For the first time in my life I wished I was in America. Not because that would take me out of the immediate situation but that I would be able to reach out for a baseball bat and my choice of handgun. American television shows have taught me such things are as common as... well, televisions in even the most basic of households. This being England, however, I had to make do with either a soft cushion or a rolled-up magazine. Alas, it was a very thin magazine: 'MAC Gamer' with a two page spread on 'Pin the Mouse into the Peripheral Port'.
I crept into the kitchen following the rustling noise. Where were minions when you needed them? I was expecting zombie rats, zombie cats... perhaps even a zombie dog. What I didn't expect was an old man in just a vest and trousers making a sandwich. He was cutting slices of meat off a joint. I couldn't tell yet if he was a zombie so i glanced around for a weapon. Kitchen knife. Frying pan. Pizza box.
"I wouldn't eat that. It's contaminated."
The old man looked up. "Who are you? What are you doing in my house?"
Not a zombie, then. They have poorer word choices. And more drool. I relaxed. "Your house?" I said. "I'm sorry. I was under the impression it belonged to Sam Trubshaw and Dilbo Farthing."
"Tenants," said the old man. He stood up and offered his hand. "Thomas Farrier," he said. "Landlord and Loan Manager. They owe me three months rent."
I took the hand reluctantly. It was, after all, covered in grease. Contaminated grease, in all likelihood. "Jasfoup de Ville," I said. "Health Inspector."
"Then why does it say 'Laverstone Gas' on your lapel?" he asked.