“What gives, boss? What’s dat for?”
The Saint nodded at the empty whisky bottle still clutched in Hoppy’s hand.
“Take that dead soldier, go to the bathroom, fill it with water, and bring it over there.”
Hoppy opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and lumbered off obediently, confident that on whatever path the Saint pointed for him to follow, devious though it might be, a goal would unfold somehow at the end.
From the chest of drawers in his bedroom the Saint took a slim leather case which, on being unzipped, revealed a highly specialised collection of peculiar articles. Skipping the more obviously illegal tools, he selected a small spool of copper wire, a roll of adhesive tape, and a razor-blade knife. Armed with these, he returned to the entrance hall, where Mr Uniatz extended the whisky bottle to him as though it contained an unclean substance.
“Here’s de water, boss. Whatcha gonna do wit’ it?”
“Just hold it for me a minute,” said the Saint. He began to cut several inches of insulation from the broken end of the lamp cord. “We are preparing a phylactery against zombies,” he explained.
Hoppy’s jaw sagged.
“We’re preparin’ a what against who?”
“An apotropaion, so to speak,” the Saint elucidated.