Road Trip of the Living Dead

by Mark Henry

Genres: Contemporary Fantasy

Synopsis

With her zombie gal pal Wendy and vampy sidekick Gil, celebrity party girl Amanda Feral is ready to take a big bite out of Seattle's supernatural nightlife. But what's a zombie chick to do when her "Mommie Dearest" gets sick? If you're Amanda Feral, you can either ignore the wicked old witch--or bury the past by visiting Ethel before she kicks it. Packing their stiletto pumps and plasma into a sketchy rattrap on wheels that used to be a Winebago, Amanda, Wendy, and Gil hit the highway. Of course, they'll have to navigate past some neo-Nazi skinheads, a horny dust devil, a hunky werewolf cop, and an unsightly horde of Kmart shoppers. But for this glamorous gang of ghouls, this trip is about to take a dangerous detour that could give road kill a brand new meaning. . . Praise for Mark Henry and His Amanda Feral Zombie Novels "Fun, fun stuff. I'll never think of zombies in quite the same way again." Patricia Biggs, #1 New York Times bestselling author on Battle of the Network Zombies "Sexy, funny, and twisted. You've never read anything like this!" --Richelle Mead on Happy Hour of the Damned

Release date: February 1, 2011

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 288

Sample

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

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 Jill 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.

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’sMaudlin ResurrectionJams

The Carpenters • “Superstar”Harry Chapin • “The Cat’s in the Cradle”Barry Manilow • “Mandy”Captain & Tennille • “Muskrat Love”Gordon Lightfoot • “If YouCould 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 the 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.”

“You started it.” I tossed the empty bottle aside and dug for another.

From there, the conversation dwindled to nothing, an uncharacteristic silence settling over us like a late summer fog. The ghosts had even settled down. Except for a particularly downtrodden specter pacing under a nearby tree, the rest seemed content settling into their various routines (friendly visits to neighboring graves, a spirited game of cards over by the mausoleum, a display of ghost lights in the woods). Relaxing, even.

And that’s when I opened my big fat mouth.

“I got a weird call today.”

“Oh yeah?” Wendy asked. She must have been bored because this normally mundane news had her wide-eyed.

“My mother’s hospice worker.”

“What?” Gil twisted in his chair to face me. “Hospice? She’s dying? You never even talk about her. I thought she’d already kicked it.”

“Yeah, right?” Wendy muttered.

The dead are so sympathetic. If you’re looking for an honest opinion, and don’t want any handholding or softeners, this is the crowd for you. Not that we’re auditioning for friends, just now.

“Nope. She’s still alive. The doctors say she’s in the end stages of stomach cancer; it’s pretty much spread everywhere. Been at the hospice for a few weeks now. Apparently, it’s not pretty, nor is she.” Inside or out, I thought.

“Wow.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yeah.” The truth was, I wasn’t feeling any pain about it. Ethel Ellen Frazier had been a rotten mother, wife, and human being. You name it. Now, she was rotting inside. Ironic? Harsh? Sure, but she’d earned it. Every wince of pain, bout of vomiting, and bloody toilet bowl—the caller had gone into some unnecessary specifics.

Let me give you a little “for instance.”

When I was young, Ethel convinced me—through months of badgering and ridicule—that I could benefit from a gym membership. Dad tried to talk her out of it, but like always, he had no say. So, off we went to Happy’s Gym and Pool. Happy was just that; he had the kind of smile I could never seem to muster, broad and beaming. I think it was even real. The gym and pool were in the same room, a massive barn-like structure with the pool in the center, the equipment to the right, and the men’s and women’s locker rooms on the left, separated by a dry sauna. With about ten minutes left on the treadmill, I noticed a growing number of horrified expressions. I took off my headphones. Screams were coming from the sauna. Long screams. Then, choppy short bursts. And in between low gurgling moans reminiscent of the ape house at the zoo.

I scanned the room for my mother; I didn’t expect to see her. She was behind closed doors. And I was out in the open, 15 years old and humiliated. Happy’s smiling face was nowhere to be found, either. I suspected it was crammed firmly between my mother’s thighs. But I was wrong. The security guard cleared up the mystery by opening the sauna door. There was Mom. On all fours and facing a captive audience, Happy behind her caught up inside like a shamed dog; his perpetual smile replaced by an embarrassed “O”. I could see the words play across Ethel’s lips, as I ran for the exit. “Shut the door, dimwit!”

Now, tell me she didn’t buy herself some cancer on that day.

Did I mention how lucky I am to have friends like Wendy and Gil? I can always count on them to turn the conversation back around to … them, and I was glad to have the heat off this time.

“Oh my God!” Wendy grabbed my arm and shook it like an impatient kid in the candy aisle. “I totally knew about this. I was talking to Madame Gloria just the other day and—”

“Here we go.” Gil snatched up the bottle of Mc-Gowan and finished it off.

Madame Gloria was Wendy’s telephone psychic. According to our girl, she was “moderately accurate,” whatever that meant.

“Shut up, Gil. Madame Gloria said that someone was going to die and that we …”—she pointed at Gil, herself, and me—“we would be going on a trip. A road trip.”

“Jesus.” I swatted her hand away. “You think she’s talking about Ethel? I’ll be damned if I haul my dead ass across three states for that bag of bones.”

“It might be good to get some closure.” Gil’s face was attempting sincerity. It missed. He did succeed in pulling off a smoosh-faced version of constipated.

“Alright. So, before the two of you go all psychotherapist on me, let me tell you a few things. The reason I never talk about my mother is that she’s a bitch. In fact, the last time I saw her was my high school graduation, where she blew me off to go to my ex-best friend’s party. I can’t say as I miss her.”

Wendy waved me off. “None of that matters, anyway. Madame Gloria says we’re going. It’s fate.”

“Yeah. It’s fate.” A sly smile played on Gil’s lips.

“Like Hell it is.” I punched his arm. “What was all that shit about breaking free from your family?”

He sneered, rubbing the spot. “What are you talking about?”

“When I first met you and you took me to see Ri-cardo?”

“Not ringing any bells.”

“Ricardo told me that I needed to make a clean break from any living family and friends.”

Ricardo Amandine had filled me in on a lot more than mere survival tactics. The club owner had become a mentor of sorts, doling out words of wisdom over drinks, shopping, and the odd kill. He was hot as hell, but as is the rule with male zombies, totally asex-ual.5 Shame.

“True,” Gil said. “But this is different. Your mother’s gonna die, anyway. And look at poor Wendy. Don’t her feelings count?” He gestured to the other chair.

Wendy’s lips pursed into a pathetic pout. She was even batting her eyes.

Christ.

He continued. “She’s totally bored. Would a road trip be so bad?”

I imagined dirty rest-stop bathrooms, rows of trailers substituting for motels, a general lack of shopping opportunities. A zombie has certain needs. The upside? Cute country folk have cute country flavors.6

Wendy nodded. “What were you planning to do about the situation?”

“I thought I’d pretend I’d never gotten the call. Denial’s my friend, and all.”

“Yeah, okay. Just say you’ll think about it. Please?”

“Fine. I’ll think about it.”

I lit up a cigarette; the smoke caught on the thinnest of breezes and spun off like cursive. The trail stretched off toward the single ghost who was still interested in our presence. He stomped through the haze, passed us and then stopped about ten feet away, leaning against a rather confusing headstone of a gargoyle eating a hoagie—or was that a salmon?

“I’ve been meaning to talk to Hans about making me some of those,” Wendy said. She was pointing at the black-papered cigarette dangling from my lips.

“I’ll ask him to make you some. Any particular colors, or outfits you’re trying to match?”

The ghost started coughing. Expansive rattling coughs. He must have wanted attention, as he never looked away. So dramatic. “It’s not gonna kill ya, buddy!” I yelled. He scowled.

Wendy disregarded the exchange and continued. “An assortment would be great. Only no orange. I look horrible in orange.”

“Tell me about it. Remember that track jacket you kept trying to wear out in public. You looked like a road worker. I was fully prepared to club you.”

“Oh yeah,” she said, as though I’d brought up some long-lost treasure. “Where’d I put that?”

I shrugged. The truth was, Wendy hadn’t put the track jacket anywhere. I’d snuck it out of her hall closet while Mama was putting her face on and promptly dumped it in the trash chute. I was doing her a favor, really. She looked like a big pumpkin in that puffy satin piece of shit.

Gil adjusted his butt in the chair. He’d taken note of our visitor. “Is that ghost eavesdropping?”

“Probably.”

“I can’t have anyone, or thing, fucking up my shit. Not tonight. Markham’s not a flexible guy.”

“Maybe he thinks you need a third judge of your vampire making—”

“Vampires?” The ghost choked the words out from over my shoulder. I staggered to the side to avoid any spectral germs or whatever. “I can’t stand me no frig-gin’ vampires. Piss on ’em. They should all rot in iron boxes.”

“That’s a little harsh,” Wendy commented.

“Harsh?” The ghost spit a glob of violet-hued mush at Wendy’s feet. “I don’t know ’bout that. Seein’s they’re the one’s suckin’ people dry. I’ll say it again. Piss on ’em.”

Up close, the ghost looked like a vagrant. His face was all scruff surrounding a nose the size of a kosher dill, his eyes obscured by thick tufts of brow hair. Dirt clung to his ethereal form in spots, as though even death couldn’t hide the residue of boxcar or alley dumpster. There was even a scent in the air, pungent and sour like milk gone to clot.

“You one of them fuckin’ vampires, boy?” He kicked at the back of Gil’s chair, foot moving right through and ending up somewhere inside Gil’s stomach.

“What if I am?” Gil stood and faced the bigot. I almost interceded but thought it might be important to witness some honest-to-God vamp bashing. If only just to say I had been there, and act disturbed and offended. I could give my report to the late evening edition of Supernatural Seattle. They love me.

“Then I got somethin’ fur ya. You stinkin’ mosquito.” The ghost started to reach down inside his pants.

We all gasped in horror. Well not all, Wendy seemed genuinely interested—craning her neck to get a good look—bu. . .