Dark Paranormal Erotic Fiction
Nobody in their right mind believes in the living dead. Harl Simmons certainly didn't, until one day he woke up in a cheap, shabby, motel room and wondered why he had a splitting headache. He sat up from his bed and looked in the mirror on the wall opposite. He was shocked to see multiple bullet holes over his body and head, but even more shocked when he noticed they were slowly healing. The blood from his veins was splattered over his body and clothes. He counted twelve holes in his clothing alone. Harl Simmons was dead... the walking dead.