As the last vestiges of twilight bled from the sky, painting the crumbling, forgotten town of Oakhaven in hues of blood orange and bruised purple, the radio crackled to life, spitting static and a voice grim with an untold history.

"Listen up, you sorry bunch of misfits," the voice, rough and gravelly, commanded. "The name's Weaver. And what you're about to step into ain't no walk in the park. Forget everything you thought you knew about the war. Forget the propaganda, the glory, the 'cause.' Out here, there's only one cause: survival."

A low moan, eerily close, echoed through the derelict theater you'd claimed as a temporary base. Dust motes danced in the single beam of your flashlight, illuminating the grimy stage where faded velvet curtains hung in tattered despair. A chill, colder than the night air, snaked its way up your spine.

"They're not just 'undead,' folks. They're... more. A plague, a curse, a grotesque evolution of something that shouldn't exist. Each one a twisted monument to a scientific hubris that ripped a hole in reality itself."

The moaning grew, accompanied now by a shuffling, dragging sound just outside the splintered doors. The shadows seemed to stretch, deepen, and coalesce into grotesque shapes in your peripheral vision.

"You've all got your reasons for being here. Some of you are chasing a cure, some a fortune, some are just plain stupid. Doesn't matter now. What matters is what you do when the shriek of the horde drowns out your thoughts, when the smell of decay chokes you, when the only light is the muzzle flash of your weapon."

A guttural growl vibrated through the floorboards. The doors shuddered under a sudden, forceful impact.

"This ain't just about shooting. This is about strategy. About resourcefulness. About sticking together, even when every instinct screams to run. Because out here, in the cold, dead heart of the Aether's influence, you're not just fighting for your life. You're fighting for the very soul of what's left of humanity."

Another crash against the doors, louder this time, accompanied by a chorus of unholy snarls. The faint outline of a grotesque hand, tipped with jagged claws, appeared in a crack in the wood.

"So, tell me," Weaver's voice cut through the rising terror, tinged with a grim amusement. "Are you ready to truly see what lurks in the dark? Are you ready to face the zombies of the Aether, and try to carve out your grim legend in the ruins of the world?"*

The first wave begins.