a clever and engaging story that fans of any genre will totally adore it! Amanda Feral is the freshest, funniest character to come out of fiction since Bridget Jones and my only regret is she’s not real and we can’t go out for drinks. (Because, really? Zombies are the new black.) In short? I loved this book!”

  Jen Lancaster, author of My Fair Lazy

  Books by Mark Henry

  HAPPY HOUR OF THE DAMNED

  ROAD TRIP OF THE LIVING DEAD

  BATTLE OF THE NETWORK ZOMBIES

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  ROAD

  TRIP OF

  THE

  LIVING

  DEAD

  MARK HENRY

  All copyrighted material within is

  Attributor Protected.

  KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2009 by Mark Henry

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund-raising, educational, or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager: Attn.: Special Sales Department. Kensington Publishing Corp., 119 West 40th Street, New York, NY 10018. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7582-6845-7

  ISBN-10: 0-7582-6845-9

  First Kensington Books Trade Paperback Printing: March 2009

  First Kensington Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: February 2011

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  To the two most ravenous readers in my life:

  my mother, Edna,

  and my goddaughter, Delaney

  (who better not read this until she’s old enough!)

  Contents

  Praise for Mark Henry and his Amanda Feral Zombie Novels!

  Books by Mark Henry

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 Raising the Dead for Fun and Profit

  Chapter 2 Hood Ornaments of the Damned (and Bitchy)

  Chapter 3 Bitches Trannies, Werewolves, Otherwise

  Chapter 4 Winos, Witches and Winnebagos

  Chapter 5 The Inexplicable Allure of Cowtown Couture

  Chapter 6 Dust Devils and Dirty Mothers

  Chapter 7 Snacking at America’s Favorite Child Abuse Palace

  Chapter 8 A Taste of Honey

  Chapter 9 Does Anyone Actually Own Shower Shoes?

  Chapter 10 You Gotta Have Heart

  Chapter 11 Blowing Adolf and the Rest of the Mini-Gestapo

  Chapter 12 Well Hello Love Interest80

  Chapter 13 Road Games and Gamey Discussion

  Chapter 14 The Tall and Short of the Thing

  Chapter 15 An Expedition, Wal-Mart Style

  Chapter 16 What’s the Maha You?

  Chapter 17 On the Hush-Hush, the DL, or the QT122

  Chapter 18 As the Mothafuckin’ Crow Flies

  Chapter 19 The Worst Realization Ever, Seriously

  Chapter 20 Checking In on Those Checking Out

  Chapter 21 The Water Park Runs Red with Blood

  Chapter 22 Mr. Kim Cuts Loose

  Chapter 23 The Dark and Intimate Secrets of the Pink Cave158

  Epilogue Postcards from the Road Trip

  Epilogue Two The Pretty Princess Party Palace

  Amanda’s Très Importante Authorial Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1 Hillbillies, Whores, and Horrors

  Acknowledgments

  A second novel in a surprise series (I had no clue that I was getting into more than one book here—still can’t believe my luck) shouldn’t have been anywhere near as easy as Road Trip of the Living Dead. My fantastic editor, John Scognamiglio, forced me out of my seat-o’-the-pants style, heralding the age of the outline. Thanks, John. Seriously. The book turned out better than I could’ve imagined.

  I’m forever indebted to Jim McCarthy, agent, editor, comedian, and pop culture reference guide. Your advice and suggestions are invaluable. On the downside, you’ve encouraged a dependence on apple pie milk shakes.

  I seem to have picked up a slew of first readers. First up, Stacia Kane (whom I’m sure I’ll mention again): Her encouragement and critique helped to make this book so much better than it started. The South Sound Algonquians, for the second year in a row, have put up with my filthy public readings, offered support, and even added a bit of their own brand of nasty. A hundred thank-yous to Monica Britt, Dolly Ceehar, Ned Hayes, Manek Mistry, Megan Pottorff, Sherylle Sta-pleton, and Tom Wright.

  So often writing is a solitary activity, and for most, so is the promotional aspect. I was lucky to find like-minded friends to help stave off the loneliness. Team Seattle, for one, Caitlin Kittredge, Richelle Mead, Cherie Priest, and Kat Richardson—thank you, guys, for putting up with all the crude jokes and laughing, anyway. To the League of Reluctant Adults (because blog-ging doesn’t have to be lonely), thanks Stace (there she is again), Caitlin, Jackie Kessler, Jaye Wells (Blue Drank!), Anton Strout, and Jeremy Lewis. And even our fallen comrades, Ilona Andrews and Jil
l Myles (who’ve never really left). One of the most surprising things to come out of this whole published-author thing is the great readers who have found me. The Glamazombies*, as I’ve dubbed them, are such a fun group, and I’m totally enamored of my plague carriers, Missy Sawmiller and Todd Thomas. You guys Rock!

  I promised myself I wouldn’t write another two-page acknowledgments, but clearly I can’t keep my word, so I’ll continue….

  Two author peeps kept the Montana events in this book on track, Patricia Briggs and Diana Pharoah Francis. Thanks to you both, and Patty, I still have that Butte map on my wall.

  My friends continue to put up with my crazy schedule, God bless ’em. Thanks, Kevin Macias and Jo Rash for all the support and free dialogue! Three more friends: Synde Korman, Duane Wilkes, and Barbara Vey—your enthusiasm for books and the genre is inspirational. You guys are awesome, and I’m glad to know you.

  Finally, Caroline, my lovely wife, she’s my magic. She is everything to me and contributes so much to this series.

  Thank you.

  For your time.

  For your love.

  * Join us online at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/markhenry.

  Chapter 1

  Raising the Dead

  for Fun and Profit

  Nowadays, anyone with a wallet full of cash and a little insider knowledge is getting into the Supernatural life. And, I do mean anyone. Criminals, politicians, even—brace yourself—entertainers are plopping down tons of cash for immortality.

  —Supernatural Seattle ( June 2008)

  Gil brought lawn chairs to the cemetery—not stylish Adirondacks, not even semi-comfortable camp chairs (the ones with those handy little cup holders). No. He dug up some cheap plastic folding chairs, the kind that burrow into your leg flesh like leeches.1 He arranged them in a perfect semicircle around a freshly sodded grave, planted an iBoom stereo in the soft earth, pulled out a bottle of ′07 Rose McGowan,2 and drained half of it before his ass hit plastic. Granted, he managed these mundane tasks in a pricey Gucci tuxedo, the tie loose and dangling. On any other day, this would have been his sexy vamp look, but tonight … not so much. His eyelids sagged. His shoulders drooped. He looked exhausted.

  I, on the other hand, looked stunning.

  One of those movie moons, fat and bloated as a late-night salt binge, striped the graveyard with tree branch shadows, and spotlit your favorite zombie heroine reclining starlet-like on the polished marble of the new tombstone—there was no way I was subjecting vintage Galliano to the inquisition of plastic lawn chairs; the creases would be unmanageable.

  Wendy didn’t take issue with the cheap and potentially damaging seating. She wore a tight pink cashmere cardigan over a high-waisted chestnut skirt that hit her well above the knee. She crossed her legs and popped her ankle like a 1950s housewife, each swivel bringing attention to her gorgeous peek-toe stilettos— certainly not the most practical shoe for late-night graveyard roaming, but who am I to judge?3

  The dearly departed were our only other company; about twenty or so ghosts circled the grave—in a rainbow of moody colors and sizes. A little boy spirit, dressed in his Sunday best and an aqua green aura, raced by, leaving a trail of crackling green sparks; the other, older specters muttered to each other, snickered and pointed. Popular opinion aside, zombies do not typically hang out in graveyards—ask the ghosts. We don’t crawl out of the ground all rotty and tongue-tied, either. We’re created through bite or breath, Wendy and I from the latter. So you won’t see us shambling around like a couple of morons, unless there’s a shoe sale at Barney’s.

  “You’re killin’ me with The Carpenters, can’t you skip this one?” I stretched for the iPod with my heel trying to manipulate its doughnut dial. Karen was bleating on about lost love from beyond the grave— and just a little to the left. “She’s forcing me to search my bag for a suicide implement. I swear I’ll do it.”

  “No shit. Her warble is drawing the less-than-present out of the woodwork.” Wendy looked over the top of huge Chanel sunglasses—she seemed to wear them as a joke, so I refused to comment. She’d be more irritated with every second that passed. Such a simple pleasure, but those are often the best, don’t you find?

  “Bitches.” Gil opened an eye. “This is a classic. Besides, Markham put this playlist together.”

  “Who’s that?” I’d decided against self-harm and opted for a smart cocktail. I pulled a mini shaker from my bag and followed that up with miniature bottles of vodka, gin, and rum. Who says Suicides are just for kids? I mixed while Gil chattered.

  “Him.” He jabbed a thumb toward the grave. “That’s Richard Markham; they call him the Beaver King. He’s a millionaire, entrepreneur, and genuinely bad guy. He owns a chain of strip clubs, you might have heard of them. Bottoms.”

  When neither of us registered a hint of recollection, he became animated.

  “You know. He’s been in the news recently because of some shady business deals. He also coined the phrase ‘All Bottomless Entertainment’.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘all nude’?” Wendy asked.

  “No. ‘All Bottomless.’ He’s decidedly anti-boobs. His clubs feature blouses and beaver. It’s a very specialized niche.”

  “Well then, this should be fun.” I stuck a straw into the shaker and sucked.

  The Beaver King’s

  Maudlin Resurrection

  Jams

  The Carpenters • “Superstar”

  Harry Chapin • “The Cat’s in the Cradle”

  Barry Manilow • “Mandy”

  Captain & Tennille • “Muskrat Love”

  Gordon Lightfoot • “If You

  Could Read My Mind”

  John Denver • “Leaving on a Jet Plane”

  Carole King • “So Far Away”

  Melissa Manchester • “Don’t Cry Out Loud”

  Judy Collins • “Send In the Clowns”

  It was nice to see Gil’s enthusiasm; he had been a complete ass-pipe since he’d opened Luxury Resurrections Ltd., stressing about every little detail. I had to hand it to the guy. After the money dried up— his sire left him a hefty sum in their bank account and then left (said Gil was too needy)—he launched his plan to charge humans for vamping. He was one of the first in Seattle, but the copycats were close on his heels. A few months later he bought into my condominium—not a penthouse like mine, but a pretty swank pad, nonetheless.

  “Explain to me again why we’re out here?” Wendy struggled to separate her legs from the sweaty straps— I cringed, afraid that she’d leave some meat on the plastic; we were fresh out of skin patch—they finally released with a slow sucking sound. She massaged the pattern of dents on the backs of her legs. “It’s not like vampires need to rise from the actual grave. It’s a little melodramatic. Don’t ya think?”

  “Yeah.” I drained the final droplets from the shaker with loud staccato slurps. The alcohol seeped into my veins, flooding them with welcome warmth.

  “I told you, I have to provide an experience with the Platinum package,” Gil huffed, then snatched up his man bag and dug through it. He pulled out some Chapstick, spread it on in a wide “O,” retrieved a crumpled brochure, and tossed it at me. “Here. Service is the only thing that’s going to set my business apart from the chain vampire manufacturers. I provide individualized boutique-like vamping, at reasonable prices.”

  “Mmm hmm.” I slid from the headstone, carefully hopscotched across the grave—I’d hate to misstep and harpoon Gil’s client, or worse, break off a heel in the dirt—and stood next to Wendy. I smoothed the crinkled paper and turned to catch the moonlight.

  “The Platinum Package,” I read aloud. “Includes pre-death luxury accommodations at the Hyatt Regency, voted by readers of Supernatural Seattle as the best undead-friendly hotel in the city, a thorough consultation with a vamping specialist, a fully realized death scenario, including funeral and interment, bereavement counseling for immediate family, and an exclusive orientation to the afterlife from t
he moment of rising. Hmm.”

  “I spent a lot of time on that.” Gil beamed.

  “Yeah, at least fifteen minutes.” My eyes found a series of numbers after the description, that if it weren’t for the dollar sign, I’d have mistaken for binary code. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is this the price down here?” I pointed out the figure.

  “Yep.”

  Wendy took a slug from a crystal-studded flask—she couldn’t find her usual Hello Kitty one.4 Immediately, her skin took on the rosy glow of most living alcoholics. I love the look: almost human.

  “One million dollars, Gil? You call that reasonable pricing?”

  Wendy did a spit take that flecked the brochure and my hands. “Jesus! So, if that’s the platinum, what’s the bronze package, then?” Wendy asked, wiping at the Grey Goose trickling from her nose. “A drive-by vamping?”

  “Cute.” Gil tongued and sucked at his fangs in irritation.

  He shrugged off our outrage and plopped down in his own lawn chair. “Five hundred grand is the going rate nowadays, the markup is for my fabulous luxury features. It’s not cheap, but look what you get …” He swept his hands from his head to toes like a game show hostess. “… a super hot greeting party. And … a couple of hot go-go dancers.”

  “Where?” I looked around. “Are they late?”

  “Why, you two pork chops, of course. You remembered to leave the panties at home, right?”

  “Oh yeah. Of course.” I plucked a miniature Gold-schläger from my purse and drained it. “When am I not airing out the chamber of horrors?”

  “Me, too,” Wendy said. “Totally commando.”

  “Gross.” Gil covered his mouth, heaving. “Let’s not talk about the vage, anymore. I think I’m traumatized.”