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

Chapter 53: Chapter 53: Venting Wrong

"I’m just saying, you could’ve broken my hip."

Rebecca’s boots clicked rhythmically against the metal grating as they navigated the dim, pipe-lined corridors of the chemical plant’s upper catwalks. She adjusted the strap of her shotgun, wincing as the slight shift of her hips caused the stiff denim of her hot pants to drag directly across her raw, hyper-sensitive lower lips.

Ghosty trotted ahead in his Cerberus form, his head bobbing slightly, milky eyes scanning the hallway while his patchy, rotted tail wagged with zero genuine remorse.

"Don’t you wag at me," Rebecca grumbled softly, pulling her cowboy hat down a notch to cover a dark, purplish mark on the side of her neck. "I am a field medic, not a circus contortionist. You nearly folded me in half on that control panel."

Ghosty let out a pathetic, high-pitched whine. His head drooped, ears flattening against his skull as he glanced back at her with a thoroughly pitiful, puppy-dog expression. He even tucked his tail between his legs for extra dramatic effect.

"Oh, save the pathetic act," she huffed, though her voice lacked any real bite. "You know exactly what you did. And if you think turning back into a dopey mutt is going to make me forget you turned into a ten-inch lizard monster, think again, mister."

He padded closer, nudging his cold, wet nose against her bare thigh in a silent plea for forgiveness.

Rebecca sighed, her hand moving automatically to scratch the soft fur right behind his ears.

I am way too forgiving. I should be filing a formal complaint. Or shooting him in the foot.

Her fingers absently traced the faint red lines along her collarbone—scratches left by his razor-sharp scythe-claws. He had been surprisingly careful, keeping just enough pressure to pin her without breaking the skin, but the memory of those cold bone blades holding her down still made a weird, embarrassing heat bloom in her chest.

It was just adrenaline. Purely a stress response. Very common in survival horror situations.

She cleared her throat, trying to focus on the rusted Umbrella pipes lining the walls, but her lower half made ignoring reality completely impossible.

The Cowgirl outfit didn’t include underwear. Wearing the stiff denim hot pants directly against her thoroughly abused, swollen pussy was a special kind of sensory distraction. Every single step caused the rough seam to drag against her bare, sensitive core, sending tiny, humiliating ripples of electricity straight to her toes.

Worse than the denim friction was the sheer volume of fluid trapped inside her.

She had tried cleaning up in an industrial sink earlier, using rough paper towels and cold tap water, but his lizard form had released a payload so impossibly thick it refused to drain. He had buried himself so deep—literally making a visible, hard bulge beneath her stomach—that his jizz felt vacuum-sealed directly into her womb.

Every time she took a step, she could feel it: a heavy, warm, sloshing weight deep in her core.

Why is it so thick?! It feels like warm cement! Why won’t it just leak out like normal fluid?!

She pressed a hand to her lower belly, feeling the persistent, radiant heat beneath her skin. It should have been disgusting. She should have been utterly horrified. But instead, her body felt strangely... content.

Ptoey! Ptoey! Bad Rebecca! Stop finding mutant semen comforting! What is wrong with your brain?!

"And another thing," she said, breaking the silence to drown out her own degenerate thoughts. "What was with that control panel incident? We set off a level-two containment alarm because you slammed my ass into the master override!"

Ghosty let out a short, indignant bark, as if trying to defend his tactical positioning.

"Don’t bark at me! Do you have any idea how humiliating it was trying to figure out which blinking button killed the siren while you were still inside me?!"

She flushed bright red at the memory. They had been in the middle of a brutal, flesh-slapping rhythm when her bare ass had accidentally smashed a big red dome switch. A deafening klaxon had started blaring overhead, flashing red strobe lights across the entire room. They had frozen mid-thrust, Ghosty staring up at the flashing light in complete confusion while Rebecca desperately reached behind her back, blindly mashing console buttons with her elbows until the noise finally cut out.

"We could have drawn every monster in a three-mile radius," she muttered, though a tiny, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "You’re lucky this place seems completely deserted."

Ghosty huffed, a puff of hot air escaping his jowls, and returned to his vanguard position.

Rebecca watched his muscular, rotted hindquarters as he walked, her mind inevitably drifting back to her own physical state.

The weirdest part of this entire nightmare was how good she felt.

By all medical logic, she should be a bedridden casualty. She had been brutally, relentlessly impaled by a ten-inch, ribbed reptilian appendage that was thick as a thermos bottle. She hadn’t used any preparation. She hadn’t even had a warm-up.

Why am I not bleeding? Why am I not even sore?!

She flexed her toes inside her combat boots. Her legs felt light, bouncy, and completely rested. The bone-deep exhaustion from the train crash and the forest hike had completely vanished. Her grip on her shotgun felt firmer, her senses sharper. It was as if her entire nervous system had received a massive, high-octane tune-up.

Is my body adapting? Did my pussy literally evolve to take a ten-inch lizard dick without tearing?!

She nearly tripped over a metal grate.

NO! BAD BRAIN! Absolutely not! We are not using medical terminology to justify getting stretched out by a bio-weapon!

She squeezed her eyes shut, forcibly shoving the thought into a dark corner of her mind.

Then, a much worse realization crept into her head, freezing her blood instantly.

Wait.

She put a hand over her warm, sloshing stomach.

How many times did he finish inside me? Three? Four? The sheer volume alone could fill a measuring cup.

Her Catholic upbringing and medical training collided in a violent, panic-inducing trainwreck.

If he were a human man, I would be three weeks pregnant by tomorrow morning. I’m eighteen! I haven’t even finished my S.T.A.R.S. probationary period! Captain Marini would court-martial me! My parents would literally die of shame!

She could see the headlines now: 18-Year-Old S.T.A.R.S. Medic Fired After Getting Impregnated On First Assignment.

No, calm down. He’s a B.O.W. He’s a mutated canine-reptile hybrid. Cross-species fertilization is biologically impossible.

She took a deep, shaky breath, trying to rationalize her way out of the horror.

Unless... what if Umbrella engineered his reproductive fluids to bypass genetic barriers?! What if they made him capable of impregnating anything to spread the infection?! Oh god, what if I’m carrying a litter of scaly zombie puppies right now?!

NO! Stop manifesting nightmare scenarios into the universe! Bad Rebecca! Bad!

She aggressively slapped her own cheeks, leaving red handprints on her pale skin to snap herself out of the spiral.

Suddenly, Ghosty stopped dead in his tracks.

His head snapped to the right, ears perking up simultaneously. His nostrils flared, taking deep, rapid sniffs of the stagnant factory air.

"Ghosty?" Rebecca asked, her hand instantly dropping to the pump-action of her shotgun. "What is it?"

Without a single bark of warning, the mutant hound bolted forward, his claws clicking wildly against the steel floorboards as he sprinted around a sharp corridor bend.

"Hey! Wait!" Rebecca broke into a jog, her boots pounding against the grates as she chased after him. "Don’t just run off like that! What if some giant monster is lurking around the corner for weird reasons?!"

She rounded the corner, shotgun raised to her shoulder, ready to blow apart whatever bioweapon had drawn his attention.

"Ghosty! Wait!" Rebecca jogged after him, her boots splashing through shallow puddles. "Don’t just run off! There could be—"

She cut herself off.

There was no giant monster. No screeching Hunter or writhing leech mass.

At the end of the narrow, pipe-lined hallway, sitting slumped against a heavy blast door, was a human body. The corpse was wearing dark green military overalls, a tactical vest, and a faded helmet that had rolled off to the side.

Ghosty was standing over the body, his head sniffing the corpse’s boots with intense, curious concentration.

Rebecca lowered her shotgun slightly, her eyes narrowing as she approached.

"Is that... an Umbrella security guard?"

Bark

"Oh god..." Rebecca’s medic instincts kicked in immediately. She knelt beside the body, checking for a pulse she already knew wouldn’t be there. "Poor guy. Looks like he’s been here for days."

Ghosty nudged the corpse’s leg with his nose, then pawed at the man’s hip.

"Ghosty, have some respect for the—"

The dog ignored her, hooking his claws into the dead man’s tactical belt and pulling. A heavy, metallic object clattered onto the floor.

Rebecca’s eyes widened.

A handgun. Chrome-plated, massive barrel, wood grip.

She picked it up carefully, her hands automatically checking the weight, the balance. Her fingers found the cylinder release, flipping it open.

Six rounds. Fully loaded.

".44 Magnum," she whispered, a genuine smile breaking across her face for the first time in hours. "Holy shit. Ghosty, this is..."

She looked down at him, her excitement momentarily overriding her embarrassment.

"This is a really good find. This thing can punch through body armor. Hell, it could probably take down a Hunter in two shots."

Bark! Bark!

Ghosty’s tail wagged furiously, clearly proud of himself.

Rebecca couldn’t help but laugh, a short, breathless sound.

"Okay, fine. Good boy. You get one ’good boy.’ But don’t let it go to your head."

She tucked the Magnum into her belt, the reassuring weight settling against her hip. For the first time since entering this nightmare facility, she felt like she had a fighting chance.

Rebecca pulled out the magazine, counting the rounds.

Five bullets.

"Sweet! At least it’s loaded." She snapped the magazine back into place with a satisfying click. "Five shots. Better than nothing."

She looked down at Ghosty, a grudging smile tugging at her lips. Her hand dropped to his scarred head, scratching behind his ears.

"You’re actually useful sometimes, you know that? Good boy."

His tail immediately went into overdrive, wagging so hard his entire back end wiggled.

Rebecca’s smile faded slightly, her tone turning wry.

"If only you weren’t horny twenty-four-seven, you’d actually be tolerable."

BARK!

Ghosty’s ears flattened indignantly. He shoved his blocky head firmly against her bare thigh, rubbing his snout along the denim in what could only be described as wounded pride.

"Yeah, yeah. Protest all you want."

She let him sulk against her leg, her attention already back on the Magnum. She turned it over in her hands, admiring the weight, the craftsmanship.

Now this is a proper weapon.

She grinned.

"Alright, Ghosty. Let’s go shoot something."

Clank. Clank. Clank.

Rebecca dragged her elbows forward along the dusty, galvanized sheet metal of the ventilation shaft, her boots scraping lightly behind her.

If Captain Marini could see me right now, he’d strip me of my badge, throw me in handcuffs, and personally escort me to a psychiatric ward. And honestly? I wouldn’t even blame him.

Any completely sane, self-preserving human being would have ignored the creepy, dark maintenance shaft. They would have gone to find a working security terminal, bypassed the local jamming, and desperately begged Raccoon City HQ to send a heavily armed SWAT team and three separate therapists.

But no. Rebecca Chambers was a S.T.A.R.S. officer. She had a badge, a brand-new chrome .44 Magnum tucked into her waistband, and a stubborn, highly inconvenient investigative itch that demanded she uncover whatever illegal biological nightmare Umbrella was brewing in the middle of this forest.

The trouble had started about twenty minutes ago. While navigating the lower corridors and casually putting a bullet through the skull of a stray corporate zombie, they had stumbled upon a massive, ridiculously over-engineered blast door. It was solid titanium-alloy, secured with biometric scanners, and looked like it belonged in a nuclear silo rather than a run-of-the-mill chemical factory. Unfortunately, the control panel was completely fried, leaving the vault door jammed shut.

Ghosty, utilizing his freakish B.O.W. intuition, had sniffed out a nearby, rusted-out intake vent that bypassed the wall entirely, leading straight into the secured sector.

The only real regret she had about this entire decision was the tactical positioning.

Why, oh why, had she chosen to crawl ahead of the perverted dog?

Ghosty was behind her. Too close behind her. Because a two-hundred-pound armored Cerberus barely fit inside a standard residential air duct, his massive, heavy frame was practically crawling on top of her. His scarred, wet nose was virtually welded to the seat of her tight denim shorts, and every few seconds he’d let out a long, deep inhale that was unmistakably intentional.

The warm, humid draft of his breath blew straight through the frayed, shredded denim, brushing against her bare inner thighs and sending a maddening, highly uninvited shiver straight to her core.

"You know," she grunted, shifting her weight forward to squeeze another six inches of distance between them, "for a creature that’s supposed to have a legendary sense of smell, you sure need to get real close to confirm what you’re sniffing."

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff.

A heavy, warm snort puffed against her tailbone.

"I felt that!" Rebecca hissed, her face burning crimson in the pitch-black duct. "You just did three snorts! Three! One is an accident, two is curious, three is a hobby!"

Bark!

"Don’t ’bark’ at me like I’m being unreasonable. Your face is in my... my behind, Ghosty. There’s no version of this where you’re the victim."

She shimmied forward another foot, her elbows protesting against the cold metal.

"I mean it! Keep your snout to yourself, or the next thing you sniff is going to be the business end of my boot. I don’t care if you’re a bulletproof super-dog, I will kick you right in your—"

Before she could finish her threat, the flat, horizontal metal floor beneath her elbows suddenly vanished.

The ventilation duct, which had been perfectly straight for the last fifty yards, abruptly slanted downward at a terrifyingly steep, seventy-degree drop. The metal was coated in a thin, slick layer of industrial oil and condensation.

Rebecca’s eyes went wide. She tried to halt her momentum, but her gloved hands completely lost their traction on the greasy steel.

Rebecca’s fingers scrabbled uselessly against the polished steel as gravity took over. The flashlight tumbled from her mouth, clattering into the darkness below.

"GHOSTY, GRAB—"

BARK!

Instead of catching her, the dumb mutt launched himself forward enthusiastically, crashing into her back and sending them both careening down the shaft in a tangle of limbs, fur, and denim.

"YOU ABSOLUTE MORON—!"

[To Be Gooned]

A/N: I might have forgotten to update yesterday I think. Past few days have been honestly feeling very hazy, no idea when they start and when they end. It was supposed to be 1 day break between updates but I feel like I legit skipped one day lmao.

Well that aside, hope you enjoyed the Chapter. I am currently writing ch 60 and I think that would be the last or second last of the RE Zero game.

We have also fallen a bit down on rankings so hope you can boost that up.

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