Harold opened the door. “Hello again. We weren't expecting you back so quickly. Thought you'd be off sorting yourself a new body or something.”
“Sorry for the intrusion. I can see you're having dinner.” Dill held out a plastic carrier bag. “I would have been long gone but for a slight problem.”
“Oh?” Harold took the bag and looked inside. Karen Shepherd's All the Colours of Blood took up all the space. Nevertheless, Harold took it out to check underneath it. “This is mum's library book.”
“Yes, that's the problem.” Dill sighed, sending a wave of foetid air through the doorway.
Jasfoup coughed theatrically. “Shut the door, old chap, you're letting the heat out.”
“And the smell in,” added Gillian.
“Sorry.” Harold stepped out, closing the door behind him. It had dropped cold. He wouldn't be surprised if there was a late frost tonight. He looked fron the book to the zombie. “Are you warm enough?”
“Sure. I like the cold. Slows down the decomp, you know?”
“Yes, I'm sure it does. Winter would be the best time for a zombie apocalypse.” Harold grinned. “Not an Arctic winter, mind. You'd freeze up altogether and be like icicles for the clean up operation to dispose of at leisure.”
“I'll bear it in mind in case Sam and I ever want to dominate the world.”
“Yes, quite.” Harold held up the book. “We must have posted the Treatise through Mum's letterbox.”