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

Chapter 9: Chapter 9 (Bonus Extra Long Chapter)

200 Stones milestone reached! Enjoy the bonus Chapter, I will release the normal Chapter in a while

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The next sixty minutes turned out to be an exercise in extreme patience and highly sophisticated, roof-based stalking.

I trailed Rebecca’s progress through the metallic skeletal structure of the train, counting the carriages as they passed beneath my paws. Most of the luxury compartments were completely sealed off with heavy curtains, rendering my actual eyeballs totally useless.

At first, I heavily relied on my newly upgraded clicker hearing to track her, translating the rhythmic clack-clack of her combat boots and the occasional panicked screech of her Beretta into a mental map of her progress.

But I had to abruptly cut that shit out.

Turns out, rapidly clicking my throat like a defective dolphin on the roof of a moving train was incredibly audible from the inside. I had noticed Rebecca freezing in place through my sonar-vision, her flashlight trembling as she pointed it at the ceiling, completely creeped out by the weird alien noises following her.

Spooking the heavily armed rookie with a hair-trigger reflex was a terrible tactical move, so I shut my mouth and relied strictly on my standard canine hearing for a while.

According to the blueprint burned into my memory from dozens of late-night speedruns, she was slowly crawling her way toward the dining car. She was on track to encounter the corpse holding the conductor’s key card within the next ten minutes.

A different voice suddenly filtered up through a cracked brass ventilation panel, vibrating with a lazy, smug confidence that immediately hijacked my attention.

"So, you seem to know me," the voice drawled, practically oozing cheap, early-2000s edgy military charm. "Been fantasizing about me, have you?"

Billy Coen had officially entered the chat.

The convicted marine was easily six-foot-something of dense, tattooed muscle, currently pointing a stolen revolver at the back of an eighteen-year-old girl’s head because he thought it made him look like an absolute badass.

Rebecca’s response was sharp, desperate, and heavily laced with a fragile, rookie authority. "You’re the prisoner who was being transferred for execution. You were with those soldiers outside."

"Oh, I see," Billy replied, his voice carried along by a cynical chuckle. "You’re with S.T.A.R.S. Well, no offense, honey, but your kind doesn’t seem to want me around. So I’m afraid our little chat time is over."

The metallic click of a holster preceded the heavy, deliberate thud of his boots walking away from her.

"Wait!" she yelled. "You’re under arrest!"

"No thanks, doll-face," he called back. "I’ve already worn handcuffs."

The brief silence that followed was broken only by Rebecca’s frustrated, high-pitched shout. "I could shoot, you know!"

An angry exhale vibrated through the vent as his footsteps finally faded into the next carriage.

He was exactly the kind of emotionally constipated, smooth-talking dickhead with a heart of gold that the story needed. In the official timeline, Billy was her ultimate tactical asset. He was the muscle who would soak up the damage, solve the heavy-lifting puzzles, and act as her designated meat-shield through this entire viral nightmare.

Stay alive, Marine. Your plot armor is currently the only thing standing between me and a highly tragic, sex-deprived apocalypse.

I kept pace with them across the roof, matching their separate paths as the situation inside the train slowly escalated. The bio-leeches were beginning to crawl from the vents, and more undead passengers were waking up from their dirt naps, officially transforming the Ecliptic Express into a mobile biological meat-grinder.

But as I ran, a highly practical, video-game-brained thought began to tickle my intellect. I had some serious currency burning a hole in my non-existent pocket.

According to my internal ledger, I had accumulated a tidy sum of one hundred and fifty Evolution Points. The primary system lottery was locked at a hefty one hundred points per spin after that first cheap roll.

Investing two-thirds of my biological capital back into the slot machine was a massive gamble. But fortune had a well-documented history of favoring the absolute degenerates.

I mentally opened the neon-blue Roulette interface while crouching flat against the cold metal roof, letting the icy mountain wind ruffle my patchy, mutated fur. I selected the confirmation icon, authorizing the transaction and letting the digital wheel spin.

The holographic interface materialized in my mind, whirring with a dizzying blur of multi-colored icons from across the multiverse. I watched the cosmic slot machine roll through various weapons, mutations, and biological forms, praying for something that could actually keep me alive.

The wheel finally slowed down, clicking through the last few options before stopping on a glowing green insectoid icon.

[Reward Acquired: Trait — Novistador Active Camouflage (Resident Evil 4)]

[Description: Integrates the optical camouflage biology of the Novistador B.O.W. Grants the host the ability to bend visible light around their body, rendering them effectively invisible to the naked eye when stationary or moving at a slow, deliberate pace. Rapid movement or physical contact disrupts the effect.]

My mangy tail began to wag, a completely involuntary physical response of pure, unadulterated canine joy.

The Novistadors from the Resident Evil 4 Spanish castle were an absolute nightmare to fight precisely because they could sneak up on a player while remaining completely unseen. Now, that exact high-tier biological cloaking technology was sitting right in my inventory.

[Would you like to equip this trait? Available Mutation Slots: 1/2]

I stared at the floating blue text, feeling a wave of smug satisfaction wash over my rotting brain.

I had two slots now. The system hadn’t explicitly bothered to explain the math to me, but it was pretty obvious in retrospect. Mutation slots clearly scaled with the rarity of the base form. My degraded zombie chassis was absolute garbage, capping out at a single slot. But this Cerberus form was officially classified as Uncommon, granting me a second slot to jam more bizarre biological upgrades into my body.

I mentally confirmed the equip, bracing myself for the inevitable body horror.

The mutation integrated with a vicious, boiling heat that washed across my skin.

Millions of microscopic, light-refracting chromatophores forcibly embedded themselves across my hide, violently rewriting the cellular pigmentation on my surface layer. My fur sizzled and popped as thick, translucent scales physically erupted through my epidermis, layering themselves between the rotting muscle and the exposed bone.

It felt exactly like getting a full-body tattoo while simultaneously being dunked in a vat of boiling acid. The pain faded as quickly as it arrived, leaving me with a sleek, shimmering biological wet-suit.

I immediately tested the new hardware, concentrating on the light-refracting cells.

My grey-black paws began to shimmer, instantly fading into a perfect, seamless reproduction of the rusted steel roof beneath me. The camouflage aggressively washed over my limbs, my chest, and my massive, incredibly rigid erection until every single inch of me vanished entirely from sight.

I was a giant, mutated zombie dog with a raging, concrete-hard problem, and I was completely invisible to the naked eye.

The tactical and degenerate applications of this skill flooded my brain in a glorious, chaotic cascade. I could stand right in the immediate vicinity of the main cast without triggering their aggressive fight-or-flight responses. I could comfortably stroll into the cabins, observe Rebecca as she bent over to retrieve shiny puzzle items from highly favorable angles, and admire her compact, S.T.A.R.S.-uniformed assets from mere inches away.

It was the ultimate tool for close-range survival. And it was definitely not for highly inappropriate, perverted observation.

My throbbing companion pulsed warmly against the invisible air, completely unconvinced by my attempts at professional justification.

I deactivated the cloaking mechanism, letting the light-refracting cells return to their default state as my mangy form melted back out of the shadows.

With fifty points remaining in my reserve, I kept my eyes locked on the front carriages, eager to see how the next phase of the disaster would unfold.

___

Stalking a cute anime girl while actively fighting a biological tsunami of depraved thoughts was proving to be a full-time job.

Through the cracked metal vents, I watched Rebecca narrowly dodge a clumsy lunge from an undead passenger, side-step the grasping hands, and dump three rounds straight into its skull.

Sick aim, girl!

But even with her surprisingly solid mechanics, the statistical reality was grim.

In the safe, predictable confines of a video game, the Ecliptic Express was just a manageable tutorial area. The player possessed full control over both characters, easily managing inventory slots, sharing ammunition, and save-scumming every time they died to ensure the most optimal playthrough.

Out here in the real world, though? She was locked in a confined metal tube with dozens of reanimated corpses, burning through her 9mm magazines like cheap candy on Halloween.

And the single most dangerous non-boss encounter on the train was currently waiting for her in the dining car.

The Leech Mimic was an ugly-ass nightmare. In the game, the colony disguised itself as a harmless old man slumped in a chair before suddenly collapsing into a writhing, human-shaped mass of hungry parasites. They would swarm the player, draining health rapidly unless you mashed the controller buttons like a madman to shake them off.

Billy Coen was technically supposed to rescue her during this encounter, but relying on an emotionally constipated marine to show up with perfect cinematic timing felt like a terrible survival strategy.

Besides, if anyone was going to be pinning her down and making her squirm on this train, it was definitely not going to be a pile of overgrown, slimy worms.

A simple solution presented itself: I needed to act as her uncredited, highly aggressive housekeeping service. I would clear the carriage ahead of her, leaving the path safe enough for her to navigate without getting her porcelain throat torn out.

I wasn’t about to go toe-to-toe with the giant Stinger scorpion on the roof, though. That massive, armored bastard was a scripted event on a strict timer anyway, and its crushing claws could easily bisect my current canine frame. Let Billy earn his keep and waste his precious shotgun shells on the overgrown lobster. Rebecca would be in a completely different area of the train during that fight, safely out of range of the scorpion’s zone of influence.

Slipping off the roof on the blind side of the carriage, I landed softly on the metal coupling between cars. I squeezed through a partially open service door and immediately activated my active camouflage, watching my mutated limbs shimmer and dissolve into the dim, shadowy background of the interior.

The luxury forward coaches were offensively quiet, smelling of expensive velvet upholstery, stale cigar smoke, and a heavy undercurrent of viral decay. The passengers inside were still sitting in their leather chairs, perfectly preserved in various states of rigor mortis, waiting for a warm-blooded stimulus to trigger their feeding responses.

The first target was a heavyset man in a conductor’s uniform, slumped peacefully in an aisle seat.

Keeping my camo active, I padded up beside him at a slow, deliberate pace. Once in range, I deactivated the cloaking field to conserve energy, clamped my enhanced canine jaws around his throat, and delivered a single, savage twist.

The satisfying crunch-snap of his spinal cord severing cleanly echoed in the quiet cabin.

I pressed my paw against his dissolving neck, letting the tiny red tendrils erupt from my skin to drain the swamp.

The conductor liquefied into a thick, glowing crimson syrup, sucked up through the biological straws and pumped straight into my system within seconds.

[Biomass absorbed. +10 EP.]

It was the cleanest, most satisfying piece of stealth-farming I had ever executed. I systematically moved through the forward carriages, taking each zombie from behind with a sudden, silent bite to the neck. They never saw me coming, and their rotted brains definitely lacked the neural capacity to process why their colleague had suddenly turned into an invisible, flesh-eating predator.

By the time I reached the dining car, I had turned twelve corporate shufflers into highly nutritious protein shakes.

[Biomass absorbed. Cellular integrity increased to 71%.]

[Evolution Points: 220]

My body felt remarkably more solid. The exposed bone on my ribcage had filled in with dense, dark muscle fibers, making my jerky movements feel smoother and far more controlled.

The dining car was the crown jewel of the train, complete with crystal chandeliers, white tablecloths, and fine silver cutlery. It would have been a lovely setting for a romantic date, if not for the dark bloodstains on the carpet and the distinct, sweet-rotten aroma of biological contamination.

And there, seated in a high-backed leather chair at the far end of the car, was the Mimic.

He looked like a harmless elderly gentleman, his neatly combed white hair resting against his suit collar. His hands were folded peacefully in his lap, looking for all the world like he had simply nodded off after a heavy meal.

But I knew the disgusting truth. That skin-suit was a hollow shell, stuffed to the brim with thousands of mutated leeches clinging to each other in a grotesque imitation of human flesh.

I padded to the center of the car, keeping a safe distance of fifteen feet, and let out a rapid sequence of high-frequency clicks.

Click, click, click-click-click.

The returning sound waves painted a deeply disturbing grayscale map of his interior. The old man possessed no skeleton, no lungs, and no organs. He was simply a squirming, vibrating mass of tightly packed, muscular tubes contracting in a slow, rhythmic cycle.

Picking up a heavy silver fork from a nearby table, I clamped the metal between my teeth and violently flicked my head, launching the cutlery across the room.

The fork clinked sharply against his knee.

The response was immediate and grotesque. His head rotated smoothly past the normal human range, turning a full one hundred and eighty degrees until the face was staring directly backward. The skin along his neck split wide open, and hundreds of glistening, dark-brown leeches began pouring out of the suit like a burst pipe.

They churned across the carpet, stacking and stacking until they reformed into a towering, humanoid shape covered in a thick layer of translucent slime. The creature let out a wet, shrieking hiss, opening a mouth that was little more than a lipless gash lined with circular teeth.

I didn’t back down. I lowered my shoulders and charged straight into the writhing abomination.

My enhanced canine body slammed into the mimic at a full sprint, my jaws snapping wildly.

The raw, predatory instincts of the Cerberus form completely hijacked my brain, guiding my teeth to clamp directly onto the creature’s slimy midsection. I expected the contact to be utterly revolting, but to my absolute surprise, the texture felt remarkably like a mouthful of fresh, forbidden sushi—cold, squishy, and surprisingly satisfying to chew on.

I ripped a massive chunk out of its torso, my jaws aggressively crushing the writhing parasites to pulp.

The moment they died in my mouth, the tiny red tendrils in my cheeks and tongue flared to life.

The crushed leeches instantly dissolved into that thick, glowing crimson sludge. The creature let out a shrill, vibrating shriek as its entire midsection simply vanished into my biological vacuum.

Holy shit, this is an absolute cheat code.

I had braced myself for a desperate, frantic struggle to keep them from burrowing into my flesh, but my absorption skill was treating these things like a high-powered blender. The sheer density of my enhanced Cerberus hide made it impossible for their tiny circular teeth to penetrate, while every single parasite I killed was immediately liquidated and sucked directly into my cellular reserve.

I let out a wet, gargling laugh, throwing myself into a full-blown feral frenzy.

I pounced on the largest clusters, rolling my heavy body across the carpet to crush dozens of them beneath my bulk, letting my tendrils eagerly slurp up their genetic soup. I was biting, tearing, and chewing them en masse, the primal canine wiring in my head turning what should have been a psychological horror movie into a highly efficient buffet.

It was a magnificent, gleeful discovery. The legendary, terrifying leech problem was completely trivialized by my absorption biology. I didn’t know if this absolute cheat code would hold up against the Queen Leech herself, but for these baseline parasites, I was basically a walking extinction event.

The remaining leeches, realizing their collective colony was being systematically digested by a maniacal zombie dog, broke formation. They abandoned the humanoid shape entirely, scattering in a panicked wave toward the floorboards and ventilation grates.

I chased down every squirming cluster I could reach, crushing them beneath my paws and vacuuming them off the walls with mechanical efficiency.

Within two minutes, the dining car was silent once more.

A few dozen lucky survivors managed to squeeze into the narrow gaps between the coaches, but the main colony was completely annihilated.

[Total biomass absorbed from leech colony: Cellular integrity increased to 79%.]

[Total Evolution Points earned: +87 EP.]

[No unique genetic traits detected. Leech organisms classified as standard parasitic fauna. Insufficient individual complexity for trait registration.]

It was definitely a case of quantity over quality. Each leech was essentially a tiny, brain-dead tube of muscle, lacking the individual complexity required to unlock any cool new forms or traits. But eighty-seven points from a single, highly satisfying meal was a massive victory.

Combined with my previous savings, my war chest was sitting at a very healthy three hundred and seven Evolution Points.

I let out a wet, satisfied burp, taste-testing a lingering trace of that cold, slimy parasite flavor on my tongue. It tasted faintly of iron and damp earth, with a surprising hint of umami. A true connoisseur’s delight.

I gave the clean dining car one last, reassuring click to confirm no threats remained, then padded out through the service exit to reclaim my spot on the roof.

Rebecca’s path was clear, and my belly was full of highly nutritious, mutated sushi. Things were definitely looking up.

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