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

Chapter 28: Chapter 29: Aftermath II

It took Rebecca several minutes to remember that lying on the floor of a secret underground murder facility was generally considered bad survival etiquette.

The reminder came in the form of Ghosty shifting underneath her.

A steady thump-thump-thump that she could feel vibrating right through the ruined fabric of her tactical pants.

Rebecca groaned, shifting in the heavy fog of exhaustion-induced sleep. Her cheek was mashed against something hard and warm that smelled faintly of rain and ozone.

Her bare breasts were squished flat against a wall of dense, chitin-covered muscle. It was... surprisingly comfortable.

The heat intensified.

The pulsing grew stronger.

Something thick, firm, and undeniably alive was pressing insistently against the gusset of her underwear.

Her brain, still sluggish and coated in a thick layer of post-orgasmic trauma, struggled to process the sensation.

What is that? My shotgun? Did I fall asleep on my shotgun?

The thing beneath her gave a distinct, powerful throb.

Shotguns don’t do that.

Her eyes snapped open.

The first thing she saw was the cracked concrete ceiling of the animal pen. The second thing she felt was the full, soul-crushing weight of memory crashing down on her like a pile of bricks.

The tongue. The pumping. The climax that had ripped through her body and left her a boneless, twitching mess. The crying. The collapsing.

The dick.

The thick, hot, pulsing thing currently trying to work its way through three layers of military-grade fabric to intimately acquaint itself with her clitoris was Ghosty’s dick. Again.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she whispered, her voice a dry, scratchy rasp.

She didn’t move. She couldn’t. She was paralyzed by the sheer, unmitigated audacity of the creature beneath her. He had a goddamn refractory period of what, ten minutes?

"Don’t you dare," she hissed into his chest fur, her voice trembling with a fresh wave of humiliation. "Don’t you even think about it. I am not emotionally stable enough for a repeat performance."

The dick pulsed again, harder this time, a clear and unambiguous "Yes, I am."

"I swear to god, Ghosty," she seethed, her hands balling into fists against his torso. "If you are seriously getting hard again while I am still covered in the last batch, I will find a way to neuter you. I don’t care if I have to use the grenade launcher."

A deep, rumbling purr vibrated through his chest, the sound less apologetic and more deeply, profoundly satisfied. He shifted his hips slightly, just a fraction of an inch, but it was enough to grind the thick, swelling head of his shaft directly against her pubic bone.

A pathetic little squeak escaped her throat.

That was the last straw.

Her right hand shot down, fumbling blindly between their bodies. Her fingers brushed against hot, smooth, impossibly slick skin. She found the thick, bulging base of his erection, and with a surge of pure, spite-fueled rage, she pinched.

Hard.

"YIPE!"

The sound that ripped out of Ghosty’s throat was not a bark, or a whine, or a growl. It was a high-pitched, utterly pathetic yelp of pain, like a chihuahua that had just gotten its tail stepped on. His entire body went rigid, his back arching off the floor.

She scrambled off him, propelled by the sheer, unadulterated horror of having just intentionally grabbed and pinched a mutant dog’s dick. She landed on the dusty concrete, immediately crossing her arms over her chest as the cold air hit her bare, sticky skin.

Ghosty was on his feet in an instant, looking at her with the most profoundly wounded expression she had ever seen on any living creature. He tucked his tail between his legs and whimpered, his massive erection wilting slightly in sheer shock.

"Don’t you look at me like that!" she snapped, her face burning. "You deserved that! That was for... for everything!"

Her eyes fell on the absolute disaster zone that was her own torso. The sticky, cooling semen had started to dry, forming a tight, flaky film over her skin that felt like a cheap, disgusting face mask. Her sports bra and T-shirt lay in a heap on the floor, looking like casualties of a porno-themed war.

"Oh, god," she moaned, burying her face in her hands. "I’m so sticky."

Before she could spiral any further, her training kicked in. Gear check. Always check your gear.

Her shotgun lay a few feet away, right where she’d dropped it. The canvas bag she’d fashioned for Ghosty was lying on its side, its contents spilled across the floor. The grenade launcher, a box of shells, and her canteen.

With a groan of pure suffering, she crawled over and began the humiliating task of repacking. She shoved the canteen and the ammo box back into the bag, her movements stiff and jerky. When she reached for the grenade launcher, her eyes inadvertently flickered over to Ghosty.

He was sitting now, watching her. His dick, no longer wounded, had sprung back to full, unapologetic attention. It was a monstrous, eight-inch purple flagpole, glistening with fresh pre-cum and pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm. The sheer, monolithic size of it was obscene.

The memory of that exact same dick pumping between her tits slammed into her brain with the force of a battering ram. She could feel the slick heat, the thick throbbing, the way her hand had wrapped around it—

Her face flushed a violent, blotchy crimson. She snatched the grenade launcher off the floor and shoved it into the bag with unnecessary force.

"Stop staring," she muttered, not looking at him.

She found her clothes. The sports bra was a lost cause, heavy and soaked through with a truly horrifying amount of fluid. The T-shirt wasn’t much better, the front of it stiff and stained.

The thought of putting them back on made her want to vomit. The thought of walking through this Umbrella-sponsored hellscape bare-chested was, somehow, even worse.

With a deep, shuddering sigh that sounded suspiciously like a sob, she made her choice.

The sports bra went on first. The cold, squishy, semen-saturated fabric clung to her breasts like a horrific, wet second skin. It was, without a doubt, the single most disgusting sensation she had ever experienced in her eighteen years of life. She then pulled the T-shirt on over it, the sticky fabric immediately adhering to the dried mess on her stomach.

Feeling dressed but infinitely filthier, she shouldered the canvas bag and stomped out of the animal pen, shotgun in hand. "Move," she snarled.

Ghosty padded silently behind her, his earlier satisfaction replaced by a quiet, cautious concern. He knew, with the simple certainty of a creature that had just had its dick pinched, that he had fucked up.

She led them back through the winding corridors to a small, cluttered pantry they had passed earlier. It was little more than a closet, filled with dusty shelves of expired rations and a small, rusty sink in the corner.

Her first instinct was to jam her entire head under the faucet. But as her hand reached for the corroded handle, she stopped. The water in this place was probably a biohazard cocktail.

I’m already covered in a monster’s jizz. Adding cholera to the mix feels... counterproductive.

Her eyes scanned the dusty shelves, a growing sense of despair settling in her stomach. Cans of beans from the Paleozoic era. A box of hardened, useless bandages. A bottle of what looked like industrial-grade bleach. Nothing.

She was going to have to stay like this. Sticky and miserable and reeking of mutant dog sex for the rest of her short, tragic life.

A wet nose nudged her hand.

She glanced down. Ghosty was standing beside her, looking up with an uncharacteristically serious expression. He nudged her hand again, then turned and pushed his snout deep behind a stack of moldy ration tins on the bottom shelf. After a moment of scuffling, he pulled back, a small, sealed plastic package held gently in his jaws.

He dropped it at her feet.

It was a pack of antiseptic wipes.

Rebecca stared at the package, then back at Ghosty, her mouth hanging slightly open.

"You..." she stammered. "You found... how did you even know I needed these?"

He just thumped his tail against the floor, looking incredibly proud of himself.

The sheer, ridiculous intelligence of the act broke through her misery. "You’re smart enough to find medical supplies when I need them," she said, her voice a mixture of awe and simmering rage, "but you’re not smart enough to stop f-f-freaking... rubbing your thing all over my... chest?!"

Ghosty let out a soft, apologetic whine.

She snatched the package off the floor, her fingers fumbling with the seal. "Unbelievable," she muttered, pulling out a wipe.

She cleaned her hands first, the cool, stinging alcohol cutting through the sticky film with blissful efficiency. Then, she hesitated.

She shot a glare over her shoulder. Ghosty was watching her with rapt attention.

"Turn around," she ordered, her voice flat.

He whined.

"I’m serious. One hundred and eighty degrees. Face the wall. Now."

With a long, dramatic sigh, he began to pivot. But he only turned about halfway, stopping so that he was facing the corner, giving him a perfect-ass view of her entire side profile.

"That’s not the wall, you furry pervert!" she snapped. "All the way around!"

He grumbled but finally completed the turn, presenting her with his broad, armored back. She didn’t trust him. Her eyes darted around the tiny room and landed on the grimy, reflective glass of an ancient microwave on the counter.

And there, in the distorted reflection, she could see one of his milky white eyes, peeking right at her.

"I CAN SEE YOU!" she shrieked, pointing a trembling, wipe-covered finger at the microwave. "I see you in the appliance reflection, you absolute dick-monster! Turn your goddamn head!"

He let out a startled yelp and immediately faced the wall properly.

Rebecca took a deep, shaky breath and quickly stripped off her vest and shirt. The sports bra followed, making a disgusting peeling sound as it separated from her skin. She didn’t look at it. She just balled it up and shoved it into an empty pocket on her vest.

She grabbed a fresh stack of wipes and began the horrifying task of cleaning herself. Neck. Stomach. Chest. The antiseptic stung her raw skin, but the feeling of being clean, even superficially, was heaven. She worked methodically, her mind trying to detach, to treat her own body like a contaminated surface that needed to be sterilized.

But as she wiped down her aching breasts, the memories kept replaying. The feeling of his thick, pulsing shaft grinding between them. The shuddering warmth. The way she had... helped him.

A fresh wave of shame, so intense it made her feel dizzy, washed over her. She leaned against the dusty shelf, one hand clutching a soiled wipe, the other hovering protectively over her bare chest.

I’m disgusting. I’m a disgusting, filthy animal.

She risked another glance at the microwave. He was still facing the wall, but his head was drooping, his ears flat against his skull. He looked... sad. Worried.

And seeing her own half-naked, tear-streaked, utterly broken reflection through his sad, peeking eyes, she hated him. She hated him for making her feel this way. For turning her into this pathetic, sticky, crying mess.

"Pervert....," she whispered, the words tasting like ash in her mouth.

She threw the used wipe onto the floor. With stiff, jerky movements, she pulled her T-shirt back on over her bare skin. The clean fabric felt hollow. She strapped her vest back on, the weight settling on her shoulders like a shroud.

She stomped out of the pantry, grabbing him by the thick, hard scruff of his neck.

"Let’s go," she snarled, yanking him forward. "We’re done here."

Ghosty let out a soft, confused whimper but followed without resistance, his claws clicking nervously against the linoleum as she dragged him down the dark, oppressive corridor, leaving the ghosts of her dignity and a small mountain of soiled wipes behind them.

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A/N: Aye, plot didn’t move forward much in this Chapter, but it is what it is. Good news that you guys are getting 2 Chapters today ;)

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