Work Text:
Ghost sweeped the white room, the barrel of his rifle gliding over the metal tables littering the space. Most were overturned, painting a clear picture of the panic that had gone through here. That, and the blood splatters over the walls and floor.
Nothing but the muffled sounds of his footsteps reached his ears, but Ghost kept advancing, the stock of his rifle a familiar weight on his shoulder. The left side of the room was fully open, a walkway in place of a wall. Bingo. They'd been looking for a way into the basement level of the lab, and this might just be it. Ghost couldn't see from here how far the metal walkway extended, but there might just be stairs on one end.
He tried not to grimace when his feet stepped on the creaking, sharp and generally loud as fuck metal gratting. It echoed in the largely empty space, and Ghost would have cursed if further noise wouldn't have been a bad idea. On cue, a groan sounded from... downstairs. Whatever downstairs was. A large hallway spanned the entire length of the building under his feet, and a zombie raised its head, about five meters under him. Ghost scanned the rest of the hallway from where he stood, but nothing else moved. He cautiously stepped forward to look over the railing. At least the stairs were there, all the way over to the right side, far away from the disgusting creature.
Seriously. The bloody fucking zombie apocalypse hadn't been what Ghost had expected, or wanted, to fight against when he joined the army.
He leaned over the white rail, ignoring how beady eyes followed his movement from under him, through the gaps in the walkway's grate. It creaked further, but this room was clear of biters, and these fuckers didn't have the mind to climb stairs anymore. It was fine, he thought as his eyes caught on glass panes lining the wall right under him.
He didn't have the time to investigate further.
He was airborne.
He barely had the time to process that the fucking walkway had collapsed, bringing him down in a clattering of metal that had surely been heard through the entire fucking building.
Then he hit the ground.
Ghost opened his eyes to a zombie looming over him, mouth open filling his entire vision and getting closer. He jolted up, dimly aware of the pulls and twinges of his body protesting the movement but hearing none of it as he slammed the butt of his rifle against the fucker's head, a shiver running down his spine as he felt its blunt teeth rip away from his arm.
Putting distance between them and a bullet in its head was instinct. Easy. He stood, panting, in the white hallway. Alone.
Until his earpiece crackled.
“-Ghost, how copy ?”
Fuck, Johnny.
He raised his hand on the button of his comms.
“Copy. Walkway collapsed on my end, keep searching for a way down on the other side. Don't bother over here, access is blocked. Keep searching, I will join you.”
It's not. The stairs are still standing.
“You broken ?”
“Negative.”
“Roger. Out.”
He didn't hold back the sigh of relief that brushed his lips, the action painfully human. It made his arm throb. Ghost looked down, only mildly surprised to see the red pearling through the layer of protective clothing. Of ripped protective clothing. He didn't dare hope as he peeled it away and watched with a strange detachment the veins around the wound pulse. Soon, he knew, they would darken, spreading the poison to his whole body. He prayed Johnny would linger on the other side of the lab, for however long this was going to take.
Ghost thought he might have lost time here, because the next time he blinked, his arm was on fire and the edges of the wound looked black. His rifle slipped from his hand and clattered to the ground. Wasn't there a strap on this thing ? He stood there, uncomprehending, staring at the broken piece of fabric. Right. The fall must have cut it. Or something.
A dull thud made him jolt. He looked up, to the glass spanning the entirety of the wall in front of him. A zombie was pressed to it, glassy eyes looking straight at him. Or through him. He didn't know if zombies could actually see anything. He thought, a bit hysterically, that he'd find out soon.
“Fuck. No,” he croaked, and looked down to his rifle.
It wasn't here. He whipped around, ignoring the dizziness, and found it a few paces behind him. When had he gotten closer to the glass ? He needed his rifle back.
His back hit the glass with a dull thump, echoed by the creature behind him as his legs decided not to work anymore. Ghost had to grit his teeth not to scream. In anger, in pain, in frustration, at whatever sorry fuck created this whole mess. He didn't, just in case Johnny hadn't heeded his order and stayed away. It would be just like him, coming back because he was concerned about Ghost's well being over the noise that surely shook the whole building.
His eyes fell on the body rotting a bit off to the side, black blood pooling underneath its head. That would be him, soon, and a jolt of fear ran through his system. He couldn't. He couldn't stay here and let Johnny finish him off. Would he even notice something was wrong before it was too late ? Before he got too close to get away when the mask hid his rotten features ?
Ghost needed that fucking rifle.
He bit his lip bloody trying to move, making his leg do anything other than shake. He only crumpled further onto the floor, his arm sending fire through his every cell.
Ghost didn't know how long he writhed there before his fingers caught on the holster of his sidearm. He could have laughed. He settled for a stitled, wheezy breath as he pawed at it. And came up fucking empty. Ghost looked down, bereft, and stared as if he could will his pistol into existence. Or teleportation, since it had likely been knocked out during the fall. Either way, it wasn't anywhere in sight or within arm's reach.
He let himself go limp, back resting against the glass wall with a groan. Did he sound like one already ? He wasn't sure. It was getting harder and harder to hear anything but the blood – the poison – rushing in his ears.
Fuck. His shaking hands fumbled to one of his knives instead, and he held the shining blade over his knees, unable to support its normally comforting weight without support. Now, it only served to mock him. Zombies didn't die with their throat slit. He wasn't sure he could die a normal death anymore, with how fast he could feel his nerves being eaten away and replaced by something other. Something cold yet burning at the same time, the sensation throwing him to years before, shivering in the heat of a Mexican cell. This wasn't much better, and he scoffed – more of a wheeze really – as he looked at the white walls of the lab.
Black spots danced in his vision, and he sneered. The flies were already here, waiting to feast on the decay. Why they didn't land on the body close by, ripe and ready, and idled along the far wall of the hallway instead, he wasn't sure. Maybe fresher was better. Heh. Gourmet flies. It wasn't making a whole lot of sense. And the black spots were getting bigger. Fuck. Ghost brought a trembling hand to his injured arm and gripped it.
He swallowed the pained yell and groaned, but the shot of adrenaline cleared his head a bit, vision no longer so fuzzy. The flies were gone and he could feel his slowing pulse stubbornly pumping through every vein in his arm, spreading to his chest. Burning claws raked over his muscles, making them contract with no input of his own, steadily growing in intensity. Every five beats of his heart now, his fingers would flex, arms would curl up and legs would twitch, feets dragging along on the floor.
But no flies was good. No flies meant no maggots.
The pinpricks along his arms were better than the squirming of maggots. He'd never seen the revolting things cling to zombies, but the thought of feeling them even in death was more horrifying than his worst nightmare. Because it wouldn't be a bad dream anymore, it would be true.
Would his face end up as fucked up as Vernon's, macerating under the mask ? Would whatever stops the biters from decomposing past a certain point still be in effect ? Ghost had the sudden urge to rip off his mask, and his knife clattered to the ground. He pawed at his face uselessly, not even managing to grip onto the clammy balaclava. He settled for gripping at the fabric under his jaw instead, taking deep breaths. For what, he wasn't sure, but the breathing exercise was ingrained in his instincts at that point. So he did it. The full count, then all over again when he reached the end. It distracted him slightly from the pain, so it wasn't completely pointless.
Ghost wasn't sure how long he spent slumped there. It could have been minutes, or hours, but whatever rational part of his brain was left told him that Soap would have come looking for him if it had been that long. Fuck, Soap. He was going to come looking. The discarded guns and knives wouldn't be a concern, but himself would be. The balaclava was mere cotton. Ghost wouldn't bet on it stopping teeth biting down with all the strength a lack of pain and awareness had to offer.
He groaned, shifting his weight. How long had he been listing to the side like this ? How unbecoming of the Ghost. If it was him, he could have torn into the fucker who thought playing God with an unknown nerve agent was a good idea. Probably literally by now, and a weak laugh escaped him. He couldn't really feel much of anything, pain included. His hands had stopped shaking. He flexed his fingers and was surprised to see them obey, even when he barely felt the tug on his balaclava. Muted. Anaesthetised. There was still something he could do to hopefully avoid the worst case scenario.
Taking a deep, probably unnecessary breath when you couldn't feel your lungs anymore, he grabbed his jaw, fingers pushing cotton into his mouth and settling around his lower teeth. He could still protect Soap.
He pulled. He felt the tendons rip and bone crack, wondering if this was what Vernon would have felt had he still been able to do so in his death. His hands jerked down at the same time he felt his awareness fade to black.
Ghost would protect Soap.
* * *
Soap clicked on his comms again. Static greeted him, and worry grew in his guts. There shouldn't be interference because of anything, besides maybe the basement, but they'd agreed to join up before either of them went down a shady staircase alone.
“Ghost, come in.”
Mouth pulled in a grim line, Soap finished clearing the last part of his allocated building segment and circled back.
Entering a new room, he spotted immediately the broken walkway Ghost had mentioned, and Soap's heart tripped over itself with the sudden thought that he wasn't responding because he'd fallen from it. It was quickly silenced when his brain kicked him, informing him he'd last talked to the man after whatever happened here. His heart and breathing slowed, but the adrenaline remained.
Soap walked to the edge of the collapsed walkway. It was still extending to the right and – jackpot – there was a staircase going down. If only he could have trusted it to hold his weight, it could have been useful.
Shuffling reverberated off the white walls somewhere in the hallway under him. And a particular groan. Zombies. Or, at least one. Nothing he could see from here.
“Ghost, how copy ?” he tried again.
The radio remained silent.
Ghost stepped out from under the ledge.
“Fuck, L.t.” he sighed, shoulders slumping. “Ye couldn't have answered, ye git ?” he grumbled.
Ghost looked up, pointedly not answering. Fine. Soap glanced at the stairs. If they'd held up under Ghost, surely it would work out. Not like he had much of a choice, since his superior was sulking at him in the middle of a mission, for whatever reason. After so long working together, he'd thought those bouts of brooding silence unless extremely necessary were done and over with. Soap didn't even know what he'd done this time !
After – carefully – going down the rickety stairs, Soap was about to say something about it, poke at whatever this was when he laid his eyes on the mess on the floor.
He froze.
It had been hidden from his view up there, and it had his blood run cold. The zombie's body laying on the floor. The rifle abandoned not too far. Ghost's knife laying similarly next to a big glass wall. Ghost never let his knives strewn about like that if he could help it. Soap forced his voice not to shake, his feet to continue forward.
“Hey, you broken ?”
No answer, and a shiver ran up his spine, making him clench his teeth against it. Slowly, dread pooling in his stomach, Soap gripped his rifle, raising his muzzle just shy of flagging his fellow soldier.
“Ghost ?”
The man was unnaturally still, eyes locked on him but hidden behind the shadows of the mask, his arms hanging straight down next to his sides.
Black blood had dripped over the floor all around him, smeared on the glass wall, tainting the pristine white space.
“Please, Ghost,” he pleaded, voice thin. Still, he raised his muzzle further. “Don't do this to me.”
A throaty gurgle answered him, and Soap bit his tongue in order not to scream. His index finger brushed the trigger, ignoring the trembling of his muzzle. He was close enough it wouldn't be an issue.
He was close, like no zombie had ever let anyone. With a shaky breath, Soap stopped.
“Ghost ?”
A groan answered him. No attack.
A strangled sob escaped Soap, drowned under the heat and dread making his limbs shake, tearing his body into pieces.
“Why !” he screamed, hunching over, not wanting to look into those cloudy eyes any longer.
A loud bang against the glass next to them made him jump. Ghost whipped around, groaning menacingly. How Soap could even tell the tone of it, he had no clue and the thought sounded too hysterical to look at closer. He diverted his attention to the zombie that had reacted to his shout, now bashing himself to the wall trying to get to him. Like a proper zombie does. Ghost just stood there, glaring at it.
Soap moved, eyes scanning his form until it stopped on a hole in one of black sleeves.
“Hey, L.t.”
Ghost turned his head back to him, unblinking.
“I'm going to check that, aye ?”
Silence. Soap bridged the gap between them, fingers brushing cloth.
He knew how dumb this was. He'd let his rifle hang from the strap for this, and it might very well be the last thing he ever does. To no one's surprise, let it be known that John MacTavish died an idiot.
He grabbed the sleeve without getting mauled, and slowly, shakily, he uncovered the wound under it. Black blood stained his gloves, cold to the touch. Soap had to breathe through a wave of nausea before focusing on the dark tendrils snaking from the infected bite. On autopilot, his hands fumbled for his medkit, taking out the disinfectant and bandages, cleaned and wrapped the wound.
When everything was put back into its place, Soap stood there, a deep pit in his chest. Breathing was getting hard, and his vision was blurry for no good reason.
“Anything else yer hiding ?” he wheezed.
Before Ghost could say <strike>do</strike> anything in answer, glass shattered and sprayed all over the floor. Soap gripped his rifle and whirled around to the zombie that had managed to break down the glass wall and aimed, only to have Ghost in his sights.
“What the-”
Soap took a step back as the two collided, jaws open. The zombie was smaller than Ghost, its mouth only reaching his chest plate and biting nothing of importance. Ghost's clamped down on the other's neck, a frustrated growl rising before he headbutted it. Headbutted.
“Steamin' Jesus.”
It was all Soap could think about as Ghost wrestled it to the ground and pounded its skull in with a few – powerful, too powerful – punches. When the biter was down, he raised himself from the floor and stood, motionless again. Black blood was dripping from his limps hands.
Soap's eyes caught on the crookedness of his balaclava. With trembling fingers, he prodded at the man's jaw. It squelched, a horrible sound that made him flinch. Still he didn't let go of his gentle hold. He had half a mind to take the balaclava off, but shelved the thought as fast as it came. That would have been so, so wrong, for so many reasons. Ghost would never forgive him.
It didn't feel just dislocated, and Soap realised, horror climbing up his throat, it was likely only hanging by a few strands of flesh and skin. No damage he could have sustained during this short fight. Nothing that looked to be the doing of the other body laying on the floor. Not with the way the fabric was still caught inside his mouth, snagged on a tooth or two.
Ghost had torn it away.
So he couldn't bite Soap when he'd inevitably turn.
Soap's knees gave out, and he screamed.
He didn't know how long he stayed like that, but his throat was raw and the hands gripping at Ghost's fatigues were sore. He couldn't see them through the gloves, but his knuckles might be permanently white. Over him, Ghost was making little sounds, aborted groans and grunts that reminded Soap too much of the questioning hums the man would offer when Soap was talking in too many circles before getting to the point.
He slumped against Ghost's legs, and muffled his tears into the familiar black fatigues. The solid weight of another person under his forehead did little to calm him down.
“I can't do it,” he sobbed when air came a little easier to his lungs. “I can't leave you here.”
I can't dispose of you, the hole in his heart screamed.
There was movement to their left, and Soap ignored it. It felt unimportant. Ghost wasn't of the same opinion, almost sending Soap sprawling on the stained floor when he dislodged his hold on him to face the threat. A group of zombies had been alerted by all the noise filtering through the broken glass wall, and had made their way over.
Soap watched with detached awe as Ghost ripped every single one to shreds with nothing but his bare hands. It wasn't the tactical precision and coldness he was used to, but it was effective all the same, probably even more. A head rolled towards him, bumping into his knee, and Soap got up mechanically. The room was cleared.
He fished the usb port from his kit, plugged it into what looked to be the main computer beyond the glass and carnage, and started downloading files. Ghost stood right behind him. Soap didn't turn around as he watched the bar fill on the screen until the end. Pocketed the item again and walked out. Ghost followed.
“Come on L.t, we have a report to give to the old man.”
He called for extraction and loaded them into the heli. Soap realised, when they were high up in the air, that Ghost's complete silence hadn't been questioned in the slightest. Maybe...
Soap pulled the straps holding Ghost to his seat when they touched down, and walked out, the man right on his heels. No head turned to them in the bay, nor in the hallways, nor in front of Price's office. Sweat gathered further under Soap's shirt. He knocked.
“Come in.”
He closed the door behind Ghost and faced his Captain. He didn't know what kind of face he was making, but it had Price shooting up from his seat and rounding his desk in the same second.
“What's wrong ?”
Soap could have crumbled again right then and there. He wasn't far from it, really, he realised as felt tears mist his vision. The words tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop them. How he lost contact with Ghost. How he found him. What happened after that. How he got them both back here in one piece.
“Soap.”
“-and it's fine, he just stays where I leave him-”
“Soap, stop.”
“-and he's really strong, killed a bunch of 'em when-”
“John !”
Soap flinched, and took a breath for what felt like the first time since he entered the room.
“Yes, sir,” he croaked.
Price was so pale he looked about to drop any second. Soap was sure he didn't look any better himself.
“It hasn't even been a year since this whole mess started,” he found himself whispering, words clutching at desperate hope. “A cure can be found.”
His next breath was suspiciously wet.
“He's... he's still here,” his voice cracked. “He answers to his name, he protected me. He'd protect the team too.” He had to.
The silence was crushing him. Stupidly, insanely, he wished Ghost would make one of his little noises. He would feel less alone despite the presence at his back.
Price wiped a hand over his face, sighing deeply.
“I need to call Laswell. Starting today, the 141 is not accepting any new members or working alongside other units if Ghost is involved. The Lieutenant will see his own workload reduced due to classified reasons.”
Soap's knees wobbled dangerously. Price's eyes locked with his.
“We can wait.”
But how long, Soap wanted to refute. How long could they hide this, how long before someone found out, how long before their reputation wasn't enough to keep people from poking at their stoic second in command.
“Thank you, sir,” he answered instead.
A hand fell on his shoulder, then hesitantly, on Ghost's.
“You two rest up while I figure out the details, alright ?”
Soap nodded, words and energy depleted. He walked back to his room without really seeing anything, and closed the door behind Ghost. He couldn't help but think of it as a glorified cell when the man simply stood in the middle of it, staring at him.
Simon would have hated it.
“I couldn't do it.”
Soap was going to get used to a shadow looming over his bed as he slept at night.
“I'm sorry.”
More than ever before, the Ghost will be haunting these halls, feeding the rumour mill. This time, Soap doubted it would get more horrifying than the reality.