strong at the broken places

gabe khalil. 36. days combat medic. muslim-american. point tally: 120 currently traveling: to moscow for a medical run

[gabekhalil-blog]

the sound & the fury 

                                               // 8tracks

           a playlist for gabe khalil and the lost children of the beaten world

>> i. me and a gun - tori amos  ii. la petit fille de la mer - vangelis  iii. sunday morning - velvet underground  iv. trouble - cat stevens  v. the beatitudes - vladimir martynov  vi. my body is a cage - arcade fire  vii. reckoner - radiohead  viii. i love you more than you love yourself - austra  ix. needle in the hay - elliott smith  x. cross bones style - cat power  xi. the night cafe (loving vincent) - clint mansell  xii. look what they’ve done to my song ma - cat power  xiii. i’m on fire - chromatics xiv. i’m still here - tom waits

[scrapofsassafrassssghjo]

Visit Original Link

Vashti Bunyan - Train Song

Travelling north, travelling north to find you Train wheels beating, the wind in my eyes Don’t even know what I’ll find when I get to you Call out your name love, don’t be surprised

[gabekhalil-blog]

Shrike & Mute!

SHRIKE: How different has your character become since the war?

May 5th, 1985.

A bead of sweat trickleddown Gabe’s forehead, the summer sun tanning his skin and the gentle breeze ofthe Georgia heat flowing through the soft curls on his head. He took amoment to lift his arms to the sky, letting the air coat his sweat-encasedframe as he soared. “Wake up, Ali!” yelled a teammate as he tossed Gabethe basketball. His buds around the neighborhood had unanimously decided tocall him Ali instead of Gabe, as it seemed less gentrified. Every day afterschool, they’d meet up at Simpson Street and shoot hoops. The upper class thathad invaded their city usually didn’t venture out this way, especially afterthe riots.

Juke jams and b-ball was their only break from the strugglesof daily life, and Gabe much preferred this to attending a stuffy mosque, orhanging with the rich white kids that had been given money by mommy and daddyto live in an ‘artsy’ and ‘hip’ urban neighborhood. Gabe’s family had lived in subsidized apartment buildings since they had immigratedto America to escape the tumultuous political climate of Egypt, and they’dbarely had enough to get by his entire life. It was a life from the past that embarrassedhim, a time they no longer discussed. The Khalils were used to being poor, justthe way Gabe was used to saving up whatever spare change he had to buy the nexttape that dropped, or sneak booze from whoever would sell it to him and hisfriends. They’d ride the MARTA after school and hustle to the pool halls, thecookouts, the block parties. Atlanta was on fire, but Gabe was the one burning,and what he and his friends lacked in money was made up with a lifetime ofmemories. He had seen the suffering of his fellow immigrants, as well as therejoicing of a people who were liberated. The world was within their grasp, andthese people who didn’t fit in anywhere else belonged with him. It inspired himto lead a life of helping others, and shaped him into the man he would become.

At twenty one yearsold, Gabe didn’t have much, though he did have his brain. A clever brain, atthat. After spending his summers flipping burgers at the Varsity, he was ableto submit a request for financial aid and get into the Medical College ofGeorgia. Though his parents were proud, it was nearly laughable to assume theycould afford to put him through school, unless he wanted years of student loanshanging over his head. It was through this experience that his father expressedthe value in joining the military. Free room and board, freehealth insurance, and he could go to college to study pre-med. So he applied tothe U.S. military, and decided to enlist in the Armed Forces. Four long years and a bachelor’s degreelater, Gabe was on his way to fulfilling his dreams.

                                                       * * *

“ATL got another thing comin’, man,” shouted a friend after their game, the old crew stillsharing joints behind the bleachers all these years later (except for Gabe, due to his military status.) “Squad’s back together,” crooned another friend. The court was illuminated by the sun, highlighting the nervous look on Gabe’s little sister’s face as he caught a glimpse of her running up with apiece of paper in hand. She looked to be in tears, as though it couldn’t wait. “Gabe!”she shouted, holding up the paper. He made his way outside the court, takingher in his arms. “What is it, Jazmin?” he asked in Arabic, glancing over her tomake sure she wasn’t hurt. She held the paper out to him, refusing to look intohis eyes. He took it into his hands, inspecting the text. “They want you in theU.N.” she said with a sad tone permeating her voice. “You’re going to that country with all the bombings ‘n’ shit.” He scanned the words on the paper. Deployment.

“What if I lose you?”she asked, peering up to him.

Gabe bent down onone knee, putting his hands on either side of her arms, shielding her from thedarkness of the world around them, the way he always did. “I love you. I’ll never leave you,” hepromised to his sister, taking her into his arms and rocking her from side toside as the tears fell from her eyes. They were silent for a few moments, theshock settling in. “I will always be with you.”

That was the first timehe made he a promise he couldn’t keep, and the first time he felt the earthmove as he contemplated what the future held.

His dream had cometrue, and nothing terrified him more.

MUTE: What moral codes does your character live by?

Gabriel’s moral code is to be defined in three very simple rules. Onlyharm others in the case of self-defense, help those who will help themselves andothers, and only take what others don’t need. Before trusting anyone, hismethods are extremely similar to Rick’s from The Walking Dead, as he wonders how many walkers a person has killed as opposed to how many people they’ve killed, and why. It’s a hard world out there, and although he is a forgiving person, he won’t excuse blatant murder, for any reason. Do no harm, but take no shit.

[gabekhalil-blog]

location: Yefremov, Russia, near the Krasivaya Mecha River time: present  status: open

Gabe had been on the move back from Moscow for weeks now, and after successfully managing a relatively safe run into the perimeter of the city, for once the hiccups seemed smaller than the victories. He had left the Days camp on special terms with permission from leader Volkov, who knew he was looking for a cure for the horrific radiation poisoning that seemingly everyone in camp was suffering from. He himself was no exception. It was like he was standing in a tomb, and the dead didn’t consist of only walkers. They were all doomed from the start, life hanging in an insidiously delicate balance. Fate swung like a Sword of Damocles over their heads, and Gabe wondered how much time he had left before it ran out.

He had slipped in and out through the sewers of Moscow practically undetected, with the small exception of some walkers who he and his traveling partners handled quickly. He had bribed the travelers with the promise of being the first to receive the cocktail cure he had formulated rather simplistically from the most basic of antibiotics and medicinal properties. At first, the biggest challenge was getting in the lab to get what he needed, and now; it was getting out and getting to his people that presented the more intimidating task. He had already tested the cocktail on his traveling companions, and the results seemed to be positive so far. He wouldn’t even know where to begin to formulate a cure for the disease itself, but it was looking like he at least had a resolve for the symptoms to offer.

For once, things were looking up for Gabe, and there weren’t only negatives in sight. He felt overjoyed with the thought of possibly fulfilling his dream of helping others, really helping them, not just temporarily fixing their stomach aches or stitching up wounds. He was so close he could taste it, and he felt like his hard work would pay off. Every step his aching feet took led him closer and closer to his future, and for once he felt useful as his small traveling group set up camp outside of Yefremov, Russia. The collective had heard rumors of the Days moving east, and so that was where they were heading. He had promised them a safe home with his faction in exchange for their help, and he was confident that they’d be about as safe as possible with the Days. Volkov cared about each and every one of their people, and although Gabe wasn’t able to carry a substantial conversation with them due to the language barrier, their words had been passed along to Gabe, and impacted him deeply. It let him know he was with the right people and in the right place.

Currently, he was taking some time away from the pack to focus on getting his mind in order. He had spent weeks on edge, many a night spent in deep, anxious thought, worried that he wouldn’t pull off the mission. Sleep evaded him in spite of the immense fatigue he felt from walking so far, and he knew he’d worn out his soles a great deal. Finally, he’d chosen to relax. It was as though he was washing off all of his stress and fears into the Krasivaya Mecha River as the sun refused to greet him, water pouring over his chest and freeing him of grime and soot. It felt euphoric to be clean at last, and it was a rare treat that he indulged in whenever it was presented. He was at peace. That is, until he heard a branch crack behind him, causing him to hide behind a bush and pick up his staff resting against it. “Whoever you are, I’m naked and armed,” he said with a commanding tone. “Don’t even think about it, man.”

[gabekhalil-blog]

godless

GODLESS: Does your character believe in a god?

tw: death

Small screams filled the stiff air as Gabriel flicked his head around in search of the owner, treading through the inclement weather with a small band of companions. He searched for a few minutes, losing valuable time until he found the source, a child with a nasty scrape across the arm. He put his hand over her little rosebud lips, hushing her from the possibility of someone much worse than him finding her. He dressed the wound and walked her back to his camp, giving her food and medical treatment. They all tried to pull their languages together to find out which language he spoke, but she didn’t speak. Instead, she drew the Russian word for “alone” in the sand.

“You don’t have to be alone,” he said in his best Russian.

In the morning, the girl had run away.

He didn’t know why.

A few days later into their travel, Gabe and his company had run across a small huddle in a field. Upon further investigation, he could see there were children standing in front of the crowd. His eyes focused on the girl from before.

“They are auctioning children,” whispered a member of his party. “What do we do?”

He watched in horror at the events unfolding before him, unsure whether he should jump in or not. But before he could, a buyer had made a claim for all three girls, from what he could understand in Russian. He watched as the man made his deal, exchanging furs for human beings. Gabriel made eye contact with the one from before, and he knew it was her because she had his bandage around her little arm. Just before he could open his mouth to speak, all three were shot with bullets to the chest. Gabriel almost cried out, but his comrades covered his mouth, desperate to save their own lives, and escape the situation without any interference. But what Gabe saw that day would never leave him, and he wondered if people made their own version of Allah in this hell he aimlessly wandered through. He had never had to bury a child before, and as he and his comrades dug three short holes in the ashy terrain, he wondered if the heartbreak would ever end.

[castilloerik-blog1]

CHARACTER TITLE ASKS — NOVAC EDITION

I thought this might be something fun for all of us! I read through everybody’s small blurbs on the main, and then gathered relevant questions from lines that struck me. I actually wanted to copy paste the lines that inspired these questions, because they are honestly so beautiful. That’ll make the ask meme a little messy though, so I opted not to do that! Anyway, I hope everybody enjoys this!

RAVAGED: What is your character’s biggest fear? PROPHET: What bruises does your muse hide? CRIMSON FLOWER: What skills did your character have to learn in order to survive their present situation? WEASEL: How does your muse deal with their devils? SHRIKE: How different has your character become since the war? MUTE: What moral codes does your character live by? WAYWARD: What are some objects from before the war that your muse holds on to? GODLESS: Does your character believe in a god? BOTANIST: What would your muse be willing to do in order to protect their ‘safe place’? REVENANT: Describe some of the most painful losses your muse has experienced. VAGABOND: Who does your muse trust? WRAITH: Has your muse killed another person before? How many? WAR VETERAN: Does your muse work better alone or with others? DAMNED: What is a promise your character muse gave, and still hopes to pursue? HUNTER: What does your muse consider as home these days? SAINT: Has the apocalypse changed your muse’s sense of self? SAMARITAN SOLDIER: What traits has your retained, even after the apocalypse? GHOST: What is your muse afraid of? CONTRARY: What are false hopes that your muse has fallen for?

[chelseaperetti]

[gabekhalil-blog]

jakubzietek:

The eyes that found his were like knives in the dark. Kuba could not distinguish anything beyond the grime that covered every inch of the soldier’s skin, which was obscured further by the regulation-looking gas mask that wheezed gently in the ashen air. Kuba’s own breath came in great gulps; his head span with the effort. Strange hands gripped his body, jerked his trouser leg, investigated the trap teeth. There was blood everywhere. Bright, like rubies, startlingly red against the grey ferns and churned-up soil from his struggling. The sight made Kuba’s heart pound in fear. That’s mine, he realised numbly, that’s my blood…

Then the stranger was speaking - calmly, from far away - trying to distract from the deft way he slung his rucksack free and rummaged through it with one free hand. Kuba gasped, panicked, frozen to the spot. He felt like he’d sprouted roots and the ground was sucking him down, down, into the sludge and the shit and the endless wretched quagmire of his own foolishness. The man - was it even a man? - their uniform was unlike any he’d seen before, and Kuba had been forced to face any variety of enemy, local and foreign. He snatched glimpses through fluttering eyes. Each pump of his heart sent more blood to pulse between the stranger’s gloved fingers. If Kuba looked down again he would be sick. He knew it.

“I – don’t –” How could he say the words? Kuba’s mind scrambled weakly for the right combination of sounds. The man was speaking English, he thought, although it was difficult to hear over the sound of his own sobs and his jumping pulse. “I – Polskie.” The forest swayed drunkenly around him. “I… am Polskie.”

There was a terrible burning sensation. Everything went dark. When Kuba opened his eyes, it was with the confused realisation he must have passed out for an instant. He caught a glance of something that might have been a bottle of antiseptic (how did he get his hands on that?) before the stranger’s hands clamped down again, this time tightly and with purpose on Kuba’s wound, which pounded shallowly against the pressure. His mouth had opened in a silent scream.

Their gaze met again. Kuba closed his eyes and swallowed with difficulty. He forced himself to breathe hard through his nose, thinking each rush of dry air in his lungs as a minor victory. He knew what came next. He knew what the man had to do to him.

“Wait!” The English sounded terrified and overly-enunciated. Kuba bit down on his lip. He had found the man’s wrist and was holding it hard enough to feel the small bones beneath. Panting, he risked a look at his leg, then just as swiftly jerked away, moaning a little.

“Wait. You…” Kuba wanted to cry. “Do not chop. Please!” He grabbed at man’s forearm and stared wildly up into his half-hidden face, those eyes that were wide with surprise. “No chop my leg!”

It was no use. This man would be a screamer.

“I have to stitch!” Gabe spoke to the man. “No cut! No cut.” He could detect the horror in his patient’s expression that sliced through the cold, stiff air like a knife. Only this man was not as dull as the knives that laid around these days, instruments that turned up rusted from cutting too much. This man was as sharp and sudden as a freshened knife, only his yelps shattered between them unlike the draw of a knife, and more like a cacophony of noise and sound. “Shhh!” Gabriel put a hand over the stranger’s mouth before proceeding, needing to calm him. He put a finger up to his own lips, indicating him to hush. 

“Please,” Gabriel asked. “Let me help you.” 

He remembered the sting and slice of a terrible cut, and how painful it was to sit there and endure such agony. He felt awful for the boy, though he needed to proceed before he lost too much blood. “I’m sorry.” He tugged a handkerchief from his pocket, indicating he would stuff it in his mouth to stifle the screaming and not draw any unwanted attention from walkers, or worse.

“No cut,” he reminded him, shaking his head. “Put in mouth,” he spoke as calmly as he could, mind scrambled from all of the distractions. He put the cloth inside the boy’s mouth, refocusing his attention to the wound. “I’m sorry about the taste,” he mumbled through the mask. He couldn’t stop shaking from the screams, startled and immensely struck under the pressure. He froze for a second, reminded of the days of combat and having to help screaming children in the midst of bombs and explosions. Sarajevo was a cake walk compared to these days, but the memories still hung like a Sword of Damocles over his head.

His chest heaved unsteadily as he went to the place of his nightmares with each drawing breath that turned to trembling gasps. The memories shot through him like the gnawing of teeth, each ripping into him like a fresh bite. He couldn’t keep going, not now. Sarajevo. Lives lost. The bunker. Lives lost. Fallout. Earth was lost.

Gabe was lost and suffocating under the undulating waves of pressure from the past. His head began to pound against his own flesh, threatening to rip through his skull and into the air. He ripped off the hellish mask, gasping for air in between unsteady gulps. Panic attacks weren’t too frequent for him; though when they hit, it was nearly impossible to move past them. 

He tried to close his eyes and count to ten, inhaling and exhaling until he fell back on his bottom, rubbing the round blue orbs. He opened them suddenly after regaining some of his energy, gently pulling the man’s leg in between his own legs, bent at the knee. He kept quiet, trying his hardest to focus on the task at hand. He pulled the needle and thread from his pocket, utilizing his other free hand to clear the area with tissue. “Please try to sit still,” he spoke through the streams of sweat. He couldn’t describe how much worse injuries he’d seen, but for some reason, today he couldn’t handle the pressure. The panic controlled him like a cold, firm hand, swaying him to whatever degree it desired to manifest.

[lucyquin]

Don’t be so tough so early in the morning. I’m sure you’ve cut plenty people’s throats. I haven’t even had my coffee yet.

Ernest Hemingway, from To Have And Have Not  (via violentwavesofemotion)

[gabekhalil-blog]

daryavolkov:

They looked, again, at the map he was holding, a the distance between here and Moscow, the closest city that might have the supplies he needed, but also a place so dangerous they themself had given it a wide berth for years, now, too frightened of what a place like that might contain, what it might do to the people who risked proximity.

There was so much they wanted to say, to him. If they were understanding him – and they were fairly certain they were – it would be a long time before the two saw one another again, if they ever did. What he was proposing would take incredible luck, and even though they believed that God would guide him safely to where he needed to go, and bless him with the things he needed, the risks were still extraordinary. The Days would be moving again, soon, and even if he knew where they were going there was no guarantee he would find them again, even if he did survive. 

They closed their eyes for a moment. This doubt, this fear, it wouldn’t help anyone. They took a breath and tried their best to concentrate on the clean white light of their faith. The same faith that had guided them to Gabriel in the first place, to his warmth and softness and knowledge and aid. The faith that had guided them successfully through every step of their journey. It would carry them, and it would carry him, too. 

The words, when they finally spoke, were steady and deliberate, the best they could manage given the circumstances:

     “We will do this.”

Water they could do. Bandages for the burns, to keep them covered. Especially now, set up as they were, where they could keep fires lit during the day undetectable from the outside thanks to the walls of the buildings they were housing themselves in. They could boil water constantly, purifying it to help clean wounds and keep them from getting infected or worse. They could take care of the store of medicinal herbs he carried with him – one of the other English speaking members could be told how to use them, if they needed. It would be hard, without their medic, but they had survived without one before they had found Gabriel originally. They could do it again, if it meant this.

     “When will you go? How long?”

The nerves twitched through his body and shuttered into his empty stomach. He felt immobilized, exhausted from their journey, and yet restless. He had the energy to keep going, keep driving onward into the light and pushing forward for his company, who he deemed family. They practically had become family over the years, traveling in little packs and trying to find new territories to settle in. It was the life of a squatter, and Gabe wouldn’t have preferred it with another group of people.

He looked deep into the mist, the deep echo of space between his fingertips and the atmosphere giving him a silent promise of days to come. It promised days to come, days that would be hard, but days that would count for something. At least he would at last feel like he truly served a purpose in camp. Sure, of course his presence meant something to the Days. But he wanted to help beyond patching up wounds and making stomach aches go away. He wanted to change lives for the better. 

He would find himself playing a game with himself: how different would he look today? Whether it be finding his reflection in the murky ponds they’d find along the road, or the windows of cars that had been stripped of all usable parts, he found it endlessly frightening and interesting to see who the stranger looking back at him was today. Perhaps if he knew he could fix this epidemic, turn back the clocks - if only for a brief blip in their damned universe - he would see Gabe again.

“I’ll go tomorrow,” he spoke with a nod. The tiredness that sunk deep into his bones couldn’t keep him here, not for another week. The restlessness wouldn’t let him wait. It was now or never, and he preferred now.

“A few weeks at most. When I find what I need, I come back.” The words left the tip of his tongue as a promise to Volkov. A promise he wouldn’t let slide. “I come back.” He couldn’t help but be filled with anxiety over where they would be, or if he would reconvene with them even if he did manage to find what he was looking for. “Where you go?” he asked, presenting them with the map.

[gabekhalil-blog]

xeniapetrova:

Her fingers clutch tight against the doorframe, turning white from the hard grip. She finds it hard to admit when she’s hurting, she always has. She finds it hard to admit it now. A shakey smile is what she tries for, amused at his attempt at Russian. He always seemed to butcher it. Americans were like that, bad at adapting to things alien to their mouths. She didn’t know how they coped sometimes – But that was unfair. Gabe was a kind man, and he always did his best. He was limited, but he tried, and that must be what is important in the world they lived in.  

The laugh comes out ragged, hurts her like nothing ever has before. She chokes it off when the pain starts. Gabe was astute, he clearly knew her. And of course he did, they had been in this together for a while now. He knew that she was not the kind to cry over spilled milk or spilled blood. Her pain was repayment to the earth, the mosts she could give in an effort to rebuild it. She watched him with hawkish eyes as he prepared himself. Her words are rough and gritty, mouth dry. “A bullet seems to have found its way into my shoulder.” 

With a deep breath, she feels like she may be able to move. She makes for his makeshift work-table, feels bone tired and ready to give up and pass out. But no – She is Xenia Petrova. She does not give in. She does not pass out. “Tell that to the black spots.” She whispers to herself, shaking her head at the foolishness of it all. And then, louder, to Gabe now. “S’not a bad shot. Didn’t hit anything important. Just fix me up and let me go.” 

She was doing her best to feel confident about it, sound confident about it. She assumed Gabe would know she was bullshitting him. As she hefted herself up onto the table, she winced, but she did feel better when the pressure was not on her to keep herself on her feet. With the support under her, her head began to clear a bit, though the pain only got sharper. “And don’t tell Volkov, they don’t need to know.” 

“Secret’s safe with me,” he spoke with the hint of a smile on his lips. He knew how tough Xenia was, and how fearless she could be. She kept her people feeling safe, and she was more than capable of coping with her problems without help. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit to worrying about his commander. It wasn’t healthy to keep things so bottled up inside, and internalize whatever negative problem the new day brought. It would hang in the air until somebody dealt with it, and Gabe surmised that that responsibility oftentimes fell on his leaders.

It was the pitfall of leadership, the harsh reality of the life of a soldier. Before the fallout, Gabe didn’t think anyone could understand the things he’d seen, the hells he’d walked through alone. But when he looked into Xenia’s deep, dark eyes, he somehow saw the pain of a thousand walks alone. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it; and he’d never ask, but he silently understood, and would always be there for her.

He began to remove the necessary equipment from his kit to patch her up, which included a long strip of gauze, a needle, some thread, and the disinfectant. He didn’t want to risk anything, but considering the bullet was in her shoulder and nowhere near any vital organs, he figured it might be advantageous to try to get it (and any fragments) cleared out to his best ability. This would mean removing the bullet from the arm with little to no anesthetic, sanitizing the wound, then stitching and cauterizing. It would normally be a long and arduous process in this day and age, but Gabriel had mastered the technique very quickly by now. He could swing it in under half an hour, and get his patients in and out, only with the pain of post-recovery to deal with. 

The surgery was a greater risk than the bullet staying in, though the potential for it to later cause infection or an inflammatory response, coupled with the radiation poisoning they were already undergoing was enough for him to really not want to risk it. It was coming out. He slid his hands into some vinyl gloves, beginning the painful process. “Feel free to hold onto me.” It was an offer that was almost always taken up, bruises littering Gabe’s flesh in a variety of places he preferred never to show. They were from other patients holding on for dear life as he did what he had to do, and it was a pain he’d gladly undertake if it meant not getting whacked in the face by someone needing a quick stitch.

“Tell me about your week,” he said as he began to pour alcohol onto the wound, waiting for the bubbling fizz to cease so he could go in. “Distractions help.”

[gabekhalil-blog]

jakubzietek:

Kuba’s life had faded away to just one thing. He could not look away from the mangled, gruesome remains of his leg. Even thinking about it made a sour, cold nausea sweep through him, and he let out a long involuntary moan of pain. Fuck! he thought desperately. Fuck! 

The metal of the bear trap was rusted and had been old even before the end of the world. Big teeth, each the length of his thumbs, bit into his left calf. There was blood everywhere. Why the fuck was there so much blood? Words like arteries and nicked veins floated through his mind, but above all there was a whisper that might as well have been a klaxon: a grunting, snuffling figure that was but thirty meters to his right. Kuba’s heart pounded in his throat. It thundered through his jugular. He tried to swallow past his fear-dried mouth. 

Think, goddamn it. Just calm down and think! But he couldn’t. I can’t! Every bit of training the militia had drummed into him had been knocked out with those two-one punches in the dark cell. With each meaty smack of fist on face each rule was spat onto the concrete ground in a bloody phlegm. Whack - clean your rifle at regular intervals. Whack - you belong to no one but us. Whack - clear your surroundings and do not assume you are alone. Never assume you are alone.

There was a sound in the undergrowth. A voice that caught and hung on the frigid, silt-ridden air before –

The walker gave a strange sort of bay, like a dog catching a scent.

Kuba could not even remember what he’d been doing - wandering through the forest? Who the fuck did that, these days? He felt his blood drain from his face with each pump of his heart, casting the fading bruises on his face in stark relief. Kuba cried out and gritted his teeth, hands slipping on the teeth of the trap. Even if he pulled until his back felt as if it would pop, the teeth remained sunk into khaki trousers and weak tendon and soft muscle. Muscles that had spurred him across endless ashen plains until he felt he would topple, but as long as he was away, far away, from the commander his men and their fake fucking flag…

The walker was coming closer. Kuba glimpsed its shambling form in his blurry peripheral vision. His leg swam in and out of focus. Terror galloped in tandem with fury.

“There is no way I’m dying on some forest floor,” Kuba growled under his breath, then, with a savage look sideways, he screamed: “Hear that, fucker? Eat me! Come on, fucking eat me!”

Then there came a crashing towards where he slumped, breathless, half-hidden by the grey ferns. Kuba jerked his eyes away from the walker towards the sound. They’ve come after me, he realized, confused, they’ve come to finish the job.

Kuba’s throat was raw. He thought he might be crying. “Get away! Get away from me!”

Gabe peered through the trees, eyes glued to the movement before him. He felt the sweat seeping through the thick material of his gloves, palms indicative of a nervous witness. Conflicted, he knew it would be the right thing to help, but how would that end up for him? What if this stranger wasn’t so innocent? It didn’t matter, he ultimately reasoned. If it meant saving a life, it was worth the risk. 

Gabe’s feet couldn’t carry him fast enough to rip between the man and the walker, his staff finding solace over the walker’s head. All it took was one furious smack until the creature fell straight to the ground. Another devastating blow kept it down for good, and bound the former human to the earth until its corpse would rot away and fertilize the discolored ground below. Gabe looked over his shoulder, scarf and gas mask covering the majority of his face. His eyes drifted to the man’s writhing ankle, assessing the damage as best he could. 

He turned to face the trap, bending over to fiddle with the release lever. “It’s important that you stay still,” Gabe spoke through the mask. “You’ve already lost so much blood as it is.” The wound looked mangled, though from his immediate observation, no permanent damage to the deep tissue would be endured. The outer layer of skin; however, would take months to heal. It was pivotal to get this guy out and wrapped as quick as possible. Although Gabe had pressing matters to attend to, this took reigning importance.

“Let’s hope you’re not a hemophiliac,” he muttered as he struggled with the trap, eventually resorting to stand and pull out his hand gun, putting the bullet to what he considered good use. Immediately, he hooked the freed man’s arm over his shoulder, walking him to a nearby rock where he could sit. “I can help you. Just stay calm. Breathe.” He tugged out his first aid kit from his knapsack, thinking as quickly on his feet as he could. His mind was always racing, always a step ahead. It’s what made him so good at what he did, aside from the fact that he actually cared about those he treated.

The wound definitely needed to be sterilized from the rusty trap, and so he pulled out the small bottle of alcohol, glancing up at the man. “This will hurt.” Usually, patients would hold onto his shoulder, arm, or leg during this stage for dear life. He was used to a varying degree of pained grips to his own flesh, each different from the rest. It was almost darkly amusing to Gabe, to guess what each patient’s grip would feel like when he began his work.

He began to pour the alcohol onto the wound, eager to end the pained sobs he overheard as soon as he could manage. Seeing these wounds hardly phased him anymore, though it was the sounds that disturbed him the most. He felt particularly sorry for this subject as he dabbed the penetrated flesh with gauze. He applied pressure around the ankle, hopefully ceasing extraneous blood flow. “Hold that in place, please,” he requested, scurrying to get the needle and thread. The worst part was yet to come. “Talk to me, it’ll distract you. What’s your story?” he asked the man, tugging out the long thread as quick as possible.

[sachakadareit-deactivated201803]

location: just on the edge of “orlovskoye polseye” nation park, near karachev. time: early-afternoon, future. @gabekhalil.

     It’s on the wooded outskirts that he finally manages to catch up – he’d had to leave Saltanov and Bruschik behind at their small encampment, which was a risk in and of itself, but he’d had to take it. There was no choice in the matter: Saltanov was going to die, or this gamble was going to end well. No other way around it. His boots crunch against snow and dead leaves, and he’s painfully aware of the sound they make in the quiet of the trees. If there had been cars around, or perhaps people, he might not have been so paranoid. But the world is dead. There are no cars. No people. Just the loudness of too quiet, just his footsteps alone as he trails after the stranger who they’d spied carrying medical supplies three days ago.

     Stealth isn’t his forte, it doesn’t fit him – or any of the Vukovi, really. Maybe he’s too used to ambushing strangers with a war cry and the explosion of molotovs and gunfire; that’s not why Sacha is here, though. He can’t do that. Not this time. He cares about each and every one of the men beneath him, would gladly take a bullet for them. There is a blood-bond between them all, now, tethered together with the chain of survival and baser nature. He’s lost people before, but Saltanov is just so young – hardly nineteen – and he doesn’t want to see the worst occur. Radiation sickness is no kind way to die, and Saltanov is iller than he’d let on. (Stupid child, he thinks. Arrogant.) He slips further into the wood and settles low to the ground.

     There’s no walkers around, at least – the area hadn’t been densely populated before, and Karachev had been ancient by the time things fell apart. He breathes sharply through his nose and is pleased to find he’s caught up by now, at least, and decides that now would be the best time to strike. Now or never. He emerges from the shadow, branches crunching under his every step, gun held up with two hands. There’s no one else here and they both know it. “I need your help.” It’s not what he had thought he would say, but it’s what comes out. He does need the stranger’s help, and if the stranger won’t help, then Sacha will simply have to make him.

     That’s much more his style, anyways.

[gabekhalil-blog]

Gabe had come straight from Kaluga, which had been overrun by walkers and militia of the world-state. From his understanding, it had essentially turned into anarchic mayhem, and required very special care to swing through without getting involved in something he hadn’t intended to. It had taken precious measure, slipping in and out of the city turned disaster zone, filled with horrifying imagery that sent chills up his spine. 

He could tell what had once been a beautiful city now housed an unsettling vibe. Gabe had been traveling with Johannes for a few weeks, almost to Moscow - when he’d heard talk of an accessible path into the city. It was through the sewers, though it wouldn’t take long to get in and out. The path in had been challenging, but once they’d made it, everything fell into place. He remembered pulling out his Mayo Clinic book of diseases and illnesses, reading everything he could about radiation poisoning, and the exact formula needed to create a manageable cure. The ingredients were simple, and easily accessible through herbal growth, though once they had found a hospital with a nearly untouched laboratory, the process was ten times easier. 

After a brief but spine tingling run in with some walkers in the East Wing of the hospital, they had successfully snuck into the lab; and Gabe could get to work. The cure would be tested by means of trial and error, though it would be simple enough. He hoped.

After a few hours of struggling with chemicals and losing sunlight, he finally cracked it. He planned to test it on an animal they’d keep along the way, and see how it responded to the formula before a human trial. They had taken all that they could carry, and now they were on their way back to the Days’ territory. A stray rat in the sewer made it easy to test their cure, and after a week of positive reactions, he felt secure. If it had been negative, they would have seen it, and it wouldn’t be fatal regardless. Johannes had volunteered to be the guinea pig for the secondary test, which proved to garner nothing but positive results. 

“Scars significantly healed, fatigue dissipated. Hair loss significantly halted. I think we’re in business,” he rejoiced, light as a feather as he relished in his accomplishment.

He had done it.

He had really fucking done it. He had found his cure, and he was going home.

For once, Gabe felt worthwhile.

It was while they had stopped one afternoon on the way home when the plan went askew. They had stopped at a nondescript location, another national park a few weeks out from the Days camp. Gabe had just tested the shot on himself at last, and was eager to see the results. Winding down for a quick break, he was to take momentary watch of their party. His traveling companion had gone to search for firewood, and Gabriel found himself alone in the woods. That was, until he heard the crack and groan of the underbrush behind him. He heard a voice accompanying the noise, and turned to peer at the man who stood before him. At first, he was unfamiliar, but upon further inspection, the pieces began to fall into place. He was looking one of the leaders of the Vukovi in the face, and he needed Gabe’s help, apparently.

“I remember you,” Gabe spoke, furrowing a cautious brow. “What’s wrong?” 

[juliasrefs]

– F. SCOTT FITZGERALD.   /   @gabekhalil.   /   NO VACANCY EDITS 3/?

[gabekhalil-blog]

maksvoloshyn:

Location: The Days Base Time: Evening, Recent Past (@gabekhalil)

It had been dark. Dark and late, long past when Maks had wanted to stop for the day, long past his tired body trying to tell him that he should stop for the day. The stretch of country he’d been traveling through had seemed endless, though, not a sign of shelter in sight, but he’d kept going long enough that stopping before he found anywhere worthwhile to sleep in favor of just sleeping exposed on the ground, again, had seemed foolish. One dark, late night; one wrong step—and, just like that, an injured Maks. It could have been worse. It wasn’t broken, and his thick socks and his boots laced tight seemed to keep down the worst of the swelling, but it slowed him down. He was already a pathetic figure: young, alone, carrying a pistol he barely knew how to use. He’d be easy to pick off, and he didn’t need to make it easier. And, after just a few days of trying to push through the pain, everything seemed to pile up: if he couldn’t cover enough ground, then he couldn’t scavenge; if he couldn’t scavenge, then he wouldn’t have anything to trade; if he didn’t have anything to trade, well, then—

—Then he’d just have to get creative.

He’d met someone on the road who didn’t have anything that could help him, but had traded him his fraying gloves for some leathery dried fruit, and who told him that there was a doctor-type, that he had herbs and plants that could cure whatever ailed you. That sounded like just what he was looking for, and without anything of value that he was willing to give up, it left him with only one solution. He’d been a thief before, stealing candy from the corner store when his mother couldn’t afford it, cigarettes from his next-door-neighbor when he was older and he wanted to feel cool, whatever he could get his hands on when he was bored and wanted to remind himself that he could. He didn’t know what he needed, but he figured he could take a little bit of everything and figure it out. It wasn’t like a doctor would be growing poison, right? And it wasn’t like he wasn’t already breathing poison every single day, so why not take a chance?

It was a foolish plan, and he knew it, but he’d come this far, and so he felt that he had to go through with it. But he didn’t have another one. Avoiding risk was well and good, until you realized that everything was a risk, that the only thing that was certain was that if you didn’t keep moving, didn’t keep fighting, didn’t take risks, then you’d die. That tipped the scales pretty heavily in favor of stupid plan every time, when it always seemed like it was certain death on one side and only maybe death on the other. And so he did what he could to make the smartest stupid plan ever: watched, until he was certain that he wasn’t wildly outnumbered; waited, until night and quiet fell and he felt he had his best chance of getting in—and, most importantly, out—undetected and safe. 

At first, luck seemed to be on his side: everything was silent and still as he moved, achingly slowly, until he found what he was seeking: plants. He never thought he’d be so excited to see some fucking leaves. He was quick, more than he was careful, in taking some of each, until a noise too close for comfort startled him—and then it seemed to fall apart like dominoes, one right after the other: unthinking, he sprung to his feet, ready to flee; and then of course, because that was the reason he was there in the first place, the leg he had been favoring folded underneath him; and then it was just him falling, him making the noise that broke the quiet of the night; him, most likely, royally screwed.

tw: dark visuals

Gabriel felt it again. He couldn’t explain it, but it felt like a pressure on his chest. Something vying for entrance to his body, any way it could, as long as it gained access to his mind. Some nights he could feel his body twitching here and there, trying to snap him back to the present and escape the hell he was in. Other nights, he’d have only the immobilizing fear that sunk deep into the rotting marrow of his bones as the corpses piled up around him, pinning him into a coffin of decay until he was petrified with horror. Some called it lucid dreaming, but Gabe disliked that term. Dreams implied sweet little fantasies, an escape from reality. These were night terrors.

To say he still felt guilty about the past would be an understatement. The lives of those lost during Sarajevo and the following wars of the world would forever hang around Gabriel‘s neck like a noose, eager to snap at any moment. Sometimes, the guilt got so bad that he would have nightmares he couldn’t wake from, in which the victims played the starring roles. He considered it was the guilt that bore down on his chest so that he couldn’t breathe, or perhaps the weight of the bodies lost in the bunker he tended to after the world went to shit. He knew it was them. There’s no mistaking that weight, and he couldn’t carry it.

Suddenly, he was jolted awake by a noise, a blip in time that yanked him out of hell and back into the real world – which was another hell. At least in this hell he could breathe. He began to take a few gulps of air and felt the earth move. He could feel the trembling of his hands and the chills that accompanied sweat on cold skin. He knew he was back. Once he could breathe again, he glanced to wherever the noise that pulled him from his night terror came. 

“Why are you in my room?” He mumbled out, eyes suddenly glued to the stranger. He couldn’t see what they had taken, if anything, though they acted too skittish to be a real threat. They were just a nervous kid, it seemed. “If you wanted something, you could’ve asked.” 

[lisbon]

[gabekhalil-blog]

daryavolkov:

They took the walkie talkies carefully, as if they were holy relics of some kind, tenderly taking one in each hand before pulling a scarf from the pocket of their coat and delicately wrapping the two, separated by a thin layer of fabric, and setting them down behind themself on the surface of the roof, where they couldn’t be accidentally knocked off. They would have to test them out, later, find the range on them, maybe have Xenia take one out and see how far she could go before they lost contact.

Satisfied, for the moment, with the small gift, they looked back up to see what he was doing with his sleeves, and it took all their composure not to visibly wince at the sight of the scars – they’d seen those kinds of scars before, on other survivors, but mainly on corpses, on the bodies of people too far gone to keep going, people who had gotten tired of fighting and laid down to give up. 

They had seen those scars on the arms of some of their own people, ones still with them but suffering and ones who had asked to be left behind on the road, from time to time. They had not yet seen those scars on their own arms, but hands full of short bristled hair that came away each time they ran a hand across their own scalp, the bone-deep ache and the nausea, those weren’t coincidences. They hadn’t said a word, not yet, to anyone – the sickness of a leader never brought anything good to a community, only panic and dissent – but it was only a matter of time before they couldn’t hide it anymore either. 

     “Cure?”

The word sounds strange, on their tongue, too round and full, all filled up with something like hope and even more like fear. Could it be possible, a cure for this? They were so caught up in the idea that it took them a moment to realize what he was proposing: going to Moscow. Weeks away, by foot, if he was being careful. More, if he ran into trouble. And no guarantee he would ever come back. Could they risk losing their only medic for what might turn out to be a false hope?

They needed more information – they needed to understand his plan, and what he sought, before they could know whether the risk was worth the gains, whether God would be on his side on his journey. 

     “How?”

Gabe tried to keep his composure steady as he pulled his sleeve to cover the scars. If this went untreated, it could worsen into internal bleeding, seizures, possibly even cancer. Nausea, vomiting, and hair loss were already common symptoms among members of the camp, the severity of their conditions worsening each day. He so wished he had a dosimeter, any sort of blood test to check for a decrease in white blood cells, or abnormal changes in the DNA of their blood cells. Such factors could indicate the degree of bone marrow damage they were undertaking, but all he had at hand were herbal remedies and a few first aid kits. He needed more.

“Burn clothes,” he spoke calmly, trying to organize his thoughts. The main treatment goal for radiation sickness was to prevent further radioactive contamination, though that was hard to come by when it’s airborne. All he could do was treat life-threatening injuries, such as burns and trauma, reduce symptoms, and help his people manage the pain. Decontamination was also a necessity, he knew the camp needed to remove as much external radioactive particles as possible. Removing the toxic clothing and shoes from camp would eliminate most of the external contamination, but would be a huge problem for the camp. Treatment would be gradual and steady, people would have to find resources when they could manage it.

“Wash with soap.” Gently washing with water and soap removed additional radiation particles from the skin. Decontamination prevented further distribution of radioactive materials and lowered the risk of internal contamination from inhalation, ingestion or open wounds. He remembered reading in his Mayo Clinic book that a protein called the granocyte colony-stimulating factor promoted the growth of white blood cells, and may counter the effect of radiation sickness on bone marrow. He would need to reach a lab and find the resources needed to make a cocktail to increase white blood cell production and help prevent subsequent infections, but that was thinking wishfully.

As long as he had soap to combat the bacterial infections, Advil for the headaches, herbs for fevers, diarrhea, nausea and vomiting - he would be set for the most part. “Drink water,” he said, accompanied by further gestures. “Keep burns clean.” It was the best he had to offer. “Find supplies to help,” he said, gesturing to his head, stomach and arms. He would search for the needed elements to form his cocktail, a way to form a real cure; and pray they understood that he needed help finding the more manageable things.