If Andy’s deadpan support-group rants and the way Undead Anonymous skewers living-world prejudice made you grin through the gore, you’ll click with Moore’s gleefully irreverent chaos. Like Andy and Rita’s misadventures with taboo snacks and awkward activism, the small-town outbreak here turns civic normalcy inside out—only with nativity-scene zombies, blissfully bad decisions, and jokes as dark as a mortuary fridge. It’s the same blend of heartfelt misfit empathy and wildly inappropriate humor that powered Breathers.

Miss those Undead Anonymous meetings where Andy trades coping tips, navigates bigotry, and fumbles toward dignity? Jinks runs with that exact conceit: a chronically exhausted coven of vampires meets weekly to manage cravings, paperwork, and public stigma, until a crisis forces them beyond the circle. Like Andy’s push from basement meetings into risky activism—and his bond with Rita—this crew discovers that community can be both safety net and launchpad. The satire lands, the heart is real, and the monsters are painfully, hilariously human.

You followed Andy’s first-person spiral from morgue slab to marginalization—complete with culinary experiments that made him feel almost alive again. Here, a newly risen professor narrates his own afterlife with the same sardonic bite, investigating how he died while stumbling through hunger, memory gaps, and awkward encounters with the living. If you liked being in Andy’s head as he fell for Rita and wrestled with whether zombies deserve rights (and seconds), this equally witty, intimate voice will feel like coming home to the grave.

Andy and Rita’s tender, taboo romance—flirting over chocolate-covered deer brains and daring to hope for a future—was the soul of Breathers. In Warm Bodies, R falls for Julie and starts to change, echoing Andy’s discovery that connection can thaw the coldest parts of the undead. The humor is wry, the longing is earnest, and the ‘can love make a monster human?’ question beats steadily beneath the rot. If you rooted for Andy and Rita, you’ll swoon (and smirk) here too.

If the makeshift kinship of Undead Anonymous—Andy, Rita, and their oddball allies banding together against a hostile world—was your jam, you’ll love the way Moore’s night crew coalesces. A newly turned vampire and her hapless boyfriend lean on a ragtag cast of graveyard-shift weirdos, much like Andy leaning on his UA friends to survive, scheme, and try for something like normal. It’s brisk, affectionate, and gloriously inappropriate—found family forged in neon, coffee, and a little arterial spray.