Author's note: Come on guys write some reviews.
If you want me to continue this work, I would appreciate encouragement. Let this novel become famous! I would like you to bring power stones. If you have any advice for me, please comment so I can improve.
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'The zombies are giving me diminished returns now. Grinding trash mobs is safe, but slow. If I want to unlock the Shop and get the new Body Evolutions, I need a jackpot.'
His grey eyes narrowed, focusing on the darkness ahead.
'Alright. With that Licker... it should give me enough EXP. It's an Alpha. A Boss Monster relative to this place. It had much stronger physiology. Killing it isn't just an option; it's a necessity.'
The moment the specific intent formed in his mind, a sharp chime rang out—different from the usual notification sound. It was deeper. More urgent.
[ SYSTEM ALERT: QUEST GENERATED ]
A gold-bordered window popped up, overlaying his vision.
[Quest Name: The First Apex]
Objective: Eliminate the Licker roaming the Building.
Progress: 0 / 1
Rewards:
* 1000 EXP
* 2000 V-Gold (High Value)
Penalty (Failure): None.]
Atlas stopped. He skidded to a halt, his boots carving grooves into the floor. He stared at the screen, a genuine look of surprise on his pale face.
"Mmm."
He tapped his chin with a clawed finger.
'So... the quests issued by the System are reactive. They are attentively focused on my current situation and desires. I wanted to kill the Licker, and the System gamified it instantly to incentivize me.'
'The System didn't give this quest arbitrarily. It reacted. It observed the environment, evaluated threats, and issued a task that aligns with my current growth curve.'
He analyzed the implications.
'Then again, I am not sure. I have very little data to work with. Is the System guiding me? Or is it just adapting to my will? If I decided to run away, would it give me a quest to "Escape"? Or is it pushing me toward conflict?'
He stood there for a second, the culturaled in him wanting to run experiments, to test the boundaries of the system. But the predator in him was getting impatient.
Atlas shook his head violently, his grey hair whipping around, physically discarding the complex theories popping into his mind.
"I will just put this all in the back of my mind and look at it when I have time," Atlas said aloud.
He paused.
His hand flew to his throat.
He spoke again, testing the vibration. "Testing. One, two. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."
The rasp was gone. The dryness was gone.
His voice was no longer the grating sound of rocks crushing together. It was deep. Resonant.
Smooth. It had a baritone richness to it that he hadn't even possessed in his previous life. It was a voice made for commanding armies... and whispering in ears.
A wide, genuine smile broke across his face. It wasn't a crazy smile this time. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated joy.
"That's good," he whispered, savoring the sound of his own words. "It's like I hit two birds with one stone. I have the power, and now... I have the voice."
Atlas paused mid-step, surprise flickering across his face.
He cleared his throat once more.
No pain.
No rasping distortion.
Just a slightly dry sensation—like he'd been screaming for hours and finally stopped.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his face.
"So this is what regeneration feels like when it actually works," he muttered. "Nice."
He rolled his shoulders, flexed his neck.
Alive.
Truly alive.
He ran a hand over his neck. The Constant Regeneration had fully repaired his vocal cords, removing the last vestiges of the zombie decay.
'I sound human. Better than human. I can talk to Alice now without sounding like a monster. I can blend in. I can deceive.'
This was a victory greater than any stat point. It was the reclamation of his identity.
"Well... I can do that now with my strength," he laughed, the sound booming confidently in the tunnel.
He started running again. But this time, the mood was different. The grim determination was replaced by a swagger. He wasn't just a survivor fighting for his life; he was the main character entering the stage.
He felt so swept away by the emotions—the happiness of being strong, the thrill of the upcoming fight, the relief of being whole—that he began to whistle.
It started low, a haunting, melodic tune that echoed eerily against the metal pipes.
"This is the end..."
He whistled the opening notes of Adele's Skyfall.
"Hold your breath and count to ten..."
The melody was crisp, perfect. It was a surreal contrast to the environment. Here he was, a white-skinned, silver-white-clawed monster running through a bio-hazard zone filled with corpses, whistling a song about the apocalypse with a spring in his step.
"Feel the earth move and then..."
Atlas picked up speed, his silhouette a blur in the flashing red emergency lights.
'I'm coming for you, big boy,' he thought, the music fueling his bloodlust. 'You have my Experience Points. You have my Gold. And I am feeling particularly greedy tonight.'
He turned the final corner. He didn't slow down..
"Let the sky fall..."
Atlas grinned, his silver claws extending fully.
"It's showtime."
---
Sector 4 – Administrative Offices.
Time: 03:35 AM.
Alice moved through the maze of cubicles, her breathing steady despite the chaos erupting around her.
The Beretta 92FS she had salvaged from the Kennel felt heavy and reassuring in her hand.
The smell of gunpowder still lingered on her skin, a sharp contrast to the pervasive stench of rot and ozone that filled the Hive.
She didn't know where she was going—not exactly. But a pull in her gut, a subconscious map buried under the amnesia, guided her back toward the Central Core. Back to the others.
Crash.
The sound of overturning furniture echoed from the breakroom ahead.
"Get off! Get away!"
It was Matt.
Alice broke into a run. She vaulted over a fallen vending machine, her red dress trailing behind her like a banner of war. She rounded the corner and skidded to a halt.
The scene was desperate.
Matt Addison was on his back, pinned against a row of lockers. A female zombie—wearing a tattered, blood-stained blue uniform—was straddling him. Her hands were locked around his throat, her jaw snapping inches from his face.
Matt was struggling, his hands gripping her wrists, trying to push her back. But he was exhausted, battered, and untrained. The zombie's strength was hysterical, driven by the singular biological imperative to feed.
Her movements were jerky, unnatural, strands of hair hanging over a face frozen in a grotesque parody of hunger. Her jaw snapped inches from his throat, teeth clacking uselessly as Matt struggled beneath her weight.
"No... please..." Matt gasped, his face turning purple.
The zombie snarled, a wet, guttural sound, and lunged down to bite his nose.
For half a second, Alice froze.
Then instinct took over.
Alice didn't hesitate. She didn't waste a bullet.
She spotted a heavy, metal fire extinguisher lying amidst the debris on the floor. In one fluid motion, she scooped it up. She spun, using the momentum of the heavy cylinder to amplify her strike.
CLANG.
The impact was sickeningly loud. The red steel base of the extinguisher connected with the side of the zombie's skull.
There was a crunch of bone. The female zombie was knocked sideways, her grip on Matt broken instantly. She collapsed to the floor, twitching once before going still, dark blood pooling rapidly around her head.
Alice dropped the extinguisher. It rang against the linoleum.
She stepped forward, offering a hand to Matt. "Are you okay?"
Matt didn't take her hand. He didn't even look at her. He was staring at the corpse.
He scrambled over to the body, ignoring the danger, ignoring the blood. He grabbed the zombie's shoulders and rolled her over.
The woman's face was ruined—half-eaten by the virus, the other half crushed by Alice's blow. But the name tag on her uniform was still legible: L. ADDISON.
Matt's breath hitched. A sound escaped his throat—a broken, animal whimper.
"Lisa..."
He brushed a strand of matted hair away from her grey forehead. His hands were shaking violently.
Alice stood over him, her expression softening.
A flash of memory hit her—a photograph. A wedding. She was the bride. This woman... Lisa... she had been there.
"Who is she to you?" Alice asked softly, though she suspected the answer.
Matt looked up, tears cutting tracks through the grime on his face. "My sister."
Alice felt a cold pang in her chest. "I'm... I'm sorry."
"She was the reason I came here," Matt whispered, his voice cracking. "She tried to get a sample of the virus out. To expose Umbrella. She... she sent me a message. She said she was scared."
He looked down at the monster she had become. The T-Virus had taken everything from her—her humanity, her life, and finally, her brother's hope.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Alice said again, feeling the inadequacy of the words.
Matt wiped his eyes roughly with his sleeve. He looked at his sister one last time, then stood up. His face hardened. The grief was still there, but it was being paved over by a burning hatred.
"No," Matt said, his voice dropping. "It's alright. At least she won't stay like that. At least she's free now."
Alice nodded. She checked the corridor behind them. The shadows were lengthening. The groans of the horde were getting louder.
"We need to get moving," Alice urged, gripping his arm. "The others are waiting. This place is becoming a kill box."
"Okay," Matt took a deep breath. "Let's go."
They left Lisa Addison where she lay—a victim of a war she started but couldn't finish.
[The Corridor of Dust]
They moved quickly, heading toward the main transit hub that led back to the Red Queen's Chamber.
But as they entered Sector 3-B, the atmosphere changed.
The frantic energy of the outbreak seemed to die here. The air was still. Too still. The smell of rot, which had been omnipresent, was replaced by a dry, dusty scent—like an old tomb or an attic that hadn't been opened in decades.
"Alice..." Matt slowed down, his eyes widening. "Look at this."
Alice lowered her gun, scanning the hallway.
It was a massacre. But not the kind they had seen in the Dining Hall.
Dozens of zombies lay scattered across the floor. But they hadn't been shot. They hadn't been eaten.
They had been dismantled.
Heads were severed cleanly from necks. Arms were lopped off at the shoulder. Torsos were split open with surgical precision. The walls were slashed with deep, gouging marks—three parallel lines cut into the steel paneling, as if a giant tiger had sharpened its claws there.
But the most disturbing part was the bodies themselves.
Alice knelt beside a severed head.
It wasn't wet. It wasn't bleeding. The skin was grey and leathery, pulled tight against the skull. The eyes were sunken pits. It looked like a mummy that had been baking in the Sahara sun for fifty years.
No blood.
No flesh.
No vitality.
She touched the skin. It crumbled slightly under her finger, turning to grey dust.
"What the hell has happened here?" Matt asked, his voice trembling. He kicked a headless torso, and it sounded hollow, like kicking a dry log. "Where is the blood? Where are the fluids?"
"Something killed them," Alice murmured, standing up and looking down the long corridor of dried husks. "Something... drank them."
"Drank them?" Matt looked sick. "You mean like a vampire?"