By Chuck Wendig
San Francisco after the zombie apocalypse. The vampire grew to become shepherd-with-a-shotgun Coburn is again and willing to settle a few undesirable blood.
But simply out within the Bay within the deserted castle felony of Alcatraz, a ketamine-snorting cult of latest age weirdoes who devour the flesh of the zombie as a few type of gruesome communion deliver a brand new probability to Coburn’s carrying on with lifestyles – great zombies!
After his rip-roaring debut novel, Double useless, the inimitable Wendig has again to his international became upside by way of the zombie apocalypse, during which a lone vampire unearths himself preserving a terrified remnant of mankind. Or ‘lunch’, as he prefers to think about them.
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Additional resources for Bad Blood (Tomes of the Dead: Double Dead, Book 2)
Theron turned and entered the room, closing the door behind him. Inside, the stone walls gave way to a deep, varnished wood that glowed in the restless light of several lamps, which burned from all four sides of the room. Theron wrinkled his nose at the acrid scent of lamp oil. He’d never cared for lamplight, preferring the dancing light of a torch or, even better, his enhanced night vision. On the walls, portraits of various sizes depicted the thirteen members of the Council. Small statues stood like miniature sentinels upon a shelf on the back wall.
It joined the many tunics in his bag. Just as he picked up a pair of worn breeches, a noise outside his door caught his attention. What was that? Ephraim froze, craning his ears and trying desperately to catch the elusive sound. He stood silent and still for sixty long seconds, muscles tense and booted feet nailed to the floor. The breeches hung from his fingers like a mouse in a raptor’s claw. He eyed the sickle-shaped sword on the opposite wall, ready to spring over and grab it if necessary. Although the sword was very old, he kept it sharp and in perfect balance, not easy to do with a khopesh.
Sure enough, two red cloaked legionaries stood watch at the gate, their steel breastplates glinting dully in the moonlight. Theron couldn’t tell if they were posted there or if they just happened to stop for a break. Either way, their presence was damned inconvenient. The threat of dawn lingered less than an hour away, which meant he didn’t have much time to wait for them to move on. As the two legionaries settled into a comfortable conversation, one of them produced a set of dice, much to the delight of the other.
Bad Blood (Tomes of the Dead: Double Dead, Book 2) by Chuck Wendig