GENERATION Z: UPRISING

By MADISON LOVE

In a future where social media and cell phones are outlawed, a generation fights for freedom against a totalitarian regime.

Emily "M" Aaronson leads the charge, but doubts about her leadership haunt her every move. When Isabella Ortega emerges as a beacon of hope, her familial ties to the oppressive regime pose

• Language: English
• Publisher: MADISON LOVE
• Release date: Nov 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088264690

Book preview

Introduction

Congratulations on purchasing Generation Z: Uprising, and thank you for doing so.

If you were looking for trills and chills, you have come to the right place. With the passage of the so-called U.S. Loyalist Act, the government took the unprecedented step of criminalizing social media, smartphones, and internet usage as a whole. Now, the youngest generation, rather than taking their place as leaders of the future, now must suffer and languish under the brutal hand of the new American regime, forced to get by on the meager technological tools that the government allows them. Many go along with this without protest. But for those who choose to fight back, the covert and deadly Todesschwadron waits to enforce the new law with brutal efficiency.

You will be joining Gen Z heroes M, a young leader of the resistance movement, and Isabella, a cultural icon who rises up to lead her generation to the promised land. You will encounter killer robots, deadly drowns, and kung fu as they fight to free their nation. If you’re ready for extreme sports and gaming where both sides fight for the soul of their nation -and its youth, you are in the right place. Sit down, buckle up and enjoy the ride.

Chapter 1: Side-Eyes

As she approached the intersection with Wisconsin Avenue, M turned her gaze to the late afternoon sky of the dying summer, trying to remember the last time she had let herself be so exposed. The sky, for the moment at least, was free from the drones that normally patrolled over DC, and M was able to pause along the sidewalk and enjoy the clear red-orange of the evening as the sun sank below the Potomac to the southwest. A wind picked up, carrying the tinges of purple clouds that marked the edge of the horizon and casting a net of goosebumps against her bare shoulders. She shivered. Autumn would be there soon enough.

From a block away, the caustic voice of the street preacher cut through the peace.

…but the MERCY of the Lord, though limitless in its enormity, cannot exist as such were it not of equal substance to the Lord’s JUSTICE! For TRUE MERCY and TRUE JUSTICE are one in the person of the LORD! For, though the Lord’s MERCY has given us the gift of redemption and eternal life, the Lord’s JUSTICE means ETERNAL DAMNATION for those who do not accept this gift of MERCY. For those who do not REPENT! For does not scripture tell us that…

M tuned him out. St. Johnny, as the Zs had taken to call him, was one of the three side-eyes that she had been able to locate in Georgetown. The other two were in the guise of beggars who tended to hang out within a roughly three-block radius of the intersection of Wisconsin and M Street. St. Johnny was the easiest to pick out, simply because he spoke the most.

The tech going into the droids was more advanced than anything else on the planet, as far as M was aware. But spend enough time in their presence, and one can begin to pick up the subtle differences in their voices. A slight, electronic whine that could be noticed if one knew to look for it. In St. Johnny’s case, a vibrating crackling that sometimes stirred in the back of his voice whenever he emphasized MERCY! or REDEMPTION! or HELLFIRE!

About a year or so ago, Brayden had played her a strange audio recording of bizarre, grating electronic noises that he claimed were the old sound of dial-up internet from his childhood, preserved by the elder millennials for some strange sense of nostalgia that people like M were forever removed from. Listening to St. Johnny blaze on about hell and salvation, M could hear elements of the same electronic whine staining the most forceful projections of his voice.

M had come to Georgetown to look for Mouse. This wasn’t particularly unusual by that point. Mouse’s inventory of high-ish quality burner phones was also likely to net the bigger profit from the preppy Gen-Zs at the university, who were always on the lookout for new opportunities to buy drugs and watch banned content, even though they tended to be upper-crust enough to be generally left alone by the authorities. M was pale enough to pass for a member of Georgetown’s student body, and the Todesschwadron tended to leave the entire area alone, so she was less likely to even be harassed in the first place. Still, being so exposed always left M feeling nervous and uneasy. Even if she had brief moments to enjoy the beauty of the late summer evening sky.

Her tranquility was eventually broken by the ominous hum of a drone passing overhead in the direction of Downtown and the Anacostia. M shivered again in the cooler evening breeze and continued walking in the direction of the university. In Georgetown, she tended to feel safer sticking to M Street if for no other reason than she assumed it was her namesake—or her its namesake—and thus, whatever cosmic, earthly divine force there would somehow protect her. She walked parallel to the canal and the river beyond, trying to look as inconspicuous as any Georgetown student while keeping her eyes trained for potential side-eyes or (god-forbid) Todesschwadron who might cause her trouble.

Months of chasing Mouse around that corner of DC had given M a pretty good indication of the bars where Georgetown students were most likely to hang out—and thus where Mouse would most likely be found with his knapsack full of illegal phones and secret reserve of crypto from each sale. The most popular seemed to be one called Hamilton, whose sign boasted the neon slogan "Throw Away Your Shot," which could be seen from several blocks up the street. Someone had told M that this was a reference to a musical about Alexander Hamilton that had since been outlawed, though why no one ever bothered to do anything about the bar itself, she never really knew.

Good evening, ma’am, a voice said next to her. Could you spare some change, please?

Looking down, M saw the familiar form of Boomer Brian, the second of the three obvious side-eyes that had been set up in the neighborhood. Boomer Brian had the appearance of an elderly, African-American man, complete with a realistic white beard, deeply-entrenched facial wrinkles, and even the convincing musk of someone who hadn’t had a proper bath in a while. As with St. Johnny, only the slight electronic whine in his soft voice gave away his true identity.

Sorry, I don’t have anything, M said. This was more out of habit than anything else.

Thank you, God bless, Boomer Brian said.

How the hell do they get him to stink like that? She thought to herself. She immediately felt her own conscience holler back at her.

Don’t further marginalize individuals experiencing homelessness, she lectured herself. Even if they are just androids. Besides, you’re one to talk. You sleep in a drainage system attached to a polluted canal.

Across the street, St. Johnny’s equally-realistic form stood on an overturned crate, holding a bible in one hand and waving wildly with the other.

"…it is not I who calls on you to REPENT, but rather the voice of the LORD…."

The line in front of Hamilton was already around the block. Mostly trust-fund kids trying to take fake ID apps for a spin in front of the bored-looking bouncer. M, of course, was only 19 herself. But, she was always told that she looked old for her age, regardless of how old she was at that particular moment, so she was always more or less able to charm her way past bouncers even without having to show ID. The fake one Mouse had set up on her phone app would also likely work well enough if things came to that. But M didn’t really want to force the issue.

As if conjured by her thoughts, M’s phone vibrated in her pocket. She bit her lip and, in a reflex, shifted her hand to cover its visible rectangular bulge in her pants while quickly darting through a side passage towards the back walkway running parallel to the canal. Before she disappeared from view of the street, she caught a quick, precautionary glance back at St. Johnny. He remained standing on his overturned crate, bible in hand, casting his human-like robotic gaze at a cluster of female Georgetown students in yoga pants and tank tops, shouting threats of hellfire for the sin of lust and harlotry. If those eyes caught sight of her or picked up on the sudden electronic frequency in M’s pocket, they revealed nothing.

Sliding behind a dumpster, M discreetly removed the phone from her pocket and glanced down at the screen. Sure enough, the name affixed to the notification read D-Dub. M bit her lip and suppressed a grunt of annoyance. But not a surprise. Her brother was always much less cautious than she was about these types of things. For good or ill.

Where’d you get off to? He wrote.

She drew her thumbs across the screen with silent irritation.

Georgetown, she wrote. Went to get Mouse. And I told you not to text me on the phone when I’m out.

After a few seconds, D-Dub responded. Young was pissed you left without him. He doesn’t want you going out alone. Esp. not to college towns.

M felt a scowl drag across her face. Did you ask him why he was smart enough not to text me himself? She wrote back.

A few seconds’ pause. Then: Quite worrying. Mouse set these things up to be unbreakable. And they're like his cousins, or something, you know. Toddies won’t find…

This was capped with a smiling poop emoji.

"…and did the LORD not tell us of the seven seals! St. Johnny droned on. Of