Los Chimpos Ride Again

You open the door to find someone about to walk away.

"Hey," you call out. "What can I do for you?"

The person slowly turns around, shuffling their feet, until they are facing you.
Their appearance, at first seemingly normal, is suddenly startling.
It is a man, but unlike any you have seen before.

"I have a message for you."
He holds out a hand and you pull away in horror.

This man, standing before you, should not be talking.
He should be in the grave.
He is stooped, slightly, but stands at almost six feet tall and has a grey-green complexion.
His hair has fallen out and lay in clumps on his skull.
His eyes... oh lord, his eyes... are a milky white and flecked with red.
He wears a formal buttoned-up shirt, smart trousers and a brown pair of shoes in an attempt to look presentable but the clothes are frayed and tattered and covered with filth. The skin on his face, neck and hands is flaky and peeling away.
He smells like Death itself has burped in your face.
This man is not just unwell.
This man looks deceased.
This man is a zombie.