There’s something in the air… or in the water… or, hell, somehow baked into the cells of your body from birth thanks to some crazy genetic bullshit that got foisted on you during your parents’ cryosleep on the way over… nobody knows. The only thing you know is, when you shuffle off this mortal coil, you don’t shuffle far before your body starts doing some shuffling of its own.

Sometimes it takes a day. Sometimes it takes an hour. Sometimes it takes about ten fucking seconds. But until your body gets burnt away until there’s nothing but a fine dust, you’re going to rise again. You won’t be the best conversationalist, and you’re going to be one hell of a dinner companion.

Yeah, you’ve got savvyheads out there who’ve got names for them… weird-sounding shit like “cryocelluloid reanimants” and other stuff that puts a name on it in a pathetic effort to control it. But everybody knows what they are.


You already are one. It just hasn’t happened yet.


Apocalypse Braaaaains... Baldmeistr