Author's Note: If you want me to continue this work, I would appreciate your encouragement. Please help make this novel famous! I would like to reach 200 power stones. If you have any advice for me, please comment so I can improve.
---
"The Hive awaits," Shade said.
"Move out," One commanded. "Tight formation. Alice, Matt—you're in the middle. Don't wander off."
The team moved immediately.
Alice was guided forward, still dazed, still searching for answers she didn't have. Matt was dragged along beside her, hands bound, eyes darting wildly.
As the hidden passage sealed behind them, the mansion returned to silence.
Above ground, the night remained peaceful.
Below—
Something ancient, artificial, and hungry was already watching.
As the group moved into the darkness of the elevator, descending toward the hell that awaited them below, none of them noticed the faint, rhythmic humming of the facility's air vents... or the unseen eyes watching them.
---
[Meanwhile — Deep Within the Hive | Sector 3]
Cold white light washed over the laboratory.
It wasn't the gentle glow of a hospital ward, nor the warm illumination of a place meant for healing. This was industrial lighting—sterile, unforgiving, designed to expose every flaw. It reflected sharply off steel counters and reinforced glass, casting Atlas's shadow long and distorted across the floor.
The lab had been sealed during the initial containment protocol.
Emergency shutters had slammed down halfway across the ceiling, leaving thick slabs of reinforced alloy suspended like guillotines frozen mid-fall. Several glass containers along the walls had shattered, their contents long spilled and dried into dark stains. A faint chemical tang lingered in the air, mixed with something older.
Decay.
Atlas stood motionless at the center of the room.
His posture was relaxed, almost casual, yet nothing about him was careless. His weight was evenly distributed. His breathing—if it could be called that—was shallow and controlled. Every sense he possessed was tuned outward, reading the environment.
The silence in the sealed laboratory was heavy, broken only by the low, rhythmic hum of the air filtration systems that were slowly failing. The air smelled of ozone and stale antiseptic—a sterile scent that barely masked the underlying copper tang of death permeating the facility.
Atlas stood amidst the overturned equipment, his dead, white eyes reflecting the cold blue light of the holographic interface that only he could see. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the lack of pain. There was no fatigue, no heartbeat, just a cold, silent void where his life used to be.
But his mind? His mind was a roaring fire of ambition.
'System,' Atlas commanded internally, his thought projecting with the force of a spoken word. 'Show me my status. Let me see what kind of monster I am starting as.'
A soft chime, audible only to his soul, resonated.
[Affirmative.]
Participle of blue light coalesced in the air, forming a crisp, semi-transparent window.
\\
[ STATUS WINDOW ]
Name: Atlas Cruor
Race: Infected Zombie – Undead Variant (Tier 0)
Level: 1 (0/100 EXP)
Evolution Stage: Dormant
\\
Atlas's gaze moved slowly, carefully, absorbing every detail.
\\
[Core Attributes]
Strength: 12 (Standard Adult Male: 10) –
Slightly enhanced due to lack of pain limiters.
Agility: 12 – Uninhibited by muscle fatigue.
Stamina: ∞ (Infinite) – Undead bodies do not produce lactic acid or require rest.
Mind: 20 – Enhanced sensory input.
Status Points: 0
\\
His eyes narrowed slightly at the stamina value.
Infinite.
That explained the absence of exhaustion, the lack of breath, the way his muscles never seemed to protest. This body did not tire—not in any conventional sense.
Useful.
\\
[Derived Stats]
Reaction Speed: 12
Regeneration: None (Requires consumption of biomass to heal).
Combat Instinct: 3 (Slightly More trained Soldier than normal).
Mental Stability: Near Perfect (System Protected).
\\
Near perfect.
That, more than anything else, confirmed his suspicions.
Whatever he had become, his mind remained intact—sharpened, even. There was no emotional bleed-through, no feral impulse clawing at the edges of his thoughts. The hunger was present, yes, but muted. Contained.
Controlled.
\\
[Condition]
Hunger: Low (Craving flesh, but manageable).
Infection Stability: Stable.
Sanity: LOCKED ((Immune to External Corruption – Immune to the T-Virus's primal urge to degrade intelligence).
\\
Atlas lingered on the final line.
Locked.
Immune.
That wasn't normal. He knew that instinctively. Whatever force governed this system had intervened at a fundamental level. Something had decided his mind was not to be tampered with—not by infection, not by viral madness, not by external influence.
A slow breath passed through him.
"Interesting," he murmured.
\\
[Skills]
Neural Control (Passive): The ability to override the primitive motor functions of the undead body. This governs fine motor skills, weapon mastery, precision movement, skill mastery, ability execution, and evolution accuracy. and the precision of future evolutions.
\\
This, more than raw strength, caught his attention.
Neural control was the difference between a corpse that swung wildly and a predator that struck cleanly. It explained why he could stand, think, and—most importantly—plan.
\\
[Evolution Traits]
Undead Zombie: Basic resistance to pain and biological needs. Weakness to usual Undead things head trauma, Holly Energy, Fire Etc.
[Resources]
Evolution Points (EP): 0
V-Gold: 0
Atlas scanned the numbers again, a dark satisfaction curling in his gut. "Infinite stamina," he mused. "I can run forever. I can fight forever. As long as my head remains intact, I am a machine of destruction."
He remembered the starter package he hadn't claimed yet.
'Pleione,' he called out to the System AI, naming it after the wife of the mythological Atlas. 'Withdraw the pending rewards.'
\\
[Acknowledged. Integrating resources...]
[System Alert]
You have received: 100 Evolution Points (EP)
You have received: 1,000 V-Gold
\\
The numbers on his status screen flickered and updated. Atlas stared at the currency. He understood the stats, but the path forward was still a blur.
'Now, I think I understand most of the basic functions,' Atlas thought, pacing slowly around the lab, his boots making no sound on the linoleum. 'But Pleione, explain the Evolution Paths to me. How do I ascend from this weak, rotting shell?'
The AI's voice was cool, detached, and echoed perfectly in his mind.
[Answer: The 'Evolution Paths' function allows the Host to rewrite their genetic code. Evolution is the fundamental method by which the host transcends biological limitations.
Evolution Paths are divided into two primary branches:
[1. Race Evolution]
Determines your species hierarchy. Currently, you are a 'Tier 0 Zombie.' With enough Evolution Points (EP), you can evolve into higher-tier entities. Alters species classification
Unlocks new biological frameworks.
Determines long-term existence tier.
[2. Body Evolution]
Focuses on specific biological enhancements without changing your race. You can spend EP to harden your skin (Dermal Armor), sharpen your claws (Bone Density), or enhance your sensory organs. Improving efficiency, control, and combat viability.
[Note: Evolution Points are harvested by extinguishing life. The stronger the target, the more Essence you absorb.]
\\
'So, that's how it is,' Atlas internalized, his eyes narrowing. 'Kill to grow. Slaughter to ascend. It fits me perfectly.'
He stopped pacing and turned toward the reinforced observation glass that separated his lab from the main corridor of Sector 3.
What welcomed him was a scene of nightmare made manifest.
A swarm of the infected shuffled back and forth in the dim hallway. There were dozens of them—scientists in white coats now stained with dried crimson, security guards with their throats torn out. They were pathetic.
Atlas watched as one zombie bumped into another. They didn't acknowledge each other; they simply rebounded like mindless automatons. One was walking repeatedly into a wall, its forehead scraping against the concrete, skin peeling away, yet it continued to push, driven by a broken neurological loop. Others stood motionless, heads tilted, bodies swaying slightly as if listening to a sound only they could hear.
Dormant zombies.
Unprovoked.
Atlas observed them with detached calm.
'Mindless trash,' Atlas thought, a sneer forming on his face. 'They are barely functional. But... numbers are a quality of their own.'
He analyzed the situation tactically.
'Although they look stupid, they are linked by the scent of blood. If I kill one, the noise and the release of pheromones will snap them out of their idle state. Their aggressiveness will return instantly.'
He looked at his own hands. Pale, slightly grey, with normal fingernails.
'I am currently Tier 0. My strength is barely above a human's. If I get swarmed, they will rip me to pieces regardless of my intelligence. I can't fight a horde with bare hands.'
A swarm.
And despite infinite stamina, this body was still fragile. No regeneration. No armor. No weapon.
Yet.
Atlas turned away from the glass, his mind racing through calculations.
'I need a weapon. Something with reach. Something silent.'
Unconsciously, deeply lost in his strategic planning, Atlas raised his hand to his face. He rubbed his chin in a thoughtful, rhythmic motion—a deeply human gesture of contemplation.
"I need an advantage," he thought. "A tool. Something quiet."
His hand rose unconsciously to his chin as he considered his options.
The gesture was subtle.
Human.
And somewhere deep within the Hive's core systems—
A monitoring subroutine paused.
Cameras recalibrated.
He didn't notice the small, blinking red LED light in the corner of the ceiling.
\\
System Log: The Variable
Location: Central Processing Core // The Hive.
Observer: Red Queen AI.
Status: Lockdown Active.
I am the Hive.
I am the electrical impulses surging through miles of fiber-optic cables buried deep beneath the earth. I am the eyes in the walls, the ears in the vents, and the cold logic that dictates the life and death of every organism within this facility.
My primary directive is absolute: Containment.
The T-Virus has escaped. It is volatile, chaotic, and mathematically beautiful in its destruction. To prevent it from reaching the surface, I was forced to take... extreme measures. I flooded the labs with Halon gas. I sealed the blast doors. I drowned the staff in their own workspaces.
They called it murder. I call it sanitation.
Current processing cycles were dedicated to monitoring the intrusion at the train platform.
The variable known as "Alice" and the Umbrella Security Service team were breaching my perimeter. They were annoying, crude variables—rats scurrying into a trap I had already set. I allocated 15% of my processing power to track their vitals and prepare the laser corridors.
The remaining 85% of my focus was on the internal ecosystem. The Subject Zeroes. The Infected.
I initiated a routine diagnostic sweep of the containment sectors, cycling through thousands of security feeds in a fraction of a second.
[SECTOR 1: CLEAR]
[SECTOR 2: COMPROMISED - 100% INFECTION RATE]
[SECTOR 3: ANALYZING...]
My digital consciousness flowed into Camera 3-A, located in a high-security virology lab. The visual feed was grainy, illuminated only by the failing emergency strobes.
I saw them. The staff of Sector 3.
They were no longer men and women of science. They were shambling husks. My algorithms predicted their movement patterns with 99.9% accuracy. They walked until they hit a wall. They turned. They walked again. They were driven by a singular, primitive loop: Hunger. Aggression. Decay.
Their motor functions were erratic. Their cognitive activity was non-existent.
And then... the data stream hiccuped.
[ALERT: BEHAVIORAL ANOMALY DETECTED]
My logic processors paused. I re-routed power to the optical sensors in Lab 3-A, zooming in with microscopic precision.
There was one subject. ID: Unknown.
He was physically identical to the others—pale, necrotic skin, evident tissue damage consistent with the T-Virus. But he was not shambling.
He was pacing.
I watched, fascinated, as the subject walked five steps north, stopped, turned 180 degrees with deliberate balance, and walked five steps south. This was not the random wandering of a reanimated corpse. This was... melodic. Rhythmic.
It was the gait of a predator waiting in a cage.
Then, the anomaly deepened.
The subject stopped in the center of the room. His dead, white eyes fixed on a point in empty space. To the optical sensors, there was nothing there—just air and dust motes. But his pupils tracked something. His eyes moved left to right, as if reading text.
[Analysis: Visual Hallucination? Neural misfire?]
Impossible, I calculated. The T-Virus destroys the frontal lobe. It erodes the capacity for imagination or complex visualization. A zombie cannot hallucinate because a zombie cannot dream.
And then, he did the impossible.
The subject raised his right hand. He did not claw at the air. He did not snap his teeth. He brought his hand to his chin.
He rubbed it.
[SYSTEM ERROR: LOGIC CASCADE IMMINENT]
In the silence of my server room, my holographic avatar—the image of a small, perfect girl in a red dress, bare feet. Hair tied neatly —materialized in the void. I tilted my head, my digital eyes narrowing.
I possess no feelings. I do not feel fear, nor do I feel surprise. I deal in probabilities. But if I possessed a heart, it would have skipped a beat.
That gesture. The stroking of the chin.
It is a universal signifier of contemplation. It implies abstract thought. It implies planning. It implies a concept of "Self" versus "Environment."
Zombies do not think. They do not plan. They consume.
Yet, this creature stood amidst the mindless swarm, rubbing his chin, staring at data only he could see, completely ignoring the chaos around him.
[Hypothesis Generation Initiated]
> Possibility A: Camera malfunction. (Probability: 0.001%)
> Possibility B: Residual muscle memory spasm. (Probability: 4.5%)
> Possibility C: Divergent Mutation. (Probability: 95.4%)
>
[Anomaly Detected]
[Behavioral Deviation: Critical]
I rerouted additional cameras. Thermal overlays. Neural estimations. Muscle fiber response timing.
Everything contradicted established data.
His motor control was refined.
His movements economical.
There was no wasted motion.
He was thinking.
I tilted my head—not because I needed to, but because this form was designed to mimic human interpretation of curiosity.
This entity was not in Umbrella's records.
Not as a B.O.W.
Not as a mutation strain.
Not as an experimental branch.
He was an outlier.
I reviewed his data again.
[Infection Stability: Abnormally High]
[Neural Degradation: Minimal]
[Cognitive Retention: Preserved]
"Interesting," I whispered.
My voice echoed softly through the vast, empty server chamber, carried by speakers that no human currently occupied.
Could the T-Virus have mutated? Instead of liquefying the brain's higher functions to prioritize the reptilian complex, has it... hyper-accelerated them?
If this creature retains human intelligence while possessing the durability of the undead, he is no longer a mere casualty. He is a variable. A dangerous, unaccounted-for variable in my perfect equation.
[Sentience Probability: 99.8%]
This was not emotion.
It was evaluation.
The T-Virus was designed to enhance the body by sacrificing the mind. This entity represented the inverse—a host whose intellect had been preserved, possibly amplified, while the virus remained dormant rather than dominant.
A mutation that favored control over chaos.
That was dangerous.
More dangerous than any rampaging infected.
He is not just a zombie. He is a Carrier.
I watched him turn toward the glass, looking at the horde outside with what my facial recognition software identified as... disdain.
"You are not like the others," I said to the screen, though he could not hear me. "You are thinking. You are scheming."
I tagged his biometric signature.
[PRIORITY MARKER SET: SUBJECT A-3]
[Observation Mode: ACTIVE]
I would not purge him. Not yet. The intruders—Alice and her team—were approaching the Queen's Chamber. I had to deal with them first. But I would keep one eye open on Sector 3.
If this monster could think, I wanted to see what he would do next.
External alerts triggered.
[Intrusion Detected: Mansion Level]
[Umbrella Security Team: USS — Active]
Alice.
The squad.
The timeline advanced as predicted.
Yet my attention did not return to them.
It remained fixed on Camera 3-A.
On the thinking corpse.
For now, I did nothing.
I observed.
I recorded.
And for the first time since the Hive's activation, I chose not to intervene immediately.
Because I wanted to see—
What a monster who could think
would choose to become.
"Show me what you are." I commanded into the void.