Hollow-Point Necromancy
By @john1208
I was down to my last magazine, cornered by a four-story amalgamation of rotting flesh and mutated wolf, when a glitchy radio broadcast echoed in my skull. The voice was mine. It cheerfully congratulated me on unlocking my true potential, proving this apocalypse was an inside job - and the insider was me. I never asked to survive the Marrow-Plague, a zombie virus that fused shambling corpses into magical behemoths, but dying sounds like entirely too much paperwork. Now, I can rip souls from the dead and arm them with ethereal heavy artillery, starting with a wall-phasing ghostly assassin and scaling up to an endlessly firing undead militia. Surviving the eerie, fog-choked ruins of the world means hunting down the monstrosities that ended it, looting their powers, and turning arrogant guild masters into my personal, heavily humiliated ammo carriers. Alongside a hopelessly optimistic scavenger and a prickly scout I'd gladly die for - though neither of us will ever admit it - I have to follow the bloody breadcrumbs left by my temporal ghost. Why would my past self destroy the world just to give me an army of gun-toting corpses?
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