Dilbo (I did ask him about the name and it makes sense that anyone called Dilbert would want to disassociate from a cartoon office geek) and Sam told me they shared a house in Pitt's Lane while they attended college. They didn't remember dying, let alone being raised from the dead as zombies.
When I got to Dilbo's house in Pitt's Lane there was a coroner's van at number 12, two doors away. Dilbo and Sam would have to wait – at least they were being taken good care of by Bernard at the Tattered Moon (if by 'being taken care of' you meant 'locked in the underground bunk house'. They'd be fine until nightfall. Longer if Bernard hadn't any temporary guests. Would a zombie attempt to consume a sleeping vampire, I wonder? Not a situation I've ever come across, I have to admit.)
It wasn't difficult to assume the guise of a coroner's assistant and investigate. Inside was a woman in her sixties face down in a pile of vomit. Definitely dead, to judge by her pallor though I couldn't tell if she was undead. Zombies have no souls, you see, so unless they're trying to eat someone's head we can't tell if they're a zombie or a corpse. Have I ever mentioned how much I hate zombies?
I glance at the letters in a rack on the sideboard. Mrs. A Brake hadn't paid her gas bill and never would now. The date on the letter was yesterday. Chances are, the gas was still connected. You can never be too careful, could you?
I had to prick my finger, but demon blood can cut through a copper gas pipe in seconds. "Can you smell gas?" I said to the policeman at the door.