I looked at Thomas, looked down at my name tag and looked at Thomas again. "People won't let a health inspector into the house," I said. "But tell them there's a suspected gas leak and they'll all but offer you dinner." I frowned "Mind you, only the ones that cook with electricity."
"Is that what happened out there?" Thomas resumed his meat slicing. "A 'gas accident'?" The blade glittered as he sliced; one hand on the knife and the other twisting the meat leaving the blade free to dance around the bone.
"After she consumed contaminated meat, yes. She collapsed and left the gas on."
"Is that so?" (Slice, slice, slice; the blade glittering as it flew around the joint.)
"It is so." I frowned. "Is that joint cooked? It looks cooked. I thought Sam said they'd eaten their steaks raw."
"That's disgusting," said Thomas. "Raw meat's bad for you. I've been here all night waiting for them boys to come home. This joint was just sitting on the table here. I couldn't let it go to waste now, could I?"
He reached the end of the shank but kept going, the knife flickering in the firelight through the grimy window. When it sliced into the fingers of Thomas' left hand he didn't make a sound but stopped the cutting action. On the table, among the perfectly even slices of venison, were the tips of Thomas' thumb and forefinger.
He looked up again, a gleam in his cloudy eyes. "I reckon you didn't ought to have seen that."
It wasn't the time to correct his grammar. I looked at my options. Rolled-up newspaper versus zombie with carving knife? Oh dear.