#One school had solar panels torn off the roof

[sillymacaronic]

Loving the summer vibes ☀️❤️

[ultsoobins]

and so we march on - CBG

requested:

if you're taking requests, can you do something with beomgyu? maybe he just realizes how much he loves the reader please? thank u ilysm !!

notes:

zombie apocalypse au! some angst, mostly fluff and friendship and love. there’s swearing. got kinda carried away writing it, it’s way longer than i originally meant! i hope y’all like it, i had fun writing it.

summary:

five boys, you, and a bus. also there’s dead people.

“shit,” beomgyu hisses from up above, and your hands still at his tone. you stop tinkering with the radio in your hands just long enough to look up. he rapidly retreats back into the broken-down school bus you’ve all been living in for the past few weeks, closing the emergency exit hatch fluidly as he does.

“what is it?” you ask in a voice barely above a whisper, trying your best to keep the tremor in your voice masked. taehyun echoes you, his words sounding even lower.

“there’s a couple stragglers out by the big tree. they’re a ways off, but there’s no telling if and when they’ll realize there’s breathers here.” beomgyu settles into the bus seat in front of you, wincing as he does so. he stretches his arms out, letting out a grateful groan at the small relief his muscles feel. it’s understandable - his four hour watch shift had extended itself into five, six hours as he’d decided to take over for you to let you keep fiddling with the radio.

“should we shoot ‘em?” yeonjun pipes up from the front, his card game with kai momentarily forgotten. while the elder is distracted, kai switches out some of his cards with the main deck. you disguise your giggle at this as a cough.

“we barely have any bullets left, and we currently only have one of our two guns with properly working silencers.” taehyun responds, wringing his hands. his voice may be stable, void of nervousness, but his actions never are - a byproduct, you suppose, of living during an apocalypse.

the space where your unofficial leader would typically interject is empty, and you realize that you’re all thinking the same thing.

“soobin will get back fine, right?” you question, tugging at the bracelet around your wrist anxiously. “he’s got a good eye, he’s a good shot, and he’s smart as hell.”

“plus, he’s coming in from a different direction than where the zombies are.” kai responds, moments before yeonjun flicks him in the forehead.

“i have peripheral vision, idiot. give me your cards, i’m reshuffling. also, zombie is such a vulgar term. try undead, or something.”

beomgyu mutters an agreement before letting his face get even more serious. you reach over the bus seat, holding your hand out for him to grab. once he does, you squeeze it in an attempt at comforting him.

“he’s also 6’2” and built like a kangaroo. if the zombies -” yeonjun shoots him a look. “the undead are going to spot anyone, it’ll be him.”

“don’t speak it into existence,” you sigh. “he’ll get the gas, and we’ll get the fuck out of here. you just see.”

this time, he squeezes your palm.

“in the meantime,” taehyun diverges. “how’s the radio coming?”

“i’m sure you all heard the static - which means it’s now picking up some signals, at least, but i also fixed the power source. rewired the whole thing to use solar energy.”

“guess those panel bits i found last week worked wonders, huh?” beomgyu grins, and you smile back. you draw your hand back from his, trying your best not to reel from the loss of his warmth. you look around the bus - your current home, you suppose - for a brief moment, taking in the lack of true light in it.

you all have flashlights, sure, and the occasional ray of sunshine will seep through the boards that the six of you fixed over the windows and the black paint you’d swiped over the door. the majority of your light intake comes from whenever the hatch is open and some one’s on watch, and that’s sporadic as it is.

it’s the days that light seeps in, by some miracle, under an entire row of windows that you’ve already come to love.

funny how the sun shines through the end of the world.

you blink, drawing yourself out of your thoughts.

“with a solar panel radio, though, i’m suddenly not a fan of the fact that we have everything boarded up and blacked out.” you point out, and yeonjun groans slightly at the truth in your words. “i think i only need to tweak it a bare amount more for it to catch any signals that are findable, but it isn’t going to work without semi-steady light source.”

“we can probably do something about it, i mean - “ beomgyu is interrupted by a graceless banging against the back door. kai, the only one with his feet in the aisle, gets up, ready to rush towards it.

taehyun quickly juts an arm out, effectively stopping the younger boy.

“we don’t know who it is,” he whispers harshly, and kai steps back. before any of you can open your mouth and ask your safety question, the banging resumes.

“open up!” soobin’s voice calls. none of you move. “fuck, fine,” he pauses. “bang opened his music academy in 2013, that’s where we all met!”

you rush over immediately, swinging the door open. soobin stumbles in, one arm wrapped around a canister of gasoline. the hand attached to the same arm is toting two others. he pulls the door shut with his free hand, making sure that it holds. as he does so, you pull the gun from his makeshift holster, setting it gently with the rest of the weapons stockpile you all have.

“didn’t even wait for me to ask,” the words fall out of your mouth to try and lighten the situation, and soobin lets out a dry chuckle. he shakes his head, taking a moment to gather his thought and his breaths. he’s very evidently been running from something. you move back, settling into the seat beomgyu happens to be in.

before you can apologize and sit back in your own space, he wraps his arms around you. seems like you could both use some comfort right now.

“two undead were out there - one was by the tree and the other was way far out by the tire. the second one was on my ass the moment i came in sight, so i had to put a bullet in its head. i don’t know if the other saw me or not - i booked it.” soobin’s story comes out in pants and is short and sweet and to the point. still, you find yourself tensing. beomgyu’s arms wrap tighter around your body.

“you got the gas though,” taehyun responds, trying to find optimism in the situation. “that’s something.”

kai nods, gesturing vaguely to the canisters before speaking, his words directed towards soobin. “i jump started the battery and all of the systems the moment you left - there’s a bare minimum of gas in the tank now, but it isn’t enough to even get out of this lot. once we pour it in, we should be home free.”

you knock on a wooden window board at his words, just in case.

“who’s going to do it, then?” yeonjun asks, nervousness laced in his words like a poison. it’s obvious that nobody wants to be the one, but it’s obvious that nobody wants any of the others to do it either.

you sigh.

“i will.”

“no-” beomgyu is quick to speak, but you’re quick to quiet him, too.

“i’ll be fine, beom,” you say, shooting him a smile you hope is bright enough to mask your growing fear. after all, the second zombie is still out there.

waiting.

“listen -” he tries again, but you disentangle yourself from his arms in favor of starting the walk out the back door. on your way out, you pick up one of the fuller canisters.

“i’ll be out and in in no time,” you say, and with that you’re out the door and into the day.

or, as it turns out to be, the night. when had the sun set? you aren’t sure. still, you make your way quickly to the fuel tank’s opening, ignoring the weight of the canister and the grimness of the night that envelopes you. it’s once you open the valve and put the mouth of the gas can to the mouth of the tank that you realize you’ve forgotten a weapon.

“shit,” you whisper under your breath.

it’s just as the can empties and you drop it that, suddenly, you feel the hairs on your neck stand up. you whirl around, and upon your eyes meeting another pair you can’t stop the scream that rips out of your throat.

it’s within five meters of you, and, no matter how slow the undead can be, you know that you almost have no time.

that, and your fear is paralyzing you.

its flesh is rotting, and the foul smell overtakes your senses before anything else. as it drags towards you in slow motion, chunks of skin and hair fall off of it, tainting the ground underneath it. one of its eyes has been gauged out, and it barely has any fingers left.

another scream escapes you as your fingers twitch in the air, searching for the weapon that isn’t at your hip. your panic has your senses so dampened that you don’t notice the sound of the emergency escape hatch clicking open, nor do you hear the back door clanging.

even the call of your name, distinctly from beomgyu, is lost on your deaf ears. the zombie drags closer. you close your eyes on instinct, the grotesque creature becoming too much for your senses.

suddenly, a shot rings out, just as a hand tightens around your arm. you jump, screaming once more as you open your eyes to see yeonjun’s fingers pressing into your bicep, and the undead being dead on the ground in front of you.

you glance up.

there, a revolver in his hands and relief in his eyes, leaning out over the emergency exit hatch, stands beomgyu. he lowers the gun only once you make eye contact with him, and doesn’t hesitate at all to hand the gun off to whoever is underneath him, climb out onto the roof, and slide down to meet you on the ground.

the moment he lands, yeonjun lets go of you, stepping back to watch you embrace your savior. as beomgyu wraps his arms around you, feels your tears stain the collar of his worn, torn-up old shirt, he realizes something.

he loves you, and he can’t live without you.

“don’t ever,” he starts, voice breaking at the thought of what could have happened. “don’t ever pull shit like that again, you hear me?” he presses his lips to the crown of your head, pulling you impossibly closer. you clutch at the back of his shirt like a lifeline, your sobs dying down after eons, soaking instead into beomgyu’s clothes.

you eventually step back, wiping your eyes with the backs of your hands.

“thank you,” you whisper, and beomgyu shakes his head, letting his hands rest on your hips still. his grip tightens suddenly, and he pulls you back into his arms.

“i love you,” he mumbles, lips right above your ears.

“i love you.” you whisper into his neck.

before either of you can lean in, your lips mere centimeters from his, a voice interrupts.

“can you guys finish this on the bus? soobin’s driving, so we’re dying today anyways. just a little later rather than sooner.”

soobin’s voice follows as you start giggling.

“kai, i swear -”

“what? I’m just telling the - put that board down!”

beomgyu smooths down your hair before moving away from  you, opting to lace his fingers with yours instead as he pulls you back onto the bus. you lean into him unconsciously once you both settle into a seat.

“we lived another day,” you say, quietly enough so only he can hear. he grins.

“and we’ll live another tomorrow.”

bonus:

you turn the dial one last time, ignoring the bumps as taehyun drives. it’s been three days on the road, and you’re getting tired of all the false signals and dead ends you’ve been hitting.

before you can dismiss this try as well, however, a distinct noise echoes through the bus.

everyone stops.

“for anyone listening, we repeat, an army base is just outside of south bend off of the interstate near the old local clothing store. we have food, water, clothing, shelter healthcare, and protection. today is april 21st, 2019. for anyone listening, we repeat, an army base is -”

yeonjun is the first to let out a yell of pure happiness, and the rest of you follow soon after. you’re safe. you’ll be safe. all will be well.

in the heat of the moment your best friend - your boyfriend - pulls you close, kissing you with all of the emotion in his body. before you can pull away, he whispers against your lips.

“we’ll live for forever,” he says. you smile, eyes shining with happiness.

“and forever continues tomorrow.”

[newstfionline]

Trapped between Israel and Hamas, Gaza’s wasted generation is going nowhere

By William Booth and Hazem Balousha, Washington Post, August 6, 2017

They are the Hamas generation, raised under the firm hand of an Islamist militant movement. They are the survivors of three wars with Israel and a siege who find themselves as young adults going absolutely nowhere.

In many circles in Gaza, it is hard to find anyone in their 20s with real employment, with a monthly salary.

They call themselves a wasted generation.

Ten years after Hamas seized control of Gaza, the economy in the seaside strip of 2 million has been strangled by incompetence, war and blockade.

Gaza today lives off its wits and the recycled scraps donated by foreign governments. Seven in 10 people rely on humanitarian aid.

Young people say they are bored out of their minds.

They worry that too many of their friends are gobbling drugs, not drugs to experience ecstasy but pills used to tranquilize animals, smuggled across Sinai. They dose on Tramadol and smoke hashish. They numb.

Hamas has recently stepped up executions of drug traffickers.

Freedoms to express oneself are circumscribed. But the young people speak, a little bit. They say their leaders have failed them--and that the Israelis and Egyptians are crushing them.

Why not revolt? They laugh. It is very hard to vote the current government out--there are no elections.

“To be honest with you, we do nothing,” said Bilal Abusalah, 24, who trained to be a nurse but sometimes sells women’s clothing.

He has cool jeans, a Facebook page, a mobile phone and no money.

He and his friends get by with odd jobs, a few hours here and there. They worked at cafes during the busy evenings of Ramadan in June. They will help an uncle in his shoe shop as the school year approaches in August. They make $10 a day at these kinds of jobs, a few coins for coffee and cigarettes.

“We are the generation that waits,” Abusalah said.

Reporters asked a 25-year-old college graduate, who got his degree in public relations, what he did for a living.

He answered, “I stare into space.”

Raw sewage washes onto the beaches. The water looks blue at the horizon, where Israeli gunboats lurk, enforcing a six-mile blockade. But the surf line is a foamy brown.

The rappers of Gaza see this as a metaphor. They are literally trapped in their own excrement.

Most young people in Gaza have not been out, either through Israel, which is almost impossible, or through the Rafah crossing into Egypt, which has been mostly closed for the past four years.

Electricity service is down to four hours a day. The young activists in the refugee camps who dared in January to protest power cuts? They were hustled off to jail.

In the dusty gray cement-colored world of Gaza, now sputtering along on Chinese solar panels and Egyptian diesel, young people spend their days, day after day, playing with their phones, their worlds reduced to palm-size screens, to YouTube videos and endless chat.

Unemployment for Gaza’s young adults hovers around 60 percent. This is not just a dull World Bank number. This is a stunning number, the highest in the Middle East and among the worst rates in the world.

Think-tank scholars warn that Egypt’s youth unemployment rate of 30 percent is “a ticking time bomb.” In Gaza, the jobless rate for young people is double that.

The Israeli government under Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu says what happens in Gaza is all the fault of Hamas, a terrorist organization. Hamas leaders traditionally blame the Israeli blockade for their problems. Gaza is allowed no seaport, no airport and limited exports, mostly fruits and vegetables, alongside some furniture and textiles. Lately the pressure on the strip has only gotten worse, as Palestinian Authority President Mahmoud Abbas recently slashed payments for Gaza’s electricity, to squeeze people to reject Hamas.

Gaza’s young people describe their lives as a kind of sick experiment.

The literacy rate in Gaza is 96.8 percent, higher than in the West Bank. The “Palestinian engineer” was once the gold standard in the Middle East. In the past, immigration was the door to life. That door has slammed shut. Few get out of Gaza these days.

Yet the universities of Gaza are still pumping out graduates by the thousands, even though the least likely person to find work in Gaza today is a college graduate, especially a woman.

The most recent surveys reveal that half of the Gaza population would leave the enclave if given the chance.

“I don’t believe it,” said Mohammad Humaed, 24, who studied cinema at a university but works a couple of nights a week at a coffee shop in a refugee camp. “All the young people would leave.”

Economists use the term ”de-development” to describe what is happening.

Young people in Gaza have a joke to say the same thing.

They say their unemployed friends “are driving the mattress,” meaning they spend their daylight hours sprawled in bed.

Two years ago, the United Nations warned that Gaza could become “unlivable” by 2020. U.N. officials recently said they had been overly optimistic: The place could collapse next year.

This is the generation that grew up immersed in the rhetoric of the Hamas version of the Palestinian resistance, a moralistic message of piety and opposition to Israel hammered home in Hamas-controlled mosques and military-style summer camps for children and teens, who were taught first aid and how to throw a grenade.

But in many interviews, in their torn-just-so jeans and fresh white sneakers, Gaza’s young people today say they would rather fight for a job in Tel Aviv than fight Israelis.

“If the borders were open, I’d work in Israel in a minute. I got absolutely no problem with that. Everybody would work in Israel,” said Iyad Abu Heweila, 24, who graduated with a degree in English education two years ago but now spends his days hanging out.

“I have no achievements,” he said.

Heweila asked if he could make a confession.

“I know it’s bad, but sometimes I wonder, if there’s another war with Israel, maybe there would be work for translators?” Heweila asked.

“That is sick, I know. I tell you this to show how desperate we feel,” he said. “I want a job. I want money. I want to start my life.”

This summer the nights are inky dark, now that power service has been reduced to three or four hours a day.

Every evening a group of friends gather on a rooftop. They sit on cheap plastic chairs or pieces of cement block. It is cooler up there. The night sea breeze rattles the fronds of date palms, and you can hear some Hamas official on a radio program playing in a nearby apartment. Nobody on the roof pays any attention.

Asked what he did that day, Ahmed Abu Duhair, 25, said he slept until late afternoon.

He lives for the night. “Just talking, laughing, smoking on the roof to make us a little bit happy before we die,” Duhair said.

“We are closer than brothers,” he explained, as they passed the water pipe around and took deep huffs of apple-spiced tobacco. “We’re not lazy guys. We’ve been working since we were kids.”

They began to tell stories about their first jobs, selling cigarette lighters in traffic, helping vendors at the market. Asked how old they were then, they answered they were 8 or 9 or 10.

They were envious of their friend Tamer al-Bana, 23, the only one among them who was married. Bana has two young children and a third on the way. He had to borrow $7,000 from a relative to wed, a debt that would take him years to pay off.

If the young men on the roof are desperate, so too are college graduates. Mona Abu Shawareb, 24, graduated with a degree in psychology a year ago but hasn’t gotten her diploma yet because she owes the university money.

Shawareb tries hard to keep busy. She takes free English classes at a Turkish charity; she volunteers at an organization that works with street youth; she did an internship with the U.N. refugee agency and learned Microsoft Word and Excel.

But like many unemployed young people here, she lives on the Internet, feeding friends and followers a stream of updates on Instagram, WhatsApp, Facebook and Snapchat.

Like most women in Gaza, Shawareb dresses conservatively when she leaves the house. But she confessed that when she looks at the Internet and sees women in the West running in athletic clothes, “I feel envious,” she said. “I want to jog.”

Mohammad al-Rayyas, 25, said his heart aches for Cairo, where he received a degree in accounting. In the two years he’s been back home in Gaza, his life has stalled.

“It is more than boring,” he said, struggling to find the words. “It is very slow. The time. It seems different here.”

He has tried to find work in his field--at businesses, banks, international aid agencies. No luck. “No wasta. You know what wasta is?”

It is an Arabic word that, loosely translated, means connections or clout, and it often underscores a system plagued by corruption or nepotism.

Rayyas is unique among his contemporaries. He’s traveled, he’s gotten a taste, he’s lived abroad.

It is a cliche to call Gaza an open-air prison, but to many people it feels not only as if there is no way out, but also that the walls are closing in.

Gaza is just 24 miles long on the coastline--less than the length of a marathon. At its narrowest it is just four miles, an hour’s walk.

The enclave is surrounded by Israeli perimeter fence, bristling with cameras, watch towers and remote-controlled machine guns. On the Egyptian border, once honey­combed with Hamas smuggling tunnels, there is now a broad buffer zone, scraped clean by bulldozers, as forbidding as a no man’s land.

And the sea? Gaza fishermen are blocked by Israeli gunboats and forbidden to venture beyond six miles. For young people, the sea that once brought relief is now so polluted by untreated human waste that the Health Ministry has warned bathers to stay away.