Chapter 5: Chapter 5
Abandon thy morals, thee who enters
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There are lines humans aren’t supposed to cross. Lines of morality, decency, basic biological compatibility, and general common sense.
I wasn’t human anymore though, so those lines could get absolutely fucked.
I lay there in the cold dirt of the Arklay forest, staring up at the dark pine canopy with my chest doing that weird unnecessary heaving thing dead lungs did when the brain forgot it didn’t need oxygen anymore. Beside me, Dr. Elise Hartmann—Virological Research Division, Umbrella Corporation, according to her blood-smeared name tag—was face-down in the pine needles doing her best impression of a broken wind-up toy.
Her arms paddled weakly at the dirt. Her jaw worked on autopilot, clicking and grinding against the night air like a busted metronome.
She had absolutely no idea what had just occurred.
Lucky her.
I, on the other hand, had full, crystal-clear, high-definition recall of the last hour, and my brain was currently speedrunning through every stage of post-nut clarity known to man, undead or otherwise.
The Apex Breeding Urge was, to put it mildly, a real motherfucker of a debuff.
It didn’t negotiate. It didn’t offer a cup of tea and suggest therapy. It grabbed whatever remained of my rational decision-making by the throat, dragged it out behind the chemical shed, and shot it twice in the back of the head.
The last hour had been a masterclass in rapidly deteriorating self-control.
First came the bargaining phase, where I told myself I was just going to keep shuffling past the zombie girls and focus on finding those train tracks like a responsible undead person.
That lasted about four minutes.
Then came the denial phase, where I tried to redirect the urges by counting tree stumps and reciting the Resident Evil release timeline in my head.
That got me as far as "Resident Evil 0, November 2002" before my thoughts derailed completely and I found myself staring at the exposed midriff of a female zombie who was missing her entire left arm.
The missing arm thing should have been a dealbreaker. But the breeding urge took one look at that level of disqualification and my brain simply stopped functioning as a quality-control department.
I shambled away from that one though. Barely. My willpower held together with the structural integrity of a wet paper towel taped to a ceiling fan, but it held.
Then I found Dr. Hartmann.
And I want to be crystal clear about something. I am not defending what happened next. I am simply providing context for how a formerly civilized, college-educated man ended up doing things to a dead virologist that would get him permanently banned from every medical ethics board on the planet.
She was in remarkably good shape.
That was the problem.
Every other zombie I’d encountered out here looked like they’d been fed through an industrial wood chipper and left to marinate in a drainage ditch. Chunks missing, limbs at wrong angles, skin that had basically given up on the concept of being skin.
Dr. Hartmann looked like she’d simply had the worst Tuesday of her life.
No bite marks. No missing chunks. Just pale, cold, slightly blue-grey skin over a frame that screamed I spend nine hours a day at a microscope and my most strenuous physical activity is reaching for the coffee creamer.
She had desk body. Genuinely, impressively intact desk body. On a corpse. In a forest full of walking biological disasters that looked like they’d lost fights with garbage disposals.
My rotting brain looked at this walking anomaly of post-mortem structural integrity and decided, with absolute conviction, that this was the one.
What followed was—I’m going to be honest with you here—absolutely not romantic.
It was not tender.
It was not the kind of experience that belongs in any form of media that isn’t hosted on a VPN-only website with seventeen pop-up ads and a concerning amount of tentacle content.
The whole thing lasted somewhere around three minutes. I know. Don’t judge me. I was operating on dead nerves and a system-debuffed brain with the impulse control of a lab monkey on crystal meth.
Three minutes of two rotting corpses fumbling around in the dirt like a pair of malfunctioning sex dolls someone had left out in the rain. There was slapping. There was squelching. At one point a chunk of my shoulder flesh detached mid-thrust and landed in her hair, and neither of us noticed because she was too busy trying to bite my face off and I was too busy being the worst person in the entire Arklay Mountain range.
She was deeply passionate the entire time, by the way.
She clawed at my back so hard her fingernails left actual furrows in my dead skin. She bit a chunk out of my neck that I’m pretty sure bounced off somewhere into the ferns.
She made sounds that I can only describe as what a garbage disposal would sound like if it were possessed by a particularly angry demon who was also somehow sexually frustrated.
And I just kept going.
Like a jackhammer with no off switch and absolutely zero self-respect. The rhythmic soundtrack of our unholy union—slap, squelch, slap, squelch, grrrrk, squelch—echoed through the quiet forest clearing like the world’s worst one-man-band performance.
Somewhere around the halfway mark, I caught a brief, horrifying glimpse of our reflection in a puddle of standing water nearby.
Two grey, mottled bodies tangled together in the dirt. One of them had a face covered in hardened fungal plates from the cordyceps mutation. The other had one milky white eye and was actively chewing on the empty air beside my ear.
It was the single most disgusting thing I had ever witnessed, and I once watched a guy on Reddit deep-fry a whole stick of butter, dip it in ranch dressing, and eat it in one bite.
It was like seeing your face in the black screen of your monitor mid-game and thinking to yourself: what are you doing with your life?
But my body got what it wanted.
The breeding urge announced its completion with the subtlety of an air horn at a funeral, and then—
Gone.
Just like that. The constant, maddening buzz in the back of my skull evaporated. The filthy thoughts drained away like someone had pulled a plug on a bathtub full of horny. My brain cleared up so fast it almost gave me whiplash, like waking up from a fever dream and realizing you’d been arguing with a lamp for twenty minutes.
Dr. Hartmann’s feral defense protocol shut off at the exact same time.
Like a Roomba that had bumped into a wall one too many times and decided to go dock itself. She flopped back into the dirt, her milky eyes resuming their thousand-yard stare at the canopy above, her jaw clicking back into its default idle animation.
Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Peace restored. The absolute depravity of what had just transpired neatly filed away in the "we don’t talk about that" folder of my rapidly expanding undead memoir.
I rolled onto my back and dragged her cold body against my side, pulling her head onto my chest for some post-coital cuddling. Because apparently even after committing what could generously be described as a war crime against medical ethics, I still had the audacity to want pillow talk.
She didn’t resist or perhaps couldn’t resist. Her brain had the emotional processing capacity of a dial-up modem, and she was currently very busy staring at a cloud that might have been shaped like a duck.
"Grrrkh." (The stars are beautiful tonight, Elise.)
She let out a wet, bubbling sigh that smelled faintly of old formaldehyde.
"Rrrgh." (I’m glad you agree. This has been a very special evening.)
My free hand migrated south and found her left breast. I grabbed it without thinking, the cold, surprisingly intact tissue compressing under my fingers with a satisfying rubbery bounce-back.
Squish. Squeeze.
Like a memory-foam pillow that someone had stored in a walk-in freezer. I kept kneading it idly, using the rhythmic compression to self-soothe my post-nut existential crisis.
Squish. Squeak. Squish.
She didn’t mind.
"Grrrkh." (I want you to know this meant a lot to me. I know we got off to a rough start, what with the biting and the face-clawing and the chunk of my neck currently somewhere in those ferns, but I feel like we really connected.)
Click-clack. Click-clack.
"Rrrgh." (Your silence is very reassuring. I’m going to interpret that as consent for future cuddling.)
And that was how I found myself two corpses deep in a post-apocalyptic situationship, stargazing in the Arklay Mountains while casually honking a dead woman’s titty like a bicycle horn.
Life comes at you fast. Unlife comes at you faster.
Our intimate moment lasted exactly as long as the universe decided to allow it, which turned out to be about four more minutes of squeezing and monologuing at a woman who had the listening skills of a houseplant.
We were suddenly interrupted by a deep, rhythmic thumping sound echoing from the sky above.
The heavy, mechanical chop of rotor blades was rapidly growing louder, vibrating through the cold mountain air with a loud whir-whir-whir-whir.
I stopped squeezing her breast, clicking my tongue to map the sky above the dense canopy.
A massive, twin-engine helicopter was screaming through the night sky, its searchlight slicing through the dark clouds like a silver sword. But the machine was in deep trouble. The engine let out a series of violent, metallic coughs, trailing a thick plume of black smoke behind it.
The tail rotor suddenly erupted into a ball of bright, orange fire with a loud sputter-boom, sending the helicopter into a violent, uncontrolled spin.
I watched in silent fascination as the burning craft clipped the top of a massive pine tree, shearing off its main rotor blade with a deafening metallic screech, before plunging straight down into the deep valley below.
A second later, a massive, echoing explosion shook the entire mountain, lighting up the distant tree line with a brilliant, fiery glow.
The S.T.A.R.S. Bravo Team had officially arrived.
The fiery glow of the helicopter crash painted the dark canopy in flickering shades of orange.
Bravo Team is down.
That meant Rebecca Chambers was going to be wandering around these woods, probably about to stumble onto the hijacked Ecliptic Express. The timeline was officially in motion. If I wanted to farm Evolution Points and get some actual upgrades before the heavy-hitting B.O.W.s started roaming the mountains, I needed to get my rotting ass in gear.
I let out a wet, bubbling sigh.
I rolled off the cold, damp pine needles and pushed myself up to a sitting position. My joints popped with their usual sickening crunch.
Honestly? I felt fucking fantastic.
The crushing, maddening weight of the Apex Breeding Urge was completely gone. My brain felt sharp, clear, and perfectly functional. Well, as functional as a decaying meat-computer could be. The system’s biological pressure valve had been thoroughly emptied into Dr. Elise Hartmann’s virology department.
I looked down at my one-night stand.
She was still lying flat on her back, completely unbothered by the massive explosion that had just rocked the mountain. Her milky eyes stared vacantly at the sky, and her jaw maintained its endless, rhythmic click-clack grinding. She hadn’t even bothered to adjust her torn, blood-stained shirt.
"Grrrkh." (Hey. Wake up, sleeping beauty.)
I nudged her cold shoulder. She gave a weak, bubbling grrrr-gurgle in response, not breaking her stare with the clouds.
"Rrrrgh." (Look, I hate to be the guy who claps and dashes, but duty calls. Specifically, the duty to not melt into a puddle of toxic sludge.)
I reached down and grabbed the waistband of her ruined lab coat, pulling it roughly over her exposed chest to give her some basic decency. Then I grabbed her hips and unceremoniously rolled her over onto her stomach.
She flopped into the dirt like a wet sack of flour. Her pale, bare ass glowed faintly in the moonlight.
I couldn’t resist.
I raised my grey, dirt-caked hand and delivered two firm, incredibly loud spanks directly to her cold cheeks.
SMACK. SMACK.
The wet, meaty sound echoed through the clearing. The dead flesh jiggled with a surprising amount of elasticity.
"Grrr-argh!" (Good game, Doc! Seriously, top-tier performance!)
She let out a low, confused growl into the dirt, her arms doing that weak, useless paddling motion again.
"Rrrrrgh." (I mean it. You completely saved my sanity tonight. If it wasn’t for your perfectly preserved, highly submissive desk-body, I would be running around this forest trying to hump a Cerberus. You took a massive, mutated bullet for me, and I appreciate it.)
I patted her on the ass one last time for good measure.
She is absolutely going to die.
It was a statistical certainty. Even if she avoided the local wildlife, she was wandering right around the Arklay Research Facility. In a couple of days, either a heavily armed S.T.A.R.S. operative was going to put a twelve-gauge slug right between her milky eyes, or the entire lab was going to self-destruct in a massive thermonuclear fireball. Her odds of seeing next Tuesday were essentially zero.
"Grrrkh." (Hey, listen to me. Try to stay away from large mansions, okay? And if you see a guy in sunglasses acting incredibly smug, just walk the other way. They’re going to blow this whole zip code sky-high soon.)
She gnashed her teeth at a clump of moss.
"Rrrrgh." (Take care of yourself, Elise. You were a fantastic cum-dumpster. Godspeed.)
I gave her a final, two-finger salute that she couldn’t see, hauled myself to my feet, and took a quick inventory of my own situation.
My tattered lab pants were completely ruined, the inseam blown out and the front covered in dirt and suspicious fluids. I tied the loose fabric together in a crude, highly unsanitary knot around my waist. It wasn’t exactly high fashion, but it kept my mutated junk from snagging on the local flora.
I stretched my neck, feeling the calcified ridges inside my skull shift.
Click. Click. Click-click-click.
The sharp echolocation waves instantly painted the dark forest in my mind. I ignored the trees and boulders, focusing my sensory input toward the distant, billowing smoke from the helicopter crash.
I started shuffling through the brush, my jerky, uneven strides carrying me away from the clearing.
Behind me, Dr. Hartmann slowly pushed herself up into a crawling position, let out a vacant grrrrrr, and resumed staring at her favorite rock.
A truly beautiful romance, cut tragically short by the zombie apocalypse.
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Hey guys, so its been a few days since I published the fanfic. hope you enjoyed it till now.
tomorrow is going to be weekly rank reset day. I hope you guys can donate powerstone tomorrow so we can climb the rankings. Will have bonus Chapters as milestone/incentives.
Just putting the message in advance.
Tomorrow Chapter at same time.
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