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

Chapter 20: Chapter 21: Tactical Pervert

The heavy wooden double doors of the eastern wing groaned in protest as Rebecca pushed them open, leading the way into the labyrinthine corridors of the training facility.

She kept her scavenged shotgun raised and her boots moving quietly over the plush, dusty carpets. Behind her, the heavy, rhythmic clicking of Ghosty’s massive chitin-armored claws provided a deeply bizarre sense of security.

She still couldn’t fully wrap her head around the sheer absurdity of her current survival strategy. An eighteen-year-old rookie field medic was casually exploring a monster-infested corporate mansion with a heavily mutated, skinless, insect-plated hell-hound trailing behind her like the world’s most horrifying emotional support animal.

But if there was one thing Rebecca had learned in the last hour, it was that Ghosty had absolutely zero concept of personal space.

The massive beast stuck to her like industrial-grade Velcro. Every time she paused to check a corner, reload her weapon, or examine a document, he was right there. Not just nearby—practically grafted to her side.

She’d crouch down to pick up a scattered box of shotgun shells, and his huge armored head would immediately swing around to sniff intensely at her shoulder, her neck, the side of her jaw. Long, wet inhalations that sounded like a broken vacuum cleaner trying to suck up a beach towel.

"Ghosty, come on, I need space to—"

He shifted closer, his cold wet nose pressing directly against her collarbone as he took another deep, theatrical sniff.

Rebecca tried to gently push his massive skull away. "Dude, seriously, you’re like... you’re like a two-hundred-pound baby."

He didn’t budge. Just kept sniffing, his tail doing that stupid happy wag like she was a vanilla ice cream cone and he was trying to memorize the flavor.

She sighed and gave up, letting him hover absurdly close as she shoved the shells into her vest. What was the point? He smelled weirdly nice anyway—that strange earthy petrichor scent that made her feel inexplicably calm—and he wasn’t leaving gore or fluids on her clothes. If anything, he was disturbingly clean for a creature that spent half his time ripping zombies apart with his teeth.

So she just... let him be clingy.

When she moved, he moved. When she stopped, he stopped. Practically glued to her hip, sniffing her arm, her hair, the back of her neck. Like a gigantic, over-affectionate dog who’d been separated from his owner for a decade and was making up for lost time.

It was annoying. It was weird.

But also, in the suffocating silence of this nightmare facility, it was oddly comforting.

They made their way down a wide, carpeted hallway lined with ornate oil paintings and old wooden lecture hall doors. Rebecca kept her shotgun trained ahead, sweeping her flashlight across the dark corners.

She spotted a small side table near the wall, covered in scattered papers and dusty file folders. Might be worth checking for facility maps or key codes.

She stepped up to the table and leaned over slightly, brushing the dust off a partially obscured memo.

A blast of hot, wet, raspy breath suddenly flooded the space directly between her thighs.

"Jesus—!"

Rebecca yelped and jolted upright, nearly dropping her shotgun as a massive, slimy, cold wet nose aggressively shoved itself right into the crevice of her ass.

Ghosty was standing directly behind her, his huge snout buried in her tactical pants, taking the deepest, most shameless inhalation she’d ever heard in her life.

SNNNNNRRRFFFFFFFF.

Her entire face erupted into a furious crimson blush. "What the—Ghosty! What the hell are you doing?!"

She swatted blindly behind her, smacking his armored skull. He pulled back slightly, his wet nose leaving a cold damp spot on the fabric, and just sat there. Tail wagging. Head tilted. The picture of absolute, unrepentant innocence.

"That is—you can’t just—" She sputtered, trying to find words while her brain short-circuited between mortification and disbelief. "That’s my ass! You don’t just... sniff people’s asses!"

Ghosty let out a soft, curious chuff, like he genuinely didn’t understand the problem.

Rebecca groaned and pressed her palm against her overheated face. This is my life now. Getting violated by a mutant dog in a zombie-infested corporate training facility.

"Look, I don’t care what kind of... weird dog instincts you have, okay? You keep that nose pointed at the zombies, not at my—my—" She gestured vaguely at her lower half, too flustered to say it out loud.

He whined softly, a low, pitiful sound, and nudged his big jagged face against her hip like he was apologizing.

She took a deep breath—catching another hint of that stupidly pleasant smell radiating off his armor—and felt her racing heartbeat slowly level out.

He’s just a dog. A weird, mutated, oversized dog with boundary issues.

"Just... behave, okay?" she muttered, reaching out to give his armored head a reluctant pat. His tail wagged harder.

"Come on. Let’s keep moving."

They spent the next hour methodically sweeping through the ground floor, adjacent lecture rooms, and the western hallway. The facility was absolutely crawling with shambling corporate zombies in tattered lab coats and ripped suits.

Rebecca had to admit, having Ghosty around made the whole ordeal almost... easy.

Whenever a decaying researcher lurched out from behind a door, Ghosty was already in motion—charging forward, crushing skulls, snapping necks with brutal efficiency. She barely had to fire a shot most of the time.

And when a cluster of them bottlenecked in a doorway, she’d step up beside him and happily blast the stragglers into chunky salsa with her shotgun.

It felt good. Therapeutic, even. The suffocating dread of the Arklay Mountains had been replaced by this weird, adrenaline-fueled partnership. She was clearing rooms alongside her loyal, unholy death machine, and it was working.

The only problem—and it was a big problem—was the sheer, absurd volume of ammunition lying around.

"Seriously, what kind of pharmaceutical training academy just leaves crates of buckshot sitting in a damn conference room?" she grumbled aloud, shoving another fistful of red shells into her already bulging vest pouches.

Every desk, cupboard, and decorative statue seemed to be hiding a cache of high-caliber rounds. By the time they’d cleared the art corridor and the adjoining storage wing, Rebecca was loaded down like a walking armory.

Her pockets were over-stuffed. Her utility belt sagged under the weight of extra mags. Her shoulders burned from the bulk.

She dumped a handful of loose pistol rounds onto a mahogany desk and let out an exhausted sigh, rolling her aching shoulders.

Ghosty was lounging on an antique Persian rug a few feet away, casually licking dark coagulated gore off his front paw. He paused mid-lick, his milky, pupilless eyes locking onto her.

Rebecca stared at the massive, broad expanse of thick chitin plating covering his back.

An idea formed.

A practical idea.

A slightly stupid idea.

"You know what..." she murmured, walking toward a set of velvet drapes hanging near the tall windows. "You’re a two-hundred-pound tank. You can carry some of this weight."

She drew her combat knife and quickly sliced down a pair of thick, braided curtain cords, gathering them up along with a heavy canvas tote bag she’d found earlier in a storage closet.

Approaching Ghosty, she knelt beside him. "Alright, big guy. Hold still. We’re making you a tactical backpack."

He let out a curious chuff, shifting his weight slightly to accommodate her.

Rebecca leaned over his broad back, stretching her arms across his armored spine to loop the cords underneath his ribcage. She had to practically drape herself over him to reach, her chest pressed against his thick plating, her fingers fumbling with the knots.

"Just... hold still, okay? This’ll make things way easier for both of—"

Ghosty shifted beneath her. Not much. Just a slight tensing of his shoulders, a faint hitch in his breathing.

She felt something very warm and very firm press briefly against her hip before he let out a low, rumbling huff and went still again.

Rebecca paused, frowning slightly. That was weird.

But she shook it off and finished tying the cords, securing the canvas bag across his back like a makeshift saddlebag. She straightened up, brushing dust off her hands.

"There. Perfect. Now you can actually be useful and—"

She glanced down.

Oh.

Oh no.

Hanging fully exposed beneath his abdomen was about eight inches of thick, hairless, purple-grey nightmare fuel. Fully erect. Veins bulging along the shaft. A thick bead of clear pre-cum dripping slowly onto the Persian rug.

Rebecca’s brain blue-screened.

Her face went nuclear.

"Are you—are you seriously—" She gestured wildly at his crotch, unable to form a complete sentence. "I was just putting a bag on you! That’s—that’s not—why would that—"

Ghosty tilted his head, tail wagging like he’d done absolutely nothing wrong.

She groaned and turned away, pressing her palms against her overheated cheeks. I did not just give a mutant dog an erection. This is not happening.

"You are unbelievable," she muttered, grabbing her shotgun and marching toward the eastern door. "Come on. We’re moving. And you’re keeping that thing away from me."

Rebecca pushed through into the next section of the facility—a wide, wood-paneled room that looked like it had been used for tactical briefings. A large table dominated the center, covered in scattered maps, clipboards, and old training documents.

She approached the table, leaning over to examine a detailed facility blueprint spread across the surface. If she could figure out where the main security office was, maybe she could find a radio. Contact S.T.A.R.S. Get actual backup instead of relying on her mutant dog bodyguard.

Her fingers traced the faded lines of the map, trying to orient herself.

Behind her, she heard the heavy click-click-click of claws on hardwood.

Then, with absolutely zero warning, two massive armored paws slammed down on either side of her hips, pinning her against the table.

"What—Ghosty, what are you—"

Before she could finish, Ghosty mounted her from behind.

His huge body pressed flush against her back, his hips snapping forward with terrifying speed. Something impossibly hot, thick, and rock-hard slammed directly between her thighs.

Rebecca’s entire body went rigid.

Oh god. Oh no.

His massive erection had slipped perfectly between the tight gap of her legs, the thick shaft grinding directly against the seam of her tactical pants. She could feel every inch of it—the pulsing veins, the feverish heat radiating through the fabric, the slick wetness of his pre-cum soaking into the canvas.

It was so warm. Too warm. Almost burning hot against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, and the wrongness of it made her stomach flip.

"Ghosty—stop—get off!"

She tried to push back, but he was too heavy, too strong. His hips pistoned forward in rhythmic, powerful thrusts, dragging that thick purple shaft back and forth along her inseam with devastating friction.

A deep, guttural groan rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her back.

Then his huge head swung around and a long, wet tongue dragged sloppily across the side of her face.

SLRRRRRP.

"Ah—! Ghosty!" She twisted her head away, but he just licked her again, slobbering across her cheek, her jaw, the corner of her mouth.

Her brain was spinning.

Why is he doing this?

The thought crashed through her rising panic like a bucket of ice water.

This wasn’t normal dog behavior. This was—

Is this some kind of... mating instinct?

Her mind scrambled for an explanation, trying to apply logic to the deeply illogical situation of being dry-humped by a bioweapon.

Maybe his mutations messed with his brain. Maybe he’s acting on some kind of primal urge he can’t control. Maybe the T-virus rewired his instincts and he doesn’t even realize what he’s doing.

But that didn’t explain why he was so fixated on her specifically.

She wasn’t in heat. She wasn’t a dog. She was a human.

So why—

Another powerful thrust made her gasp, her fingers clutching the edge of the table as the thick heat between her legs sent an unwanted jolt of sensation straight through her core.

No. No no no. Do not think about how that feels.

"Ghosty—seriously—you need to stop!" She shoved back hard with her hips, trying to dislodge him.

He let out a soft whine but didn’t let go, his tongue lapping again at her neck, her ear.

She could feel his weight pressing her down, could feel the rhythmic drag of that too-hot shaft sliding between her thighs, could feel the slickness soaking through her pants.

This is insane. This is completely insane.

"Get. Off. Me. Now!"

She planted her boots firmly and shoved backward with all her strength.

Ghosty finally released her, dropping back onto all fours with a low huff. His tail was still wagging, and that massive erection was still fully on display, dripping a thin trail of clear fluid onto the floor.

Rebecca scrambled away from the table, her face blazing red, her breathing ragged. She pressed her back against the far wall, staring at him in a mixture of mortification, confusion, and something she absolutely refused to name.

"What the hell was that?!" she demanded, her voice cracking slightly. "You can’t just—just mount people like that! That’s—"

She gestured helplessly at him, words failing her.

Ghosty sat down, tilting his head. Tail wagging. Completely unbothered.

Like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.

Rebecca dragged a shaking hand through her hair, trying to steady herself. Her thighs were still tingling from the heat, her pants uncomfortably damp, and her brain was struggling to process what the hell had just happened.

He’s a mutant. He doesn’t know any better. He’s just acting on instinct.

But the rational explanation didn’t make her feel any less violated.

Or any less disturbed by the faint, lingering ache between her legs.

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to meet his milky gaze.

"Listen to me very carefully," she said slowly, her voice shaking but firm. "You do not do that again. Ever. I don’t care what your... biology is telling you. That is not okay. Do you understand?"

Ghosty let out a soft whine, lowering his head slightly.

She wanted to believe it was guilt.

But the way his tail kept wagging made her think he’d absolutely do it again the first chance he got.

"I’m serious, Ghosty." She pointed a finger at him, her tone dropping into her best authoritative medic voice. "That thing—" she gestured vaguely at his still-erect cock, "—stays away from me. Got it?"

He whined again, louder this time, and shuffled forward slightly, nudging his big head toward her like he wanted reassurance.

Rebecca hesitated.

Part of her wanted to shove him away, to keep her distance, to establish a firm boundary.

But another part of her—the part that had spent the last few hours relying on him to keep her alive—couldn’t quite bring herself to completely reject him.

He’s still just a dog. A really messed-up, oversized, horrifying dog.

With a sigh, she reached out and gave his armored head a single, grudging pat.

"You’re lucky you’re useful," she muttered.

His tail wagged harder.

She pulled her hand back and turned toward the door, refusing to look at him.

"Come on. We’ve got more rooms to clear. And you’re walking behind me from now on. Way behind me."

Ghosty let out a happy bark and trotted after her.

Rebecca didn’t look back.

But she could still feel the phantom heat between her thighs.

And she hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

--

A/N: So saw you guys comments in previous Chapter and wanted to clarify that when i mentioned multiverse, I thought of it more like vacations and shenanigans between games rather than switching worlds entirely. And not any worlds, just ones that are of monster/zombie theme as well as say Movie Resident Evil etc

Well, its a matter for later. We have atleast Resident Evil 0 to complete and then Spencer Mansion too before we get free time anyways.

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