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This ain't no ramshackle outpost, comrade. This is a bastion of Soviet steel, bristling with turrets and choked with razor wire. Lay traps that snap undead bones, turrets that spit leaden hellfire, and barricades that turn the flesh-eaters into a tangled mess. Remember, every obstacle, every mangled corpse, is a testament to your ironclad defense. But beware, the horde is cunning, like a plague of cockroaches scuttling in the shadows. They adapt, they mutate, they learn. New horrors rise from the putrid ooze, twisted abominations that claw at your defenses. Don't falter, comrade! Adapt your tactics, unleash new upgrades, and remember, fear is the only death sentence in this war. So raise your flag, comrade, and let the red banner flutter in the face of the undead. Command your AI, unleash your fury, and paint the wasteland with the crimson spray of zombie guts. This ain't just a battle for survival, it's a defense of your legacy, a testament to the iron will of the Soviet spirit. Go forth, then, champion of the red star, and show these shuffling monsters the true meaning of socialist fortitude! Just remember, comrade, in this war, the only good zombie is a dead one. And you, my friend, have the tools to make them all good comrades.
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