Jorel Decker Hollywood Undead Novels & Stories

“We don't lock anyone up in this bunker.” I frowned. Mr. Alvaro's gaze turned toward a short young man whose face was very similar to Dylan O'Brien's. The young man grinned nervously. “Sorry, Uncle, I thought Uncle took the woman into custody. The problem is she is a vampire, so I thought—” “Right, you thought!” Mr. Alvaro barked. The people inside the bunker laughed. “And David, why do you have to believe Arga's words? You—!”

The world should end on a Monday. There’s something honest about that. Brutal, yes, but clean. A Monday already has the emotional texture of damp socks and unpaid bills, so adding zombies feels less like a cosmic betrayal and more like management escalating a complaint. Unfortunately, the world chooses Thursday at 6:17 p.m., while Maya Rodriguez is standing barefoot in her kitchen, trying to decide whether expired sour cream is a negotiable concept. “It smells fine,” Dex says from behind her.

Instantly, the water thorns inside the vortex, like metal weapons, tore the skeleton undead into pieces. "Sizzle sizzle!" A scarlet light swiftly flew out from within the vortex. After which, it was swallowed up by a huge skeleton undead. The next moment, the other party's body clearly became stronger. "That's Undead Fire, which represents the lives of these undead creatures. Only by completely destroying their Undead Fire can we completely kill them!" "Boom!" With one hand, with an aura that could cover the stars and hold the moon, it directly pinched more than a dozen skeleton spirits.

There will be scenes of BDSM dynamic between our Male Lead and Female Lead, so if you aren't into kink or it makes you uncomfortable, please do not read any further. I hope that you enjoy Alpha of the Dead. --Sydney

I removed my face from her palm and nodded. 'My name is Julia Peters. The founder of the group, Hunters'. 'I thought It was a company'. 'It is. And it is not'. 'Oh'. 'It is every thing. To a factory, industry, company, Everything'. 'Oh'. 'Come with me'. She led me deeper into her office and opened a door. You'd think it's a normal room but no, it's full of everything to weapons, machineries,bunks, Tents, Sleeping bags, Sleeping pads, Camping pillows, lamps, flashlights, Camp chairs, Camp tables, Lantern, etc.

He doesn't hear me. Mark lifts the lid. The smell hits him first. His head jerks back, his eyes streaming. Then he looks inside. And then he sees what I have been hiding. Joe's face—or what remains of it—stares up from the nest of dried blood and shattered bone. Joe's eyes, long since deflated, still seem to look at something. At me. At Mark. At the ceiling of the bin that has been his coffin for three years. Mark makes a sound. A small, wet sound, like a gasp swallowed halfway. He looks at me. His face is the color of old milk.

There, right beside my husband Brandon in the photo, was my so-called best friend, Melissa. … Snapping out of it, I stared at Melissa's two-faced expression. She must have known about the lottery win by then. They had probably plotted the whole thing, faking his death to pocket the cash. "Noelle, don't take it so hard. You're already unwell. What if Brandon's death makes you worse?" I shrugged off Melissa's hand and asked with eerie calm, "Where's Brandon's body? I want to see him." Melissa blinked, thrown off by my composure. "In the ward," she stammered.