Resident Evil: The Dead Must Breed (Zombie/Monster Evolutions Fanfic)

Chapter 12: Chapter 13 (Long Chapter)

A/N: Couldn’t update yesterday due to some work. Enjoy today’s Chapter, its longer than usual as compensation.

Phenomenal performance on the rankings guys. Really warmed my pants seeing it.

That aside, another small info: The story is not 100% canon. There would be minor changes here and there cuz I don’t want to follow the game and its hundred of puzzles all the time. And it would be boring to read too.

____

Rebecca stared in absolute, unadulterated horror at her green tactical glove. The fabric was completely coated in a thick, white, stringy substance that stretched between her fingers like a highly cursed spiderweb.

What... what the hell is this?

She slowly looked down at the rest of her uniform and felt her jaw physically drop.

The green tactical vest she had worked so hard to earn was absolutely plastered in the stuff. Thick, viscous globs decorated her shoulders, her chest, and her stomach. Long, dripping white streaks ran down her S.T.A.R.S. trousers. A particularly offensive dollop was currently on a slow, agonizing journey down the side of her neck.

Her brain was still rattling around her skull from the impact of the derailment. She tried desperately to piece together a logical explanation for the mess and came up completely blank.

How is there this much of it? Where did it even come from?

She reached up to brush a stray lock of hair out of her eyes and her fingers immediately snagged. An elastic strand of the mystery fluid connected her bangs to her forehead to create a gooey bridge of shame right across her field of vision.

"No. No, no, no, what the fuck?" she muttered.

Crouching in the shadows just five feet away, a completely invisible, highly satisfied Cerberus named Alex was experiencing a level of secondhand embarrassment that probably violated the Geneva Conventions.

Rebecca grabbed a discarded piece of torn velvet curtain from the carriage wreckage and began scrubbing at her vest with frantic aggression. The goo merely wobbled and stubbornly refused to release its grip on the fabric. She switched targets to her face and dragged the rough cloth across her cheek.

The substance redistributed itself with malicious efficiency to maximize its coverage area instead of actually coming off.

"Are you kidding me right now?"

She brought the cloth to her nose and sniffed it.

She immediately regretted that decision.

"Oh god, what is that smell?"

It was weirdly sweet but carried a distinct chemical note. It smelled organic yet fundamentally wrong, like a mad scientist had mixed bleach, raw egg whites, and a faint hint of musk into the world’s most suspicious marinade.

Her face scrunched up in profound disgust as she wiped another thick dollop off her chin.

Then, because human beings are occasionally cursed with scientific curiosity at the worst possible moments, she brought her sticky glove closer to her face and took a highly deliberate sniff directly from the source.

From his invisible vantage point, Alex watched her with his canine snout twitching in pure mortification.

What are you doing?! Becca, you just spent the last hour shooting infected monsters and you’re going to SNIFF the mystery jizz?!

She sniffed it again and scrunched up her nose.

Stop doing that! Have some self-respect!

"It’s not engine oil," she mumbled aloud. "It’s not hydraulic fluid either... is this some kind of biological secretion?"

Of course it’s biological, you absolute disaster of a medic! You’re in a zombie-infested nightmare factory and you’re out here playing forensic investigator with fresh splooge!

Then she did the one thing that made the invisible Cerberus want to curl up into a ball and die.

She slowly stuck out her tongue and took a tiny, experimental taste.

REBECCA, NO!

Her face immediately collapsed into an expression of deep, soul-crushing regret.

"Oh, that’s—nope. Nope, nope, nope."

She spat repeatedly onto the dusty floorboards. She gagged loudly while vigorously scrubbing at her tongue with the collar of her undershirt.

"Why did I do that? What is wrong with me?"

THAT’S EXACTLY WHAT I’M SAYING!

Alex was deeply torn between absolute, bone-deep mortification and a highly inappropriate surge of arousal. Watching the cute rookie medic taste-test his raw genetic material was doing terrible things to his lingering human sensibilities. His invisible tail gave a single, guilty thump against the floorboards.

Get it together, man. You’re supposed to be her noble guardian angel, not a creepy, invisible pervert watching her review your baby-batter like a fine wine.

He puffed up his invisible chest and tried to reframe the situation in a more heroic, tactical light.

Honestly, she should be thanking me. If that had been infected zombie blood, she’d be turning into a shuffler right now. My controlled pathogen skill literally saved her life. I’m basically a hero. A hero who just aggressively glazed her like a toaster pastry, sure, but a hero nonetheless.

As Rebecca continued to aggressively spit onto the floor, she suddenly paused and shifted her weight awkwardly. Her thighs rubbed together beneath her tight tactical trousers. A sharp jolt of tenderness shot straight through her groin.

She winced and rubbed her inner thigh.

"Fuck... did I straddle a seat armrest during the roll?" she mumbled to herself. "Feels like a damn friction burn..."

Even worse, there was a distinct, slick wetness pooling right at the juncture of her thighs that felt far too warm to be simple sweat.

She carefully reached down with her gloved fingers and gently pressed against her crotch through the tight fabric. The canvas was noticeably damp. The chafed sensation flared up instantly and made her let out a soft, confused gasp.

"What the hell did I hit?" she whispered.

Oh, you hit something, alright. Alex grinned, his invisible canine lips curling up to expose his teeth.

Rebecca finally shook her head and forced the bizarre physical confusion to the back of her mind. She unclipped the standard-issue canteen from her belt. Survival training dictated strictly rationing fresh water during an active biohazard crisis. Personal dignity demanded she at least get the crusty fluid out of her eyelashes.

She poured a tiny, precious splash of water onto her bare hand and furiously scrubbed the front of her face. She managed to clear her eyes, her nose, and the immediate perimeter of her mouth. The rest of her—her hair, her neck, and the entirety of her uniform—remained fully glazed like a deeply unfortunate bakery display.

She capped the canteen with a frustrated huff and shoved it back into its pouch.

"I’ll just have to deal with the rest of this later."

She pressed a hand against her temple and winced as the sharp ache of her concussion made itself known. Her vision swam for a brief second before her training aggressively kicked in to force her focus on the immediate situation.

The Ecliptic Express had torn itself apart spectacularly. Twisted metal, shattered glass, and broken luxury furniture were scattered across the entire width of the grand entrance hall. A few flickering yellow emergency lights cast long, erratic shadows across the cavernous room.

The facility was entirely too quiet.

Rebecca pushed herself up to her feet. She swayed dangerously for a second before catching her balance against a buckled metal support beam. She reached down to her hip and let out a shaky breath when her fingers closed around the familiar grip of her Beretta.

She pulled the weapon free and ejected the magazine to inspect her remaining ammunition.

Eleven rounds.

Better than nothing.

She slotted the magazine back in with a sharp click. Her eyes swept the dark, ruined hall. Massive stone pillars lined the walls, and half of them were cracked or completely toppled by the force of the train’s impact. On the far wall, a giant, faded Umbrella Corporation logo stared back at her like a silent, red-and-white warning sign.

And then there were the bodies.

The passengers from the Ecliptic Express who had been violently ejected through the shattered windows during the crash were strewn across the marble floor in grotesque, broken piles.

Alex had actively cleared the zombies wandering the main areas of the train earlier, but he simply hadn’t had the time to systematically execute every single corpse on board. Many of the infected had been trapped in the upper carriages.

Rebecca wasn’t heading up there anyway, and hunting them down would have taken way too long. He absolutely refused to leave her alone for that amount of time in a survival horror death-trap. Now, thanks to the derailment, all those neglected upper-deck shufflers were scattered across the lobby floor.

Rebecca immediately raised her weapon into a tight two-handed grip. She knew damn well from the last hour that these infected bastards loved to play possum until you got within biting distance.

She crept forward. Her eyes scanned the dark corners and the motionless corpses for any signs of twitching, completely unaware of her invisible stalker.

Behind her, the massive, highly satisfied Cerberus followed at a slow, deliberate pace. He kept his heavy paw steps perfectly silent.

That’s it, Becca. Keep your eyes on the prize and clear your corners. I’ll just be lurking back here, making sure none of these dead assholes try to sneak up on your sticky, highly confused ass.

His massive invisible dick had finally subsided back to a manageable, non-distracting level.

Small victories.

---

Rebecca moved toward the front of the wrecked train with her Beretta held in both hands and her elbows tucked in close, the way Enrico had drilled into her until her shoulders hated him on principle.

The tunnel had swallowed the Ecliptic Express like a bad decision with too much momentum behind it. The engine car had plowed through the wall and folded itself into the narrow area, leaving twisted metal, snapped wood, torn upholstery, and broken luggage scattered across the marble floor.

Steam hissed from ruptured pipes overhead. A few emergency lights blinked in weak yellow pulses that made the shadows look like they were breathing.

Rebecca hated that thought immediately.

She also hated the sticky mess drying on her vest, collar, hair, cheek, and somehow the back of her ear. She had no idea what the substance was. She had several theories. Every single one made her want to boil herself alive.

"Coen?" she called, keeping her voice controlled enough to pass for professional if someone graded her on a curve.

Her voice echoed through the ruined hall and came back thin.

No answer.

A low rattle came from somewhere ahead, past a buckled section of the front carriage.

Rebecca tightened her grip on the Beretta.

"Coen, is that you?"

The rattle came again. Wet. Human-ish.

Human-ish was a bad suffix to attach to any sound in a place like this.

She climbed over a folded sheet of steel, her boot slipping on a dark smear of hydraulic fluid. Her knee banged against a torn seat frame and she swallowed the curse that tried to climb out, because swearing at furniture during a biological disaster felt like giving the universe too much ammunition.

The smell near the engine was awful. Burning oil, hot metal, blood, rot, and underneath all of it, that faint chemical sweetness of whatever was still clinging to her collar.

I am going to scrub my skin off when this is over.

She squeezed through a narrow gap between two collapsed support beams. Her vest caught on a jagged strip of metal, tugging her backward with a sticky little sound that made her soul try to leave through her ears.

"Oh, come on," she muttered, yanking herself free. She lost a few strands of hair to whatever hell-glue had dried on her shoulder and stumbled into a wider pocket of wreckage.

It looked like part of the cargo section had been shoved sideways into the tunnel Broken crates were scattered everywhere. A dangling emergency light swung from a torn cable, creaking softly.

About fifteen feet away, a man stood with his back to her.

Broad shoulders. Dark hair. Prisoner markings on his jacket.

Billy Coen.

Rebecca let out a careful breath through her nose. Relief tried to rise, then got mugged by common sense before it could reach her face.

They’d known each other for maybe two hours, most of which had involved being attacked by undead passengers, mutant dogs, and a giant scorpion that had made several decisions against God and basic zoology. Still, seeing another living person would have been nice.

Seeing Billy upright should have counted as good news.

The problem was how still he was between each sway.

"Coen," she said, softer now. "You alive?"

He didn’t turn. His arms hung at his sides. His left shoulder sat lower than the right. His head rested at an angle that made the medic part of her brain start screaming.

Rebecca lifted the Beretta a little higher.

"Are you injured?"

No response.

She took one step forward, then another. Her boots crunched over broken glass.

"Listen, I need you to say something. Anything. Grunt if you have to, I’m not picky right now."

Billy’s shoulders rose slightly, then fell. The sound that came out of him was low and ruined, like air dragging through a torn hose.

Rebecca stopped walking.

The smart thing would have been to back up, find cover, and create distance. The trained thing would have been to order him to turn around while keeping her sights on center mass.

The medic thing was louder than both.

"Coen?"

He began to turn. Slowly.

Rebecca saw the right side of his face first. Pale skin. Blood on his jaw. One eye filmed over with a cloudy white haze.

Then the left side came into view.

Her mouth went dry.

The side of Billy’s skull had caved inward, probably from the derailment. Bone showed through split skin near his temple, and a thick smear of dark blood ran into his hair. Grey-purple tissue glistened at the broken edge, pulsing faintly in the flickering light like something inside him still had the nerve to keep working.

His throat had been torn open too, and that part had nothing to do with the crash. The wound was ragged, deep, and ugly—a shredded trench of black blood and exposed meat running from beneath his jaw to his collar. His shirt was soaked through with it.

Billy’s remaining good eye fixed on her neck.

"Oh, shit," Rebecca breathed.

Billy lunged.

He moved with the speed of a trained soldier and the coordination of something that no longer cared about pain. Rebecca squeezed the trigger, but his shoulder crashed into her arms before she could align the shot. The gun barked once, the round sparking off a steel beam somewhere over his shoulder.

His weight drove into her chest and the world tilted. Rebecca slammed into a pile of broken crates, wood cracking under her back. The Beretta tore from her grip and skidded away beneath a collapsed partition with a sharp metallic clatter.

Her lungs emptied all at once.

Billy was on top of her before she could pull in a full breath.

Rebecca jammed her forearm under his jaw and locked her elbow. His teeth snapped a few inches from her cheek. Black saliva dripped onto her face.

"Coen—stop!" she snapped, and hated how thin her voice sounded. "Get off me!"

He didn’t react to his name. Of course he didn’t.

The man was gone. What remained had his size, his training, and none of the parts that might hesitate.

Rebecca brought her free knee up and tried to wedge it between their bodies. Billy’s weight crushed it back down. She twisted her hips, looking for leverage, but his dead hand had tangled in the front of her vest. His broken nails scraped against the fabric, tugging her closer with awful little jerks.

Her right hand dropped toward the knife at her waist. The angle was terrible—her elbow trapped under his chest, and every inch she gave let his teeth drift closer.

She could smell his breath now. Rotten blood, old meat, viral bile.

Rebecca shoved harder against his throat. Her arm trembled.

"Get off—get off—!"

His jaw snapped again. Too close.

Her boot scraped over concrete, searching for traction and finding broken glass. She tried to roll with him, tried to use his forward pressure against him, but he was too heavy and too far gone to care about balance. Her academy instructors had taught her about fighting larger opponents. None of those lessons had included a dead marine with half his skull caved in and a throat full of sewage noises.

Her fingertips brushed the knife handle.

Missed.

Billy’s teeth dipped toward her cheek. Rebecca turned her face away, bracing for the bite she couldn’t stop.

[To Be Continued]

Author Note:

Further content is for anyone interested in patreon stuff.

Good news I got an patreon set up!

Link is: www.patreon.com/c/HornyShitler

(its not fully setup but would be done by tomorrow at max. you can join in early if you want or can wait till tomorrow where too)

I write in large large batches, so Patreon advance access is organized by word count rather than exact Chapter count.

These large batches are draft Chapters, I will also break them up in smaller sections but as that takes a bit of time, you are free to go ahead and read the draft. They are 90% same anyways.

Also as you guys might know about how strict patreon is with nsfw stuff, the page can get banned at any time cuz some people didn’t like xyz stuff etc. So that’s why I would be hosting the nsfw content (which is most of the content) on an external site and you just need to a couple steps to authenticate and you can access the content.

yeah, its a bit of hassle but patreon is just too quick to ban stuff so its the best way to go if story has to survive long term. I promise it isn’t complex. I will post an guide on the site itself to make it hasslefree.

More information will be posted on the patreon later so as to not bore you guys here.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!