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

"WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!"

Rebecca’s voice cracked through the cavernous animal pen, raw and shrill enough to echo off the rusted iron cages. She was still braced against the concrete wall, one trembling finger pointed directly at Ghosty’s massive, slobber-covered snout. Her chest heaved with every ragged breath, and her lips were tingling with that weird, numb heat his tongue had left behind.

Ghosty tilted his head.

Slowly. Innocently. Like a golden retriever who’d just been yelled at for stealing a biscuit off the counter and had absolutely no idea why stealing was wrong.

His tail gave a tentative thump against the concrete.

"Don’t you fucking wag your tail at me!" Rebecca shrieked, jabbing her finger closer to his nose. "You just—you shoved your entire tongue down my throat! What the hell is wrong with you?! Are you brain-damaged? Is that it? Did the T-virus fry whatever was left of your doggy common sense?!"

Ghosty’s ears—or rather, the ragged, skinless holes where ears should have been—drooped slightly. He let out a soft, confused whine and shuffled half a step closer, as if to check if she was okay.

"Stay! Stay right there! Do not come near me!"

He froze mid-step, one massive paw hovering in the air. His milky, pupilless eyes stared at her with such profound, wounded confusion that for a split second, Rebecca actually felt guilty.

She shook her head violently, banishing the feeling. "No! No, you don’t get to look at me like that! You don’t get to play the victim after you practically French-kissed me with your giant mutant tongue!"

Ghosty slowly lowered his paw to the ground. He sat down, tilted his head the other way, and let out a soft, questioning chuff.

Bwoof.

The sound was so utterly harmless. So completely, stupidly canine. Like he was asking if she wanted to play fetch.

Rebecca dragged both hands down her face, smearing the thick layer of drying drool across her cheeks. "I can’t believe this. I’m standing here arguing with a zombie dog about boundaries. This is my life now."

Ghosty’s tail wagged faster.

"I’m not praising you! Stop wagging!"

The tail kept wagging.

Rebecca groaned and slumped back against the wall, the anger draining out of her just as fast as it had erupted. Yelling at him felt pointless. He clearly had no concept of what he’d done wrong. Looking at him now—sitting there with his head cocked, drool still dripping from his jowls, his monstrous erection finally starting to deflate back into its thick sheath—he just looked like a big, dumb, overly affectionate animal.

A very, very stupid animal.

He doesn’t understand—to him this is probably just normal!

Pressing her palms against her temples, she racked her brain, desperately trying to recall her college biology courses. There had been a lecture on canine social structures. Wolves licked each other’s mouths all the time to beg for food, reinforce pack bonds, or show submission. Her professor had even shown a video of two timber wolves enthusiastically tongue-wrestling after a hunt.

Pack bonding—is that all this is?

It was a comforting thought. A bit thin, maybe, considering his tongue had practically tickled her tonsils, but she clung to it desperately. The alternative—that a mutated bioweapon had deliberately violated her mouth for some other, highly inappropriate reason—was not something she was emotionally equipped to process right now.

"Okay," she muttered, lowering her hands. "Okay. Fine. You were just... being a dog. A really, really gross dog."

Ghosty’s tail wagged enthusiastically. He took her calmer tone as permission to approach again, shuffling forward on his belly like a scolded puppy seeking forgiveness.

Rebecca held up a warning hand. "Far enough. You’re still in the doghouse. Figuratively speaking."

He stopped a foot away, dropping his massive chin onto his front paws and staring up at her with those big, blank, pitiful eyes. The absolute picture of contrition.

Manipulative little shit.

She almost laughed. Almost. But then her tongue moved unconsciously across the roof of her mouth, and she tasted it again. That weird, musky, faintly metallic aftertaste of mutant saliva flooded her taste buds, and the almost-laugh turned into a violent, full-body gag.

"Ugh—oh god—"

She doubled over, one hand flying to her throat. The memory of that thick, hot muscle sliding over her tongue and down toward her esophagus surfaced with nauseating clarity. She had swallowed. She had definitely swallowed. The sensation of warm, viscous drool sliding down her throat was permanently seared into her nervous system.

I swallowed it—oh god, oh fuck, I swallowed so much of it!

The panic spiral opened up like a sinkhole beneath her feet. Rabies spread through saliva. It traveled up the nerves and rotted the brain. What if the T-virus acted the exact same way?

What if it’s already in my bloodstream—?!

She dropped heavily onto her knees near the rusted metal grate of the drainage pit, shoving two gloved fingers deep past her teeth. She desperately tried to trigger her gag reflex, scraping her fingernails against the back of her throat. She hacked and coughed, her shoulders heaving as she violently tried to force her stomach to evict the contaminated fluids.

Nothing happened.

The heavy military ration biscuit she had eaten hours ago remained stubbornly in place. She just ended up gagging on empty air, getting more of his lingering, musky drool smeared across her knuckles.

Ghosty scrambled up from the floor with a frantic series of sharp, concerned whines. He trotted over to her side, nudging her trembling shoulder with his cold nose. His mechanical purr vibrated with genuine distress as he watched her dry-heave over the grate. He nervously paced back and forth, pawing at the concrete like he desperately wanted to help but had absolutely no idea how.

His absolute panic over her well-being somehow managed to deflate the last remnants of her anger, leaving behind nothing but sheer, pathetic terror.

She pulled her fingers out of her mouth, spitting one last string of clear saliva into the pit. She slumped back onto her heels, completely exhausted.

"I can’t... I can’t even throw it up," she moaned, scrubbing her mouth with the back of her wrist.

Her hands flew to her utility belt, fumbling blindly with the clasp of her S.T.A.R.S. canteen. She uncapped the plastic bottle with trembling fingers, took a massive swig of lukewarm water, swished it aggressively around her cheeks, and spat it onto the concrete. She did it three more times, desperately trying to scrub the phantom taste of rough muscle and hot, musky saliva from her palate.

It was completely pointless, and her medical training knew it. The mucosal membranes inside the mouth absorbed things instantly. Even if she rinsed, it didn’t matter. The biohazard cocktail was already in her system.

She capped the canteen and shot a pathetic, weary glare at the massive beast sitting beside her.

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?!" she sputtered, her voice pitching up in mild hysteria. "I’ve never even had a boyfriend! I spent my entire high school and college career reading biochemistry textbooks and passing exams! I haven’t even dated anyone! And my first real, deep kiss was stolen by a goddamn zombie dog!"

Ghosty let out a soft, apologetic chuff, tilting his head as if he were deeply sorry for ruining her romantic milestones.

"I know what a bioweapon tastes like," she rambled, her breathing growing increasingly erratic. "Why do I know what you taste like?! That is forbidden knowledge! An eighteen-year-old girl should not possess the sensory data of a mutant dog’s saliva! This is so completely fucked!"

She aggressively wiped her mouth again, her brain frantically trying to categorize the absolute chaos of the last ten minutes.

But the absolute worst part—the most humiliating, deeply disgusting part—was the physiological betrayal of her own body.

Her traitorous mind flashed back to the sheer, overwhelming heat of his mouth. The way his thick tongue had massaged the roof of her palate, the heavy, pinning weight of his chest against her breasts, the absolute, dominant control he had exerted over her. Her thighs were still completely flushed with a deep, pulsing warmth, and the heavy dampness in her tactical pants was impossible to ignore.

It was just shock—a biological freeze response!

She scolded herself violently. It was pure, unfiltered adrenaline. Her body had simply reacted to the mechanical friction and the overwhelming heat of his saliva. That was it. There was absolutely no other reason her inner thighs were trembling. There was zero reason for her pelvis to feel so painfully heavy and hollow.

Why did it feel so... warm? No—stop—don’t think about it!

Denying it didn’t make the tingling in her groin go away, and that just made her want to cry even harder.

She looked at Ghosty again. He was still staring at her, his milky eyes wide and innocent, waiting for her to give him a command.

She desperately tried to reason with herself, grasping at any available medical copium. He wasn’t a mindless monster like the others. He was strategic. He communicated. He knew how to use chemical pheromones. Maybe his saliva wasn’t infectious. Maybe his immune system was so highly evolved that it actively filtered out the viral strains before they could be transmitted.

Besides, she had been covered in his drool for hours anyway. He had licked her face, her neck, and her hands repeatedly since they met back on the train wreckage. If mere contact with his fluids was enough to doom her, she would have started showing symptoms ages ago. She still felt perfectly fine, aside from the crushing physical fatigue and the lingering, deeply confusing physiological arousal she was aggressively attempting to repress.

Then again, Billy Coen had turned into a snarling zombie incredibly fast after they got separated. But she didn’t actually know Billy’s medical history. The convicted marine could have been bitten while she was solving the brake puzzle in the rear car. He might have been hiding a massive infection the entire time. The timeline for T-virus incubation was notoriously inconsistent based on the scattered files she had read.

There were simply too many variables and absolutely zero hard scientific data to work with.

The sheer, suffocating weight of her situation finally began to crush her.

She was trapped in a nightmare facility surrounded by mutated freaks, corporate conspiracies, and a psychotic anime villain broadcasting his revenge plot over the intercoms. She had no backup. She had no radio contact with Captain Wesker or the rest of Bravo Team. Her only reliable ally in this entire apocalyptic mess was a heavily armored dog that periodically grew bug appendages.

Her legs simply gave out.

Rebecca slipped off her boots and sprawled completely flat on her back against the cold, dusty concrete. She threw her arms out to her sides, her heavy shotgun clattering onto the floor next to her hand. She stared blankly at the flickering emergency lights above, letting the overwhelming hopelessness completely wash over her.

I’m going to die down here—I’m going to turn into a flesh-eating zombie—

Ghosty sensed the massive shift in her mood immediately. He didn’t just crawl over and sit nearby. He hauled his massive, two-hundred-pound armored frame directly into her personal space. He practically threw himself onto the concrete beside her, shoving his broad, chitin-plated back aggressively against her ribs. He snuggled his huge body flush against her side, completely ignoring her personal boundaries as he rested his heavy chin across her shoulder.

"Ugh, get off... you’re so heavy," she complained weakly, trying to shove her elbow against his thick armor.

He refused to budge. He just let out a long, shuddering sigh and wrapped one of his massive front paws over her stomach, practically spooning her against the cold floor.

She wanted to be annoyed. She really, really wanted to stay mad at him for violating her mouth and potentially infecting her with a doomsday virus.

But he radiated a deep, furnace-like heat that immediately began to soothe the aching, exhausted muscles in her back. The intense, intoxicating scent of petrichor and earthy musk washed over her, completely drowning out the metallic tang of centipede blood and the musty stench of the basement. The pheromones were working their dark magic on her brain, forcibly lowering her cortisol levels and wrapping her in a heavy blanket of artificial calm.

"Why do you smell so nice?!" she complained, her voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears welled up in her eyes. "You’re a biological nightmare! You literally just drank a bug! You shouldn’t smell like... like expensive cologne and rain!"

Ghosty let out a soft, vibrating purr deep within his chest cavity. He nudged his wet nose against her cheek, keeping his tongue firmly inside his mouth this time.

Rebecca stared blankly up at the flickering fluorescent lights of the ceiling. The massive adrenaline spike from the centipede fight and the subsequent oral violation was finally completely draining out of her system. The sudden chemical crash left behind a heavy, hollow void in her chest. The corners of her eyes began to sting with an uncomfortable, prickling heat.

She hastily scrubbed her tactical glove across her face.

I am absolutely not crying right now—it is just the awful dust down here.

She sniffled loudly, the sound completely betraying her internal denial. The heavy silence of the underground pen was suffocating, and she desperately needed something to fill the quiet void before her brain spiraled back to the T-virus.

"My dad always used to tell me I was way too mature for my age," she mumbled to the ceiling, her voice trembling slightly in the damp air. "He said I had a really good head on my shoulders and that I was destined for greatness."

Ghosty let out a short, highly skeptical bark.

Rebecca shifted her head to glare at him. "Shut up, dogs don’t know anything about academics. I graduated at the absolute top of my class. I even finished college before I turned eighteen. Do you have any idea how incredibly difficult that is?"

The hellhound simply tilted his massive head, his pupilless eyes staring blankly at her.

"Of course you don’t," she sighed, letting her head thump back against the concrete. "You are literally just a giant mutant dog that eats everything in sight and sexually harasses girls."

Ghosty responded by extending his tongue and delivering a single, sloppy lick directly across her cheek.

"Ugh, please stop doing that," she groaned, weakly shoving his heavy snout away.

She wiped her face again, taking a deep, shaky breath as she let the memories of her normal life surface. It felt like an entire lifetime ago instead of just a few months.

"I had so many companies knocking on my door after graduation," she continued, her words tumbling out in a soft, rambling stream. "Umbrella included. They offered me this phenomenal employment package for their advanced pharmaceutical labs in Chicago. Honestly... it’s a really good thing I didn’t accept their offer. They clearly have an incredibly toxic workplace culture."

Ghosty let out a sudden, rhythmic huff of air directly into her face. The sound was deep and breathy, vibrating in his chest like a suppressed, genuine chuckle at her dark corporate humor.

Rebecca blinked, staring at his dopey expression in mild disbelief. "Wait—do you actually understand jokes now?"

He just wagged his tail against the floorboards, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

The brief spark of humor faded, replaced by the crushing reality of their situation. She absentmindedly tangled her fingers into the warm gaps between his neck plates, seeking the physical comfort of his furnace-like body heat.

"If I somehow manage to survive this nightmare, I am immediately quitting S.T.A.R.S.," she whispered, her voice growing thick with unshed tears again. "I am going right back to the academy to get my master’s degree. Or maybe a doctorate. I don’t care how much it costs. I have officially had enough tactical field action to last me three entire lifetimes."

The comforting fantasy of returning to a safe, sterile university campus was instantly overshadowed by the looming threat swimming in her bloodstream. Her medical training stubbornly refused to let her ignore the biohazard she had swallowed.

What if I just end up as a rotting corpse with terrible skin wandering these hallways?

She squeezed her eyes shut, a fresh tear escaping to track hotly down her temple.

"Listen to me very carefully," she hiccuped, tightening her grip on his thick chitin armor. "If I turn into one of those mindless zombies, you are going to be the very first thing I eat. I don’t care if your entire body is covered in heavy insect plates. I will just keep gnawing on your stupid armor until I break through."

Ghosty let out a soft, sympathetic whine, pressing his warm bulk even closer to her side to offer comfort.

"And you are strictly forbidden from absorbing me with your creepy spaghetti tendrils," she threatened, her voice cracking into a wet, pathetic sob. "If you turn me into a glowing meat smoothie, I will absolutely haunt your undead life forever. I will be the most annoying ghost in existence."

Ghosty gave a gentle, reassuring chuff and carefully rested his heavy chin completely across her stomach. He didn’t try to push any boundaries. He simply offered his massive, immovable weight as a physical anchor against her spiraling anxiety.

The gentle friction of his breathing and the intense, soothing wave of his floral pheromones slowly began to ground her scattered nerves. The massive panic attacks ebbed away, replaced by a deep, exhausting numbness. She decided she just needed to close her eyes for a few minutes. Just a tiny moment of rest before they had to figure out what the Fire Key actually unlocked.

Well... at least if I die down here, I definitely won’t have to pay off my student loans.

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