Hey everyone :D so this is not on-schedule, but it's early, so that's a good thing, right? I had some time on my hands this past week due to a lack of homework and similar shit (break started today 333) plus I'm excited for this story and I've gotten up through chapter 14 written, so... Anyway, enjoy it! 3

CHAPTER 6: SILENCE IS THE ENEMY SO GIMME REVOLUTION

March 01, 2013

Route 15, The Mojave Desert, California

3:51 PM

Billie hadn't realized how much he had missed driving until he was in a car again. He poured on the gas pedal, sending the white car shooting down the broken, deserted road to wherever it felt like taking them.

"Billie, slow down!" Mike screamed from the backseat, but the words were snatched from his mouth by the wind roaring past them at nearly a hundred miles per hour.

Tré, meanwhile, was cheering exuberantly in the passenger seat. He stuck his arm out the window as if he was a child.

It had been pure luck that just as they had run out of food, an abandoned car had shown up at a strange building they had found on one of their near-daily expeditions around their new home. Mike had somehow, miraculously, figured out how to hotwire it—he really was a genius—and finally, Billie had gotten the plan he had been searching for for nearly three months now.

The car had solved all their problems. At their warehouse, they had both been connected to the outside world and yet somehow existing outside of it—they knew about the existence of the new government, but it didn't yet know about them. And for that they were extremely grateful.

But now, not only could they go replenish their food supplies whenever they felt like it, they could go see firsthand how Better Living Industries was taking over their new world. The one radio station that they had managed to find during the disaster had suddenly, two months after the apocalypse, began to broadcast positive-reinforcement messages sponsored by the mysterious company. They sounded like brainwashing to the three men who knew absolutely nothing about what was going on outside their desert.

Then, a few days later, they got their TV network back—and it was just the same. Slowly, all the channels were taken over by the BL/ind logo, until there was nothing to watch except biased, bland news shows that would only say how everything was under control and commercials featuring a young, pretty Asian woman with short inspirational messages.

Bit by bit, they had begun to realize that something wasn't right in the city. They'd been curious about it, but they hadn't had a way to get back until that point.

But that was all different now.

For the first time in three months, Billie guided the car onto the freeway leading into their no-longer-home city. It was empty, with no sign of life anywhere that they could see, and potholed and ruptured—from earthquakes or rain, they couldn't be sure. Far in the horizon, jagged spires rose from the ground, marking the ruined, near-desolate site of what used to be one of the biggest cities on Earth.

Well, from what they'd heard, it still was. BL/ind's broadcasts weren't completely useless. From one news segment, they had learned that the world population had decreased to about 101 million people, nearly one seventieth of what it used to be. Those people had bonded together in nine different major places spread across the globe: London, Shanghai, Rio de Janeiro, Johannesburg, New York…and Lost Angeles. Most of western United States, Canada and Mexico had flocked to California, swelling its' population to nearly nine million people. Although only one hundred and seventeen lived in the city proper, BL/ind exercised control over all nine million survivors.

Billie, Tré and Mike were almost certain that they hadn't been included in the nine million when it was counted. As far as BL/ind was concerned, they didn't exist. Nobody knew that they'd survived.

The car screeched off the freeway and onto the road that so long ago the three men had left the city by. The streets were full of vehicles parked on the sides, but none were moving. The sidewalks were similarly deserted.

"This is fucking creepy," Tré muttered, glancing around the ghost city. "Where is everyone?"

"No idea, man," replied Billie. He steered the car onto another street so that they were headed towards the part of the city where their apartment building used to stand.

A dull roar rose around them as they continued towards the heart of the desolate city. The sidewalks became more populated, people walking briskly all headed in the same direction.

"I think we found the people," Mike commented as they turned into a plaza.

It was massive, blockaded on all sides so that no vehicles could enter. In front of the barriers stood tall men in white suits, gun holsters prominent at their sides. And beyond the white suits—people, as far as they could see.

"Ho-ly fuck," Billie exclaimed, drawing out the first syllable.

"That's a lot of people," Tré agreed.

Billie parked the car where it was, trying to be silent so as not to attract the attention of the white-suits—he couldn't be sure what exactly they were, but they wore the BL/ind logo on their jackets, and they definitely looked like bad news—before standing up to get a better view. Mike raised a hand to his eyes as if it would help him see the sea of bodies better.

"I think we found Better Living, too," he said.

It was only then that Billie and Tré noticed the massive video screens, all focused on the now-familiar face of Takashime Arashi, president of Better Living Industries.

"Yeah, I think we have," Billie grinned.

Five minutes later, they had managed to sneak underneath one of the barricades close to the front of the stage and past the strange white-suited men. The crowd seemed to be in an uproar, all facing away from the front and towards a spot near the back of the square. Many were yelling angrily and some even shouted threats at the men on stage.

Behind the BL/ind podium, the president was making frantic silencing motions, waving his hands wildly and even shouting into the microphone for quiet. The rebellious crowd refused to shut up, though.

"Are either of you getting the feeling that we just missed something big?" Tré asked the others.

"Something fucking massive," Mike agreed, nodding. He turned back to Arashi, who had finally managed to calm the crowd enough to shout, "Better Living Industries works for the people!"

The people fell silent, staring at him as if in a trance.

"Why'd it just get so quiet?" whispered Billie.

"Look at the guards," Mike murmured back.

Slowly, Billie and Tré turned to look at the white suits at the edges of the gathering. Every single one had pulled their white guns from their holsters and had them pointed out and into the plaza.

The mass of bodies crushed inwards almost instantaneously, shrinking away from the sudden threat of danger. Tré instinctively shied away, pressing himself into Mike like a scared child, and let out a small squeal.

"Thank you." President Arashi smiled benevolently. "Better Living only wants to do what is best for the people. We have your safety and well-being in mind."

"Where the fuck does this dude get off?" Billie murmured angrily. He felt a painful jab in his side, and Mike whispered "Don't move, you've got a white suit with a gun trained on you. I think he wants you to shut the fuck up."

Billie's mouth clamped shut and he focused on arranging his face into a blank expression, staring straight ahead.

"This, of course, is why we have organized and funded the repair of Hawthorne Towers, the new home of three thousand of Better Living Industries' faithful civilians!" Arashi exclaimed. "No longer will they live in ruined, dangerous shells of buildings! Because they have pledged their allegiance to us, because they have agreed to work for the company and to abide by our laws, they have been greatly rewarded, as you can be too!"

In one seamless, fluid motion, the guards sheathed their guns. A few people tentatively began to cheer again, and Arashi beamed. "In time, you too will be able to live in Better Living apartments! Let your new government take care of you—we are here for your benefit, after all."

"You have got to be kidding me," Billie gasped. But nevertheless, cheers began to swell around them at the Japanese man's words.

"I officially declare Hawthorne Towers open for residency!" the president shouted, spreading his arms wide.

And the mass was really cheering now, shrieking exuberantly about the company and the good it was doing in the world. Arashi smirked like a proud parent and stepped off the podium, surrounded by his large group of bodyguards. White-suited policemen parted to allow the ecstatic swarm to filter past and down any of the hundred side streets leading away from the area. Mike, Tré and Billie felt themselves being swept along in the opposite direction from their vehicle by the crush of humans, and although they fought to go the other direction, they were pushed past the ruined edge of the city block and onto another, thankfully recognizable to them, street that had once held office buildings and skyscrapers.

They all began talking at once as soon as they were out of earshot of the police. Their words were indistinguishable from each others', but together sounded like a mix of 'what the—that didn't—utter bullshit—brainwashing—don't believe—motherfucker."

"How could anyone believe that?" Mike asked rhetorically. "I mean, one minute they had guns trained on us, and then they're cheering?"

"It's cause that Arashi guy is a grade A bullshitter," responded Tré bitterly.

"This is way worse than what we've seen already," Billie mused, disregarding his friend's comment. "We can't let this continue…can we?"

"We shouldn't, but that doesn't mean we can do anything about it," Mike said grimly.

"Well, why the fuck not?" Billie stopped walking suddenly, prompting angry shouts from the people behind him as they tried to get past the sudden block in the traffic flow.

"What do you mean?" Mike asked curiously, turning back to him.

"We've got a webcam and microphone on the laptop. We've got connections to a major television network. We've got a radio transmitter, and hell, we've got more than enough ideas. We could start a revolution." Billie began to talk faster as his idea picked up speed. "A web show, a network hack, a radio broadcast—if the right people hear it, then who knows what the effects could be?"

"I do—it'd get us killed," Tré said flatly.

Billie rolled his eyes. "Seriously, lighten up for once. This could be fun, and even better, we could make a difference! And if there's one thing in this world that needs to be fixed…"

"It's BL/ind," Mike and Tré chorused.

"Exactly." Billie grinned.

"Billie, you've got way too many ideas." Tré slugged his friend in the arm jokingly. "But you've got a point there, dude."

Mike, though, sighed heavily. "Food first, saving the world later," he stated.

"Truer words have never been spoken," Tré agreed, smiling brightly.

The three began moving again, allowing themselves to be swept along in the flowing crowd. When it finally thinned out enough for them to break away, they found themselves in front of their own apartment building. Or, more specifically, the place that used to be their old apartment building.

They had prepared themselves for this, just by walking through the ruined, fire-ravaged city where not one single building had been left whole from the disaster. But somehow, they'd retained the idea in some deep recess of their minds that their old home had been passed over, left untouched by whatever freak accident had caused the fire in the first place. So the sight of the ruined husk shocked the three men into reverent silence.

There was literally nothing left. The apartment building had been burned to the ground.

"Jesus," Tré whispered, craning his neck up as if he were still expecting to see the familiar façade magically looming over them. Mike turned away. He didn't want to see the physical evidence that they had nothing left in the world but their warehouse and its' contents.

But Billie, after throwing a cursory glance at the wreck, forced himself to continue on and away.

"Dude, what are you doing?" Tré yelled after him.

"Going to look for food, what does it look like I'm doing?" Billie called over his shoulder.

Tré glanced at Mike, who looked just as mystified as him, before running after his friend. "But—but why?"

"Well, why the fuck not?" he asked breezily.

"Our apartment…" Tré gestured helplessly.

"Our apartment in the past," Billie clarified. "It means nothing to us anymore. It can't help us now."

"But shouldn't we at least check if there's anything left?"

"Does it look like there's anything left?" he asked.

Mike finally caught up with them, his face red from running. "What is your problem?" he puffed.

"Hey, it was your idea to get food," Billie retorted. "How long were you planning on staring at a demolished building, anyway?"

"He's probably just hungry and that's why he's acting weird," Tré muttered to Mike.

But it was more than that. The idea of a rebellion had gripped the young man's mind, and suddenly, he was full of ideas. He wanted to get their time in the city over with so that they could get back to the warehouse and actually put some of his plans into action. But, as Mike had said, food first—it was important, too.

But where were they going to get food in this place?

Two hours later, they were still asking themselves the same question.

"We've checked every supermarket, convenience store, restaurant and mall in this mile radius," Mike groaned. "Now what are we supposed to do? It'll be dark soon!"

"Give up and come back tomorrow?" Tré suggested. At that moment, his stomach made a loud, unpleasant gurgling sound. "Alright, forget that idea."

"We could head out into the residential areas," Billie offered. "You'd think there would be something there…"

"Ooh, we should go find a Twinkie factory! Everyone knows that Twinkies can survive anything, even the apocalypse!" Tré clapped his hands excitedly.

Mike shot him a weary look. "You've been watching too much Family Guy."

"No, but seriously…"

Tré continued his mindless babbling as they made their way back to the car, while Mike and Billie attempted to carry on their conversation and figure out what to do about the food shortage.

"We could check the grocery stores in the suburbs, I heard they didn't get hit too bad," Mike murmured while in front of them, Tré performed an action something akin to skipping while singing "Twinkies, twinkies, twinkies!"

"Would you shut up?" Mike snapped finally. Tré frowned at him and muttered something like 'Killjoy' before sulking off ahead.

"Killjoy," Billie repeated.

"What did you say?" Mike asked halfheartedly.

"Killjoy…it's a pretty cool word, isn't it?" The raven haired man smirked. "It just sounds so…badass. Killjoy."

Mike laughed. "Oh yeah, totally badass. Have fun with that."

"No, seriously! It's like, so in-your-face, y'know?"

"No, Billie, I really don't know."

"You don't get it," sighed Billie.

Mike frowned at him, staring him in the eyes. "Are you feeling okay? You've been acting weird all day."

"I'm completely fine. I'm much better than fine, in fact." Billie's grin grew wider and his eyes glowed with inspiration.

"Is this about the whole 'fuck-the-police' movement you're trying to start?" Tré, who had obviously been listening in on the conversation, called out.

"I think I'd rather call it the Killjoy movement," Billie specified.

His friends chuckled, trying to hide their mirth from him. "And how do you plan on starting this movement?" Mike asked.

"That depends on how much you guys are willing to do."

During the drive to the suburbs, the hunt for edible food, the time it took to stock said food into their car—they even found Tré a few boxes of slightly crushed Twinkies—and part of the drive back to the warehouse, Billie outlined all of his multitude of plans in great detail. Most of them were illogical and dangerous, and Mike pointed this out when they were. But a few actually held some basis in truth. Tré fell asleep near the second-to-last plan, which involved stealing a prototype gun from the BL/ind headquarters ('crazy, dangerous and fucking impossible,' Mike had told a disappointed Billie) and by the time his friend had finally talked himself out, Mike, too, was feeling exhausted, although he had to stay awake since he was driving the car.

"…and so we'd recruit maybe a hundred people, give them the weapons, and storm the building!" Billie was practically bouncing in his seat. "That's my favorite one."

"is that your last one, too?" Mike asked tiredly.

"For now, yes," he answered.

"Then don't feel bad when I tell you that most of those ideas were complete and utter bullshit."

But, in typical Billie fashion, he seized on to only the positive part of his friend's remark. "So some of them were good?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"Then will you help me with them?" he asked excitedly, his eyes shining with anticipation.

"Billie, I really don't know—"

"I just need you to do the tech stuff and logistics—y'know, all the smart person stuff. It won't be hard, I swear, and it wouldn't be dangerous at all for you—"

"Billie!" Mike finally burst, making him snap into sudden silence.

"Yes?" he asked meekly.

"Which plan do you want me to help you with? Specifically?"

"Well, I'm not sure what's exactly going to work…" he mused. "Which ones do you think will work best?"

"I'd go for the television or the Internet one, personally, they seem like the safest," he answered carefully.

"Or the radio show," said Billie. "That one seems pretty impactful."

"Nobody listens to the radio anymore," Mike said, rolling his eyes.

"Correction." Billie raised a finger. "Only the counterculture kids listen to the radio anymore."

And what he said was true—every radio channel that wasn't BL/ind-run had been shut down during or after Day Zero, save a single alternative rock station with a pair of DJs who, according to their narratives on-air, had continue d to run it from their basement using their iTunes libraries. And people definitely still listened to them—they had gotten plenty of calls recommending and requesting music, which they always broadcasted.

"Just think about it," he said. "The alt kids are the ones that are most likely to want to rebel, if we're going with the stereotype of people who listen to that kind of stuff. They're also probably young, but old enough to make their own decisions and understand the problems with the new government. Out of anyone, I'd say that they're the ones who would most likely spread the word, or even just give a shit about what we're talking about."

Although Mike hated to admit it, Billie's argument was making perfect sense.

"And all we need to do is light the fuse," he continued, picking up steam. "The city's a ticking time bomb of compressed anger and fighting—did you notice that crowd today? They were pretty riled up, I think…"

"I see where you're going," Mike said, nodding. He watched as the warehouse appeared on the horizon, and he allowed his foot to lift off the gas pedal a bit more to prolong the drive. "But do you really think that we're not going to get caught? They can trace stuff like radio signals, you know."

"Then we can set up the equipment station somewhere else and drive out to make broadcasts," he shrugged.

"You've got an answer for everything, don't you?" Mike chuckled.

"Of course I do!" Billie beamed proudly. "D'you think it'll work?"

"I think…" Mike paused, trying to figure out how to phrase his next sentence. If he said it wrong, he knew how overexcited his friend could get, and he definitely didn't want to give Billie any premature ideas about freeing the world just yet. But hell, he definitely wanted to help his friend. "I think that if we try, it couldn't hurt," he said finally.

"Really?" Billie's reaction was exactly the same as that of a young child being told that they were getting a puppy. "Thank you so much, Mike!"

"Hey, hey, I didn't say I knew how to set it up or anything," his friend chuckled. But in his heart, he realized that he had already committed to making the plan happen.

"Hey, what about me?" Tré's sleepy voice rose from the backseat. "I want in, too!"

"Of course, did you think we'd forget you?" giggled Billie. "You can be the DJ—no, we could all be DJs! We could each have our own radio show at different times of day, and codenames so Better Living can't track us, and we could…"

And he was off again on one of his tangents, babbling about the finer points of the radio and how it could grow into a secret underground movement.

And the funny thing was, as he talked, the three people in the car began to realize that it was actually going to happen—every last bit of it—if they had anything to do with it.