The hair. That floating lifeless hair, unmoving, save for the slightest undulation of the water. A deafening silence as he chokes, freezes, hesitates, then dives a sloppy dive in a vain attempt to preserve what little life remains. As he grasps the arm, the soggy grey flesh loosens, breaks between his fingers, and his grip slips. He tightens it, but the remaining sinews and ligaments have been weakened by God knows how many weeks — or months — of acid rain marination; the shoulder rips free of the socket. The sudden jolt causes him to lose grip of the separated arm, and it sinks, ten, twenty, thirty metres. He tries again, brushing away the remaining greasy soggy fetid flesh around the shoulder socket, and clutches the torso by collarbone. Drags the heavy body through the water. Pulls it ashore. Vomits. Twice. Vision begins to get hazy. Head swims. Loses balance. Loses vision. Loses consciousness.

Welcome to Lakeland.