Shank A Bitch 3 Day Six: The Handsman Cometh (10/71 Alive)

Former Corpse Carl Garland stumbled into the yacht warehouse looking even more worse for wear than any of the other zombies. Though dead only a day his body had undergone a preposterous amount of decay. His skin, what was left of it, was putrid green and hanging loose; his eyes were clouded over and his once impressive hair was wild and thick with dirt. His tan longcoat was caked with dried blood, mud and what might have been vomit.

In one hand he clutched a sparkling silver tankard, long since drained of every drop of alcohol but Professional Drunkard Carl Garland wasn't going to let such a tiny detail get in the way of his personal crusade to drink himself into sweet oblivion and as such continued to drink from the empty vessel. In his other hand, in a vice-like grip, he held his bloodsoaked switchblade and from time to time he swung it awkwardly at anything that looked even slightly human shaped through his drunken haze.

This was not a particularly proud day for the disgraced detective either personally or professionally.