Resident Evil VII: Friggin' Rednecks

by selrisitai

How might a person handle the events of Resident Evil VII: Biohazard? What would a person really think, say, or feel? Not sure how other people would handle it, but Corey has his own ideas. Rednecks, fungus monsters and a granny with a visceral army of Man-eating bugs firing from her crotch can wear a guy down. The only thing to do is brandish your flamethrower.

1. Chapter 1

"This is Corey, recording this from some addlepated plantation in Dulvey, Louisiana. I'm not happy. I got a message recently from my girlfriend, Mia, asking me to come here. Thing is, she's been missing for three years.

"Understandably I didn't trust her call, but also understandably I had to know what this was all about. Besides, it was like an adventure, and I love adventure. I'm regretting my decision. I'm in some dreary shack on a disgusting lake that I'm pretty sure evaporates overnight, because that's the only explanation for why it's so damn humid.

"I've had to fight fungus monsters, mosquitoes from hell, and the redneck version of wolverine. Fortunately, this house belongs to a bunch of backwater, country hick redneck lunatics, so I was able to defend myself with all of the weapons just lying around in the open. Frickin' rednecks.

"Oh, and did I mention that my long-lost girlfriend seemed to transform into a demon and tried to murder me? It's hard to say, hard to think about without starting to wretch, but, my hand was cut off. It sounds insane, but not as insane as the fact that some strange lady somehow reattached it. I, I thought I'd just make this recording lighthearted, but- hang on. . . ."

I

"O.K., I'm back. Not for long, though. I was just taking a breather here and figured I'd record this message. If I die, which seems likely — and I'm so tired I don't even care anymore — at least this message will be here for posterior. Corey out."

He pressed a grimy finger to the black "stop" button on the recorder. It clicked down and the "record" button snapped up. The sound was stark in the quiet, stuffy air of the shack. Corey'd been resting for maybe an hour here, and his left hand, hanging at his side with an MPM pistol clutched in it, was now shaking much less.

He knew the truth of the matter: He was scared, but it didn't seem important right now, the emotion; what was important was finding Mia, exorcising her or whatever he needed to do, and getting the hell outta this redneck nightmare-house. The smell of vomit spurred him out of the rickety shack door, into the comparatively fresh night air, and onto the damp planks of the pier.