Chuck Dixon Publishes Two Novels in One for Hallowe’en, Gomers and Blooded

Bane co-creator Chuck Dixon has two horror novels coming out for Hallowe’en. So he’s decided to release them together as one, a double pack on Amazon Kindle. Gomers and Blooded. Here’s the listing.

 

BESTSELLING AUTHOR CHUCK DIXON DELIVERS HIS UNIQUE TAKE ON VAMPIRES AND ZOMBIES IN THE PARANORMAL DOUBLE PACK

(Yes, the same Chuck Dixon who co-created the character Bane.)

GOMERS

WHEN THE DEAD WALK THE EARTH…
…THE LIVING GO SHOPPING.

Jim and Smash are looking for a safe place to sit out the zombie armageddon.

They choose a giant home improvement store as their sanctuary.

But an Afghanistan war vet and an attack dog with gender issues have already claimed the place.

And then there’s the girl…

BLOODED

He left the bar with a girl he didn’t know for the wildest night of his life.

A night that would never end.

Her gift to him was immortality. The gift came with a price:

A diet of human blood.

Forget capes, coffins, bats, wooden stakes and garlic. Follow the journey of a former real estate salesman that begins with his death and leads to an un-life of hunger, hunting and betrayal.

Available here in the US and here in the UK. Here is a preview of  BLOODED by Chuck Dixon.

• 1 •

This wasn’t the first time I woke up in a cheap motel wondering how I got there.

After three rough divorces I know the turf. Only not a shack-up as cheap as the one I found myself in this time. I opened my eyelids as far as I was able. Stained ceiling tiles. Never a good sign. Drop ceilings hide things like mold or bullet holes.

I tried to raise my head for a better view. Bad move. Nausea. The room shimmied like I was seeing it in a home video. Caught a glimpse of the plastic alarm clock on the nightstand before my head dropped back on the pillow. 1:21. AM or PM? That’s how hungover I was.

Only this was like no hangover I’ve ever had. I’ve had the dry heaves hangovers. And the ones where your tongue feels like it’s been replaced with a dead slug. And the ones where your eyes can’t seem to look in the same direction.

And the headaches. The epic, put-me-out-of-my-misery skullbangers that feel like they’re never going to go away. This one was nothing like any of them. I felt like my body had no weight to it. Something like a tingling chill over my whole body but not unpleasant. My head felt funny but there was no pain. No headache at all. I tried to remember what I’d been drinking. The taste in my mouth was tinny. Whatever I’d been abusing the night before, it wasn’t my usual.

It took a year and a half but I managed to turn on my side to face the front wall of the motel room. A sliver of yellow light under the drawn blinds. Afternoon then. The room was grim. And it reeked. My nose took in every funky smell like they were in high definition. Spilled beer, cigarettes, sweat and sex. And something else. A dense, organic smell that was sweet and musky all at the same time. Walls covered in cheap paneling that shared the secrets concealed by the ceiling tiles. An old Samsung TV was secured to the wall with a bicycle lock. An ancient chest of drawers dotted with cigarette burns. Yard sale paintings of horses crooked on the walls.

And blood.

There were dried drops on my pillow. I lifted the once-white sheet to find a broad smear of blood fringed with red fingerprints. Some of it was still tacky. The bed was sticky under me. My naked ass came off the sheets with a ripping sound. Something barreled up my throat from my stomach. I made it to the bathroom, sliding on my knees over the cracked tiles. I tore the shower curtain aside to empty my guts into the tub.

More blood.

I vomited up what looked like a gallon of blood. Bright red with black clots sliding down the walls of the tub toward the drain.

I was dying. Right?

I ran a shaking hand over my sides and back. No stiches there. No one had taken any vital organs from me. My fingers found a wound on the side of my throat. Two crossed slits about two inches long with the flesh at the edges puckered. Someone had cut my throat and left me for dead. My hand came back without blood on it. Maybe I was all out of blood. Maybe I was bleeding out internally. I had no idea then how much blood an adult male holds.

I do now.

But then I figured I must have puked up most of my supply. On shaking legs, I levered myself off the side of the tub to get a better look at that cut on my neck. I didn’t get that far. Scrawled across the glass of the mirror were words spelled out in blood.

My blood.

WELCOME TO THE CLUB

About Rich Johnston

Chief writer and founder of Bleeding Cool. Father of two. Comic book clairvoyant. Political cartoonist.

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