In the wasteland of Scum, where shadows creep,
Zombies guard their secrets, eternal and deep.
From the heavens, pods descend, mysterious and sly,
Crashing through the twilight, where hope and fear collide.
Their metal shells crack open, revealing treasures untold,
But the undead stand watch, their hunger uncontrolled.
Eyes glazed, limbs decayed, they shuffle and groan,
Their purpose unyielding—protect what’s not their own.
Each pod carries whispers—a promise or a curse,
And the zombies, relentless, guard them with perverse.
They remember not life, nor love, nor sun’s warm embrace,
Only duty to the fallen, in this desolate space.
The survivors approach cautiously, hearts racing wild,
Their breaths held tight, as if fate were beguiled.
They pry open the pods, hoping for salvation,
Yet the zombies advance, fueled by grim determination.
What lies within? Is it sustenance or doom?
A relic of the past, or a harbinger of gloom?
The undead sway, their hollow eyes fixed,
As survivors choose their path—risk or retreat.
The pods hum softly, secrets pulsating within,
And the zombies inch closer, their patience thin.
For in this dance of life and death, hope persists,
As long as the fallen guard the sky’s enigmatic gifts.
So tread lightly, brave wanderer, and choose your prize,
For the zombies’ vigilance never wanes or dies.
In the twilight of Scum, where mysteries descend,
The undead stand sentinel, until the very end.