Slowest Heart

Chapter 7

November 6th, 2022

Sleep takes Ghost, whether or not he struggles against it.

The usual ebb and flow of nightmares and dreams that feel just as acute, just as real, flood his senses. The din of bullet fire is more welcome than the feel of damp soil threatening to suffocate him, or of strange hands clawing at him in the darkness. This time, those strange hands are feral and wild, digging into his flesh to bring him further down. Ripping and tearing, the pain an acute reminder of his failures.

There are moments, where his brother talks to him quietly, nonsensical words no matter how hard he tries to concentrate. All Ghost wants is to hear him once more, his family, his best friend. To watch his nephew grow up and live a happy life with parents who love him.

It never lasts, the fleeting moments of almost happiness in the dark of his mind. Ghost is back in the graveyard, reminded that it's his fault. It's always his fault. If he hadn't poured himself into this life, attempted to make something from the shattered pieces of his youth, then they'd still be here. And Simon would still be with them.

The ground at his feet rumbles and heaves, clawing hands erupting from earth, but this time not his own. His brother's hands, filthy and crusted red as they sprout up, grabbing handfuls of mud and grass for leverage. Ghost wants it to stop, wants to turn away and make the dream end, but he sees the gaunt desiccated face push up through the grave, his teeth gnashing and grinding together with a hunger that even his nightmares haven't brought forth before now.

A hand clamps around his ankle, pulling him down through earth and darkness--

Ghost shudders awake, finally, wrapped in his sheets and struggling to steady himself. There's light peeking through his bedroom window, evidently morning of the next day. It's rare he sleeps completely through the night, but considering how long he had been awake, he can't argue. His hands shake in desperate need for real stability, and it takes him a moment to find his blanket over the edge of the bed. The heavy weight of it grounds him as he pulls it around himself, brings him back to reality after so many hours of torturous images.

Some of it was new, the severity of the hands and Tommy crawling from his grave, and Ghost can only attribute it to the new affliction sweeping the world. Literal fucking zombies, and of course his head would turn it against him, blame him for this along with everything else. But he can't kill a disease, can't fight every civilian he comes across to protect the world from the unnatural. He can barely safeguard himself and his battle partner.

Soap, probably still asleep in the guest room. At least Ghost has a guest room and isn't making Soap put up with the couch—or god forbid, share the master bedroom.

All things considered, they're lucky. Lucky that Ghost has a home in the middle of the countryside thanks to his paranoia, away from immediate danger and with all the materials of your average prepper. Lucky that they have the training that they have, which should keep them relatively safe against such an impossible situation. Lucky that they both have such lucrative careers that they could dump a whole lot of money on food and other sundries to help them last as long as they can.

Maybe even lucky that neither of them are alone in this.

Ghost emerges from his bedding with a groan, suddenly aware that he's sore in every inch of muscle down to bone. It's been a grueling 10 days, from Al Mazrah to Las Almas, barely any food or sleep, and not a single shower between it all. There's a certain grit above his aches—dust and sand caked to his skin with blood that doesn't belong to him. He'll need to wash his bedding after his gear, why did he get into bed without a shower?