Simon Ghost Riley

The humvee rattled down the road like it had a personal grudge against every person inside it.

Soap was behind the wheel, grinning like an idiot.

Price had finally surrendered after nearly an hour of MacTavish begging to drive, and everyone was already beginning to regret that decision. The old vehicle groaned with every bump, suspension squeaking beneath the weight of the exhausted soldiers and their gear.

“Thought you said you could handle this thing,” Price muttered from the passenger seat as the humvee bounced over another uneven patch of road.

“I can,” Soap said confidently.

The humvee immediately slammed into a pothole.

Price's hand shot out against the dashboard to steady himself.

Soap winced.

Gaz, wedged into the very back row beside the luggage, groaned loudly. His helmet had been knocked crooked several times already, and one of the bags beside him had fallen against his shoulder.

“My head.”

Soap glanced into the mirror. “You alright?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“Soap.”

“I'm fine, Gaz.”

“You're not the one getting thrown around back here!”

The middle row wasn't faring much better.

The humvee was one of the older ones—the kind that had apparently been designed under the assumption that anyone sitting in the back simply didn't need to remain in their seat. The front had proper restraints. The rear two rows had little more than optimism.

You and Ghost had started on opposite sides of the middle bench, leaving the seat between you empty.

That arrangement had lasted approximately five minutes.

Another pothole sent the entire vehicle lurching sideways.

You grabbed the edge of the seat with both hands, boots scraping against the floor as you fought to stay upright.

Ghost barely moved.

He sat with his arms crossed, shoulders squared, somehow looking completely unaffected by the abuse the humvee was putting everyone else through.

You, meanwhile, slid several inches across the bench.

“Bloody hell—”

Another bump.

You slid farther.

Ghost glanced over.

Another.

You were now practically beside him.

He stared at you.

You stared back.

“Don't.”

“I’m trying not to.”

The humvee bounced again.

Your shoulder knocked against his, and you immediately tried to push yourself away using the seat.

Ghost's expression hardened.

“Watch yourself, recruit. You don't fall on your commanding officer.”

His voice was sharp enough to cut through the engine noise.

Before you could properly brace yourself, he shoved you back toward your side of the bench.

“Sorry—”

The apology barely left your mouth.

Soap hit another pothole.

Hard.

The entire vehicle lurched upward and sideways at once. Your stomach dropped, your hands lost their grip, and suddenly the empty space between you and Ghost was gone.

You landed squarely in Ghost's lap.

Silence.

For half a second, nobody said anything.

Ghost looked down at you.

Then slowly raised his eyes.

“...You were saying?”

You scrambled upright so quickly you nearly cracked your head against the roof.

“I didn't do that on purpose!”

From the front came a poorly suppressed snort.

Soap's shoulders shook as he tried desperately not to laugh.

Price slowly turned his head.

“MacTavish.”

“I didn't say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was.”

“Don't.”

You pressed yourself against the seat, face burning as you tried to find something—anything—to hold onto.

Ghost looked thoroughly unimpressed.

His hand caught the back of your vest before the next turn could send you sliding again.

“Stay put.”

“I’m trying.”

“Try harder.”

Soap laughed.

Ghost's head snapped toward the front.

“Keep your eyes on the road.”

“Aye, sir.”

“You're enjoying this.”

“Maybe a little.”

The humvee hit another pothole.

Everyone bounced.

Gaz swore from the back as his head knocked against the side of the vehicle again.

Price grabbed the dashboard.

Soap's laughter abruptly stopped when the steering wheel jerked beneath his hands.

Ghost's grip tightened on the back of your vest, keeping you from being thrown across the bench again.

“Soap,” Price said slowly.

“Yeah?”

“Slow. Down.”

Soap glanced at the speedometer, then back at the road.

“...Right.”

For approximately three seconds, the ride became smoother.

The engine hummed steadily, tires rolling over a relatively flat stretch of asphalt. Everyone took the brief opportunity to breathe.

You cautiously loosened your grip on the seat.

Ghost noticed.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Don't get comfortable.”

You immediately grabbed the seat again.

Then the road ahead disappeared into another series of potholes.

Ghost stared through the windshield.

“MacTavish.”

Soap sighed.

“Yeah?”

“I'm going to kill you.”

“Get in line.”

The first pothole hit.

Then the second.

Then a third.

You felt yourself beginning to slide again.

Ghost's hand immediately caught the back of your vest.

“Not again.”

“I’m not doing anything!”

“That's what you said last time.”

From the back, Gaz groaned.

“Can you two argue quieter? My skull is already splitting.”

“You want quiet?” Soap called back. “I'll turn the engine off.”

“That isn't how this works!”

Price rubbed a hand down his face.

“I swear, I'm surrounded by children.”

Another violent bump shook the entire humvee.

You lurched sideways.

Ghost caught you before you could go anywhere, his grip firm on your vest as your boots skidded against the floor.

For once, even he looked slightly concerned about where the next pothole might send you.

Then Soap spotted something ahead.

“Oh, bollocks.”

Price looked up.

“What?”

Soap pointed through the windshield.

A stretch of road ahead was almost entirely destroyed.

Ghost's eyes narrowed.

“No.”

Soap tightened his grip on the wheel.

“I'm afraid so.”

“Soap.”

“I'll take it slow.”

Price stared at him.

“You'd better.”

The humvee rolled forward.

You slowly looked at Ghost.

Ghost looked back at you.

Neither of you said a word.

Then the front tire dropped into the first pothole.