So, to get into the spoopy mood this month, here's a patreon story that was one of the first ones I wrote. This was originally a raffle story for  exatron who wanted to fight zombies with Victor and look huge doing it. If you want more stories like this, check out my patreon! https://www.patreon.com/bigstories/posts

Dan ©  exatron
Victor & Story © c'est moi

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There was an unmistakable scent on the air, of rot and decay. The agent’s nose crinkled as it hit him full on, and he grimaced. As far as The Guild was concerned, this was a Class III, Type-Z Phantasma-corporeal infestation; in common parlance, a Zombie Outbreak. It was in some godforsaken Louisiana Parish lousy with voodoo, because of course it was, and The Guild could only send one agent to contain it before it become a nationwide pandemic. His superiors had located the source; a long-dead witch’s fetish that someone had activated in the local graveyard after all these years. The agent’s job was simple: contain the outbreak, fight through the zombie horde, destroy the fetish, and call in the clean-up crew before daybreak. For most Guild Agents, this would be a suicide mission to do it solo. But Victor Magnusson wasn’t like most agents.

A hybrid mix of tiger and rat, Victor cut a figure like no other. He carried himself like he owned the town, but with his winning smile, coiffed blonde hair, and the obscene amount of muscle packed on to his towering frame, no one was about to tell him otherwise. A quiet word with the mayor made sure there wouldn’t be any witnesses as he took care of the problem; as much as he enjoyed an audience, Victor preferred one for when he was flexing his titanic arms or letting his jutting, cliff-like chest spill out of his tight, V-neck shirt. This, on the other hand, was just going to get ugly. He cricked his bullneck, the gold stripes on his body warped and stretched taut over his massive frame as bulging muscle rippled all down his vast plain of a back, straining his custom leather jacket. He flexed his fingers, then fireballs burst into his hands, hovering over his fingerless gloves. Kicking the mud off his steel-toed boots, he took one last breath and charged into the graveyard, the ornate iron gates slamming shut behind him until the job was finished.

The tigerat found his quarry quickly; a shambling, rotting corpse that immediately burst into flame. With a strangled, unearthly cry, two more charged after him, but Victor was ready, grappling one into his arm, muscles thick as steel girders and inescapable as the jaws of life pressing the zombie against his surging pecs until his head popped off like a cork. The other he caught in his free hand, throwing the corpse overhead like it was nothing before firing off another surge of flame into the undead abomination.

Victor nodded confidently, smirking at the singed corpses at his feet. His ears flattened as he heard another zombie’s wail behind him, but as he spun around, there was a brilliant flash of white-hot light, and the undead corpse, now bereft of a head, fell to the ground. The tigrat blinked for a moment, dots dancing in his eyes, then collected himself, smirking coolly at a figure hiding in the shadows. “Bergstrom. Might wanna clean your glasses- you missed me, and I'm as wide as a barn door.”

“Eh,” a shockingly huge cheetah, shouldering a massive piece of artillery, casually cleaned his small, rectangular spectacles before putting them on. “Could be wider. You’re skipping leg day just to fit into those designer jeans, Magnusson.”

“Hey,” the hybrid smacked his meaty thigh, the muscle rippling under strained denim. “If you know where to find cheap jeans with a forty four inch waist and forty inch thigh, you let me know.”

The cheetah smirked. Pausing for a moment to flex his own leg, the feline’s engorged thigh bulging mightily, Victor’s smile slipping a bit when that spotted bulk poked through a fresh tear in his own pants. “Yeah, it’s hard- harder still to find forty two inch waist and a forty three inch thigh.” He stomped over, his massive legs rolling off one another. He threw back a strand of his long brown hair, and adjusted his black military fatigues before patting Victor’s middle with his hand. “Gotta get to the gym more and lay off the Philly cheesesteaks, Magnusson. They’ll really start to pork you out.”

“Yeah?” Victor flexed his arm, his melon-sized bicep swelling up until his sleeve split against the surging muscle. “Your last bodybuilding contest had you at… what, thirty two? Thirty four? For your bicep?” The tigrat waggled his brow, lifting his arm just a bit to kiss the peak of his arm. “Thirty seven inches, right here.” He grunted as he brought his arms together, puffing up his chest until the two gigantic slabs of pectoral muscle, pinned by his biceps, tore at the neck of his shirt. “I saw it was… what, sixty eight for your chest?” He bounced one pec for good measure. “Want to guess how much you’re outclassed?”

The cheetah cut the space between the two, slamming his own prodigious chest against Victor’s, like two glaciers grinding against each other. “Seventy, actually. You can feel for yourself.” For men of Victor and Dan’s dimensions, it wasn’t really possible to metaphorically lock horns; they had to make do with pec to pec.

They stood locking eyes for a moment, until Victor’s smile cracked with a chuckle, his arm barely able to reach around the cheetah’s bulk to pat him on the back. “Good job, Bergstrom. You earned that gold.”

Dan offered a smile in return. “There’s hardly anyone that can give me a challenge. I miss having you on the circuit.” He reached out, giving the tigrat’s surging chest an experimental squeeze. “Seventy three?”

“Seventy five,” Victor smirked.

“Nice. Going to push for another inch or two?” Dan asked, eyeing the hybrid’s chest appreciatively.

“Maybe. But let’s say we take care of that after we prevent a zombie apocalypse, huh?” Victor jerked his head to the rest of the graveyard. Dan picked up his cannon-sized weapon and followed after. The tigrat looked at it with an inquisitive eye; it was clearly custom-made, with a bevy of wires crisscrossed over a humming electro-plasmatic core, glowing blue in the night.

“New toy?”

Dan nodded. “Prototype Vaporizer lazer, for supernatural and extraterrestrial containment units. If you ever want to jump from the Guild and actually work for Uncle Sam, you’d be amazed at how much money they’ll throw at you if you sell them the right pitch.”

“I’m so glad to know my tax dollars are going to your hobbies,” Victor sighed ruefully.

“Hey, it works. If me and this bad boy were running around Transylvania in 1897, Dracula would’ve been a two page story.”

“Well, you’re the one with the fancy college education.” Victor paused, grabbing a cigarette and lighting it with a small flame balanced on his finger. “Anything you can tell me about the voodoo lady we’re after?”

“Madame Celestine Levesque; brought here in 1788 as a slave. Managed to outlive every single one of her masters, presumably out of spite, until slavery ended in 1865. She died in 1878. She taught voodoo to at least twenty five apprentices over her lifetime,” Dan explained. “If someone messed with her grave, then it’s probably- shit!”

A zombie leapt onto the cheetah’s vast back, deftly skittering away from the cheetah’s arms; he was too wide to fully reach around.

“Hold still!” Victor summoned up a fireball, tensing his arm as he readied his aim.

“Don’t you dare, Magnusson!” Dan shouted, slamming his back against a mausoleum, cracking the stone as the zombie shrieked in pain. Limply falling off Dan’s back, the zombie fell to the ground in a heap, and was quickly lit on fire by Victor.

“I’m hurt, Danny. Don’t you trust me?” Victor quipped, dusting off his hands.

The cheetah scoffed, picking up his weapon. “You asked me out for steak once, and burnt mine to a crisp passing the AI sauce.”

“I thought you liked it well done,” Victor shrugged.

“It’s medium rare or nothing, Magnusson, you know that.”

The two picked their way through the mausoleums dotting the graveyard until they found Levesque’s gave. The voodoo queen’s tomb was the size of a small altar, and littered with strange symbols carved into the marble. Dan narrowed his eyes, looking them over. “This is some sort of series of hieroglyphs… maybe Egyptian. Or, given her practice, some sort of ward for a voodoo spell…”

Victor arched his brow, and reached either side of the top of the tomb. His surging lats stretched his leather jacket, that rolling valley of a back tensed as he hefted the gigantic stone slab over his head, tossing it to the side. A gust of stale air rushed out, and instead of a coffin or a corpse, there was a staircase leading into a dark corridor.

“Or we use the stairs…” Dan muttered. “Looks a little narrow for us.”

“We’ll manage,” Victor muttered as he pushed inside, summoning up a ball of fire to light the way. The dank stone hallways slick with moss and stale water, seeping in from the bog just above. Dan gripped his weapon tightly, ready to fire at the first sign of trouble. It was eerily quiet, and the two soon came into a vast, cavernous room. Arches held up a stone dome, where a single strand of moonlight in the center cascaded down on Levesque’s true resting place, and on top of it, a bundle of twigs and twine tied together in the shape of a doll, and painted red and white.

“The fetish,” the tigrat breathed a sigh of relief, snatching up the small artifact and then instantly burning it to a crisp. “There. No more voodoo. All the zombies back in the graveyard should be inactive again.”

As if on cue, there was a bone-chilling wail. “You dare unravel the spells of Madame Celestine Levesque?! Suffer my wrath!” A shout sounded, echoing throughout the sepulcher, followed by several of the zombies’ bone-rattling groans and roars.

“Magnusson?” Dan cleared his throat, quickly leaping up on top of Levesque’s sarcophagus.

“Yes, Bergstrom?” Victor quickly clambered up behind him, the two back to back and readying their respective firepower.

“I have a theory… I think this isn’t just a tomb.”

Victor shot off a volley of fireballs into the first shambling zombies that came out of the shadows. “Sounds like a solid theory. What do you think it is?”

“I think these are a series of catacombs. Filled to the brim with corpses.” Dan pulled the trigger of his shoulder cannon, instantly vaporizing half a dozen zombies in a white-hot blaze.

“You know, I think you just might be right,” Victor grunted, the gold stripes littering his vast body shimmering in the gloom as he summoned up more power; the zombies were quickly growing into a swarm, spilling out of every crevice and quickly surrounding them. A whole horde was slowly beginning to overwhelm the two, both of them having to interchangeably fire off volleys and then kick away the ones that got too close.

“Does that thing have an overdrive feature or something?” Victor snarled, punching back a zombie that had made it up the sarcophagus.

“Uh…” Dan nervously adjusted his glasses as his weapon stopped firing. “I actually think the battery just died.”

“What?!”

The cheetah hefted the cannon over his head and threw it into the zombie mob, crushing two of them under its weight. “You heard me!”

“Oh, for the love of-” Victor wrapped his arm around Dan’s head, his engorged bicep pinning the cheetah’s face against his pecs. “Just… brace yourself.”

“What’re you doing?” Dan grunted, struggling to get free.

“I’m getting angry.”

It was a slow burn at first. Dan, still pressed up against Victor’s chest and grappling with the tigrat, could see his stripes, stretched and warped over all his bulging muscles, growing brighter until it looked like molten gold. The cheetah could see over the peak of his pecs, and saw that fire had completely taken over his eyes. Swinging at a pack of zombies with a quickly enlarging arm, Victor let out a savage roar.

Then, Dan began growing as well.

Filled with a fiery intensity, the cheetah’s entire body began to swell out, heavy muscle rippling under his spotted fur. Arms were lifted by spreading lats as the feline's large hand grabbed the nearest zombie, just snatching it made the top splinter before he sent it hurtling through the room, knocking over a half dozen zombies on impact. Throwing his head back he let out a savage roar, chest surging out and pushing up against his muzzle. His thoroughly tattered fatigues still clinging to his swollen form was doing nothing to obscure his massive thighs as they forced each other apart, looking thicker than his waist just a few minutes prior as Dan shifted his stance, the claws of his feet looking longer, sharper, the stone floor being scarred by the talon-like extensions. Traps framed the beast's head before it whipped around, fangs bared as a fist the size of a car engine slammed into a nearby zombie, instantly obliterating him as effectively as his vaporizer.

Victor had fully embraced his demonic side, as the usually golden stripes now glowed red-hot, and a pair of horns sprouted out of his head. His fingers ended in cruelly sharp claws that he used to deftly slash through the horde, and at the height of his demonic strength, Victor belched out fire like a dragon, seering zombies where they stood. His whole body had exploded in growth, tearing his clothes to shreds. He could barely wrap his staggering arms, each swollen up to breath-taking proportions, around his heaving mountain of a chest, expanding like a bellows as more flames engulfed his arms, and another hole was blasted into the swarm.

The zombie horde couldn’t put up with the terrible strength, and soon, with scorched or broken corpses littering the ground, the two titans punched their way back to the surface, the last of their strength expended as they broke through a hole in the ground to accommodate their increased size. Breathing deeply from their exertion, the two eventually shrank back to their old dimensions, left half-naked on the damp ground and too exhausted to stand.

“Victor…?” Dan raised his head, looking over to the hulking hybrid.

“Yeah, Dan?”

The cheetah laid back down, stretching out his tree-trunk thighs. “We need to workout together more. Between the two of us, I’ll just bet we can get that big again.”