Resident Evil REwritten

Waking Up Dead

" " -Spoken

' ' -Thought

( ) -Commentary. The smartass remarks that could be heard from the back of my head. For comic relief, and personal opinions. They're usually too snarky to be said aloud.

Welcome to the world of Resident Evil. Good luck and godspeed, you stupid, suicidal motherfuckers.


Quote of the day!

"Man is, by nature, a social animal; an individual who is unsocial naturally and not accidentally, is either beneath our notice or more than human. Anyone who does not partake of society is either a beast, or a god." -Aristotle


#5 HELL yeah!


"It's official; you're both sick in the head," Rebecca deadpanned, having seen the centerfold and our matching grins.

"I plead no contest, but you love us anyway. Now c'mon and gimme a hand, we've got plenty of ordnance to sort through." I moved towards the nearest rack of rifles, finding three MP5 submachineguns in varying setups; two MP5N's with the telescoping stock, and one MP5K PDW.(Popgun Devoid of Whoopass. Seriously, it's a handgun with a stock that can empty 30rnd magazines in two seconds flat. That's 900 rpm, for ya. Think 'Glock 18 with a stock')

They looked old and fairly beat-up; plenty of dents but no rust on the blued steel, and the polymer's black color had faded to light grey over the years. Aside from those, there were three actual rifles. A pair of good ol' AK47's(The newer AKM model, actually) and one FN FAL battle rifle. Now those looked like they've seen better days.

Aside from the scratches and dings in the steel, plus the warped wood on one of the stocks, there was also quite a bit of rust between them. It wasn't until I got closer that I noticed that one of them-

"Son of a protestant whore!" What kind of bloody fucking asshat piece of shit would leave such a beautifuly crafted example of machinery like this?

"What? What's wrong?" Rebecca panickedly asked, coming up next to me.

I scowled, picking up the nearest Kalashnikov. "Some worthless cockbite fucked up all three of these rifles. See the barrel? The entire muzzle is canted, got bent out of shape by at least fifteen degrees. This thing couldn't hit the broad side of an aircraft carrier without reforging it into shape." Shaking my head, I dropped it back on the rack. "Still can't see how someone managed to do that, at least without mucking up the entire gas system at the same time."

As I reached for the second AKM,(I saw the FAL had its own problems; the underside of the reciever was rusted clean through. It would probably desintigrate within ten shots) I saw the stock and grip were warped to the point that they weren't just out-of-spec; I was ablt to rip the entire stock clean off, as the wood had rotted from the inside out.

"Tch, worthless." Tossing that aside, I opened up the top cover, glancing inside. "Agh, fuck me sideways."

Rebecca leaned around me, looking to see what had my attention now. "What's wrong now?"

I set the cover on the counter, reaching into the reciever to pull out the bolt and piston assembly. "The action spring is rusted through, ditto with the bolt and piston. That means it's a boat anchor, completely useless."

"Is there any way for you to fix it?"

Shrugging, I dropped the bolt on the counter, setting the rifle itself down next to it. "I can cannibalize the other rifle for parts, see if I can't get at least one of 'em working. Find me a flathead screwdriver and some WD-40 or CLP, I'll see if the other one's as bad off."


"Alright, here's hoping." After some five minutes of switching out the grips, stock, bolt and then performing basic maintainence, I had one AKM rifle assembled.(Thank god for pipe cleaners) No wobble in this stock, at least. I pulled the bolt a few times to work out some of the girttiness, then grabbed the nearest mag.

Check, unloaded. It clacked into place with a positive *Cli-chkh!* Closely followed by a quick function test of the FCG.(Fire control group. Safety and trigger)

"Seems to be working," The medic remarked, still looking at the weapon in question.

"Won't know if it is until I load up and pull the trigger. Hey Billy, whatcha' got?" I looked back to where the Marine was fiddling with something or other on the other bench.

He turned, shrugging. "Not much. Most of these things are busted, and whatever's in one piece is no better than what we've already got. Seems the HK's are the only things that have survived down here for so long."

"If you've got an FAL reciever, the one over here has some parts that aren't entirely rusted through." I hooked a thumb towards the rifle in question before I set down my own new piece, then set about searching for a sling.

Now where would they hide one of those? Hm. "Either of you checked that locker, yet?"

"Nah, s'locked," Billy-Bob commented, already picking up that rusted FN.

I chuckled, sauntering up to the locker in question. "I have yet to meet a lock I couldn't unlock." Kneeling down to get a look, I found that the mechanism was heavily rusted. No locking-picking is gonna happen, here.

"Then what about that big metal door upstairs?"

Why that miserable little brat.

Looking back to the cheeky, smirking little girl, "I haven't given up on that, I just didn't want to waste the ammo."

She rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh." Damn that abomidably cute, sarcastic expression!

Turning back to the other thing that was annoying me, I drew my knife and stabbed it into the space between the doors. "One for the money," I wiggled it a little to loosen it up. "Two for the show," I worked the blade in deeper, so I wouldn't damage the tip.

"Three to get ready," Then positioned myself so the door wouldn't whack me in the nuts when it flew open. "And four to open the fuck up!" I wrenched my knife to the side, the rusted steel of the cheap lock snapping like chickenbone.

Of course, the door flew open, revealing the cabinet's less-than-stellar contents. "Well, that was a bust." Some manuals, a can of CLP, that duralumin case, another couple'a real old porn mags, ect. Might as well see what's on the other side-

"By the fuck-mothering power of greyskull..." My jaw just dropped. This was definately NOT in the game.

Rebecca was at my side nearly instantaneously. She must be part cat. "What is it?"

I reached into the cabinet, irritatedly smacking away the spider that was guarding my prize. "A bloody godsend."

(You're welcome, by the way)

Yeah, yeah, thanks mate.


Inside the cabinet was a plastic pistol case. Rather inconspicuous, except for one thing; it had a small lock keeping it shut, and the letters WC on the top. Now there is only ONE company that I know of, who makes handguns and carries those initials. Picking it up, I found that it was, indeed, full of gun. It was heavy, around three and a half pounds or more. This thing has to be at least ten years old, so I hope it's still in working condition.

Standing and moving to the closest counter, I set the box down and grabbed a large screwdriver that was nearby, jamming it into that small lock. With a quick twist, the plastic snapped, the lock coming free. I dropped them to the side before opening this box of Pandora.

"Sweet Black-fucking-Sabbath..."(Too many references? Okay, I'll stop. You filthy english pig-dog)

That pesky, nosy medic stuck her nose over my shoulder.(Not really, more like around my arm. She's way too short to try looking over me in any way that isn't ogling) "...It's just a gun."

I blinked, turning to give her a look, chastising her for her blasphemy. "This is not just any gun; this is a Wilson Combat."

"Is that supposed to mean something to me?" Rebecca deadpanned, with a straight face, even.

Wait, shit. This is '98, so I guess old Bill hasn't harnessed the power of the internet, just yet. Hold on. This facility has been closed up for, what, ten years? Fuck, this must be one of their earliest in-house weapons! "Not to you, but anyone who owns a 1911 can tell you that Bill Wilson is one of the finest pistolsmiths in the world. Old John Browning himself would be proud. This gun would've been hand-built more than a decade ago, and I'm willing to bet it still runs."

Turning back to the other beauty in the room, I hefted the steel weapon, looking it over. There was still a coating of oil on it, along with some dust. A quick wipedown with an old rag fixed that; the gun was blued so dark the finish looked black. Novak cut sights; interesting, considering the year. Along with those, it had the standard fare of any custom 1911. Beavertail, skeleton hammer, longer trigger, undercut trigger guard, checkered front strap, extended safety, even a picatinny rail, which was downright shocking.

Pretty much the usual stuff you'd see on any high-end 1911. I gripped the slide, relishing the ballbearing-like feel as I pulled it back. THAT, is the telltale mark of a Wilson. The slide racks so smoothly, you'd think it was on rollers. Shit, not even a speck of dust inside. Locking it back, I dropped the mag, finding it empty. No markings on it, other than being an eight-rounder. The case held four more; lucky me.

"Hey, Roy?" I turned, taking in the unidentifiable expression on the girl's face. "It's a gun, not a woman. Stop fondling it."

Shaking my head, I went back to the silent beauty as I deadpanned, "The gun has a better sense of humor than you do, Becks." Quick field strip,(None of that bullshit full-length guiderod crap, thankfully) and I found everything checked out. No rust, still got oil on it, and everything fits tighter than Dick's hatband. Alright, now to find me some ammo.

Pulling it back together and settling the weapon in its new home,(The crossdraw holster on my vest) I set about finding some 45ACP. Of course, there was plenty inside that cabinet. Three-count 'em-3 boxes of fifty rounds.




Can I get a FUCK YEAH?


Once I finished loading up and snagging a few boxes of standard FMJ for later,(Just in case) I directed Rebecca to man the console.(Yeah, I know, contradiction. She couldn't man anything!)

"Alright! Becs, take the controls and try not to get me killed, I'm going to check out the deathtrap down below. Billy-Bob-Jones, you're on security. Don't let anything maul Rebecca, she's our ticket outta here." That said, I hop-skip-jumped down the stairs and into the arena.

It's more commonly known as the 'killzone.' After that thought finished, I began snickering to myself. "Heh, heheh, welcome to the Danger Zone." Looking up, I then shouted, "Oy! Hit the leftmost button!"

Just as she called back, "Okay!" The first gate lowered itself into the floor, heavy *Clunking* and *Thunking* noises betraying just how much machinery was situated under our feet.

I stepped up to the next gate and thought, 'Fuck this, bet I can vault that.'

"Hup!" And so I did. With a quick jump, reach and climb, I pulled myself over the damned thing and dropped down. Easier than I thought it'd be.(Doubly so for you, ya lazy bastards) I picked up the forty-mike rounds carelessly tossed left on the floor and then repeated the vaulting process a few more times.

That done, I punched the big red button with the yellow 'DO NOT PRESS' sign just above it. Hey, I technically didn't press it, so there.

"AHHN-AHHN! Battle sequence initiated. Locking door." An irritating, grating synthetic voice announced from out-of-fucking-nowhere, just before a steel lattice dropped down over the exit. This was then followed by the monster gates raising themselves, just before a pair of hunters dropped in for dinner.

"ROY!" I heard someone with a decidedly feminine voice scream my name in absolute terror, but I ignored it in favor of dealing with the other pest before me. When the first green bastard screeched and attempted to lunge at me, I introduced it to my good friend,

Mikhail Kalashnikov.


Of course, all hunters and their kin have a particularly sensitive allergy to lead.(And/or brass, depending on your munition of choice) This one suffered from a severe case of what we like to call, headasplode-itis.


What, you think you can come up with something better than that? Well go ahead, say it out loud and see if it makes you feel any better about yourself, Bond.

Anyway, without bothering to expose myself to the other hunter in the area, I decided to exterminate it with extreme prejudice from around a corner by emptying the magazine in its general direction. It was a very small, very cramped mini-coridor, and those reptilian bastards are very wide-set. He didn't have much chance of dodging, the little chode.

Right after my weapon clicked dry, I hopped backward, drawing my brand-new(To me) forty-five before peeking outward to make sure the fucker wouldn't jump out at me. Fortunately for me, my luck held out. The hunter was now nothing more than a bloody pile of scaly, green Swiss cheese.

I nodded to myself, satisfied with my rifle's performance. After a quick reload, I snatched up that pesky water key and quickly made my escape, now that the gates had opened back up. On my way up the stairs whistling a cheery tune, I was suddenly and inexplicably blindsided by something small, heavy and soft.


"OMIGOD! I thought those things were going to get you!"

'Not now, damnit! Go down! Down, I say!'

Er, ahem, after extricating myself from the young girl's debilitatingly arousing embrace, I scoffed. "Hah! This is ME you're talking about. As if a scaly little chode like that could kill me. I say again, hah! Anyway, I've got the key we need to get outta here, so lets beat-feet."

Right above us, Billy-Bob just shook his head. "Show off."

After filling up on ammo and everything else we might need for our trip through hell, we made our way back up and to the foyer, where we dropped a pair of duffle bags full'a goodies and that tablet, right next to the other one. Along the way, I grabbed the vest off one of the dead USS members we'd earlier killed.

This one had pouches for rifle mags. After switching my gear over and getting it on,(Unfortunately, not with Rebecca. Ba-dum-cha!) I chuckled to myself. "Heheh, it must be Christmas morning and no one told me."

"I'm not even touching that one." The former Marine remarked with a shake of his mullet-bound head.

"Well, then make yourself useful and start 'touching' up some molotovs, we're gonna need 'em." I double-checked the fit of my new vest, making sure everything was down snug. It fit pretty well for some dead guy's kevlar. Didn't stink too badly of rot, either.

Eheh, not that I'd wear it to a wedding.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that Billy got to work on cooking up some homemade explosives, but both he and Rebecca gave each other a subtle look. For some reason, I don't think that's a good sign.


Up we went, dropping the bags, tablets and excess gear next to the statue holding the scales. Feeling much lighter now, I lead this ragtag little squad through two doors and back into the water door room. Pulling that damnedable key from my pocket, I slid it into the lock with utmost care, slowly turning it until that telltale *Click!* told me that it was now unlocked. "So, why was that key all the way down there in the basement?" Rebecca asked, head tilted.

I shrugged as I slowly edged the door open, glancing inside. "Not sure. Guess it was on one of the researchers who was unlucky enough to be picked to feed the BOW's. They ate his sorry pale ass and the key got dropped down one of the chutes. That, or one of the hunters ate and shit it out. Which would be why I'm wearing gloves." Of course, I deadpanned those last two statements.

Eheheheh, it was still amusing to see the color her face turned, as she'd asked to see the key when we were still in the basement. "Billy, molotov." I held an open hand back, which he pressed one of the glass firebombs into, flicking open his lighter a moment later.

The moment I flet the heat catch, I silently stepped through the door, sneaking right up to the bend in the room. I swung around it, hurling the explosive right at the leech monster's feet, ducking back just before the sound of glass shattering, fire catching and leeches wailing filled the air. "Music to my ears..."

From right behind me, "Then you've got a pretty screwy taste in music."

I blinked, glancing back to find that cute little medic right next to me, Billy just behind her. Eesh, I figured they would take the hint and stay back while I dealt with the more dangerous monsters. With a shake of my head, I chanced a look back around the corner.

All clear, except for a nasty smell and a charred section of the floor. Welp, from here we either go grab that vise handle, or we go straight to the vise and try to jury-rig a way to get that tablet.

Wait. Wasn't there a second vise in that room?

...Welp, fuck that other leechman, then. "On me, let's get that tablet and go home."

"Oorah, let's get it done." I could tell without even looking; Billy was smiling.

Around the corner and down to the end of the hall. A quick kick and the feeble, rusted lock snapped right open. Check left, check right-All clear.

"Move up, right-side door." I took position in front of it, dropping to one knee. "Stack up, Becs on right, Billy on kick." By keeping the instructions simple and easy to understand, we avoid and instances of, 'Whazzat mean?'

Because being placed on kick is pretty self-explanatory.

Once they were in position, I said, "Alright, I'll clear front. Rebecca, you get left. On my mark. Three. Two. One. Mark!"

The ex-Marine raised his bot, delivering a classic behind-the-back kick just under the lock, the old door practically crumbling as it fell inward and off its hinges. I was already moving, eyes wide, heart pounding. "Two targets!"

Straight ahead, two Z-boys. Weapon up, aim. Exhale.


The excessively loud retort echoed around the small room like an explosion, it was so loud. My ears were ringing, but the zombies had it even worse, as they both shared the same fate as that unfortunate hunter from the basement. I glanced right, then left. "Room clear!"

A quick tac-load and I was good to go, already heading for that damned vise. Alrighty, there's the tablet, and the other vises luckily had their handles. Heheheh, oh, I am evil. Slinging my AK, I grabbed the nearest handle, braced myself, and steadily began pulling.

The thing was a bastard, but within a few moments...

Err, minutes, actually, before I had it.

"Hey, what're you do-" *Pul-Ktch-WHUMPK!* "OOMPH!"

Unfortunately for Billy, he happened to get right behind me when I managed to wrestle the thing off, and as physics teaches us, any action has an equal and opposite reaction. Meaning, when I ripped the handle off, my elbows kept moving backward and thumped the Marine right in his gonads. Ouch.

I turned to look at what had happened, and found Billy-boy on the floor in the fetal position, groaning. Whoops. "Uh-oh, man down. My bad, Billy, you a'ight?"


Guess not. Rebecca was cringing as she looked him over. "Thaaat had to hurt. Are you okay? Can you feel your legs?"

When he neglected to answer, I said, "I don't suppose you've got an ice pack? Think he's gonna need one. And some painkillers."

She shuddered. "Or a transplant. That's some nasty swelling."

Oh, that's just wrong on so many levels.


After hobbling the wounded Marine back to the foyer,(Well, carried is more accurate) I set him down on the stairs and left Rebecca to keep him safe. "Well, this does give me a chance to run a few errands. Wait here, I'm gonna go raid the infirmary."

I was at the door when I stopped and remembered soemthing. "Oh, yeah. Is there anything specific we need as far as medical supplies go, Rebecca?"

From down on the first floor, she shrugged. "More antiseptic, just in case someone gets bitten. We might be able to sterilize the wound before the infection spreads, right?"

Hm. That might work, or it might be a waste of time. No way of knowing without trying it. "Maybe. Well, sit tight, I'll be back soon."

And so I turned, heading through the double doors and into the auditorium, heading for the knight doors I'd unlocked earlier.

. . .

Y'know... Looking back, this was probably the greatest mistake of my entire life, right here. When I left them alone in this fucking deathtrap.


There is a TFS Hellsing Ultimate Abridged(By Takahata101) reference in here somewhere. Several, really.

Along with ones from Monty Python's Holy Grail, Archer and Red vs Blue.

I'm getting closer and closer to switching out stories. Just so you guys know, I'll be deleting Waking Death and uploading the REwrite as an entirely new story: Resident Evil REwritten.


...Yeah, I know, cheesy title. But it works, ya? Anywho, I'll try to avoid posting it until I can devote more time to writing it. So it won't be for awhile, as I've got ST, WI, and two brand new fics in the works.


Heya there, readers. I've got something funny to tell you. The Umbrella Corporation is REAL. No, seriously, it is. UCMRG: Umbrella Corporation Weapons Research Group. They produce AR15 recievers and AR15 accessories.(Their Grip 23 is nice, like an MOE K that's a bit fatter than BCM's Gunfighter mod 1) Soon, they'll be producing AR15 barrels and within a few years, their own in-house rifles. I'm pretty sure they're paying Capcom some hefty royalties, but goddamn.

My girlfriend beat me with a trout(Yes, a trout. We were out of herring) when she found out I went and bought a matching set of receivers. Now I have to buy her a set, too. And yes, I got them just-

Well, just because. It's fucking Umbrella! What can go wrong?

Go do a search for Umbrella Corp firearms. You'll see. Their machining is superb, as well as the craftsmanship. They're based in VA Beach.


"If you're not using an aimpoint, you need to take a ****ing piss test." -LAV. He means, if you're using a red dot sight and it's anything OTHER than an Aimpoint. I usually agree with him.(EOTechs are nice, but not as good)


"Firearms are second only to the Constitution in importance; they are the peoples' Liberty Teeth." -George Washington


"Courage is not the absence of fear; it is the conquest of it." -Unknown.