JONATHAN

With his record player faithfully relaying the song into the HAM radio, Jonathan turned his attention back to the planter box. It felt good to have the dirt between his fingers again after the long, cold winter. It was still February, so the planter box was a mess of organic debris, and the soil was still relatively frozen. He hadn't been able to garden for the last few months because the snow had been too heavy, but now he was happy to get back into the habit of spending his mornings up at Metrotown Tower in the greenhouse. As long as he was in time for his shift in the archives, no one really cared where he spent the majority of his time. He doubted anyone would understand his desire to grow useless plants; whose only job was to "look pretty" rather than serve any medicinal or nutritional purpose, and there was no explanation for the broadcast. At least not one anyone would understand.

He spent the next few hours cleaning the planter boxes to ready the soil for planting season and prepping the bulbs he'd saved from last spring. He occasionally paused to change up the music and make selections from the stack of records he'd brought from his carefully curated collection.  It was nearly 11:00 when he finally gave in to the cold and journeyed the 30 flights of stairs back down to the mall. He'd always loathed that staircase, not only because it was such a trek, but the walls were dingy and somehow always smelled faintly of urine despite his attempts to clean it. The fluorescent lights flickered ominously like a horror movie. He'd boarded up the doors to the office floors as a precaution when he'd first started coming up to the greenhouse but as he made his way to the ground floor, he made a mental note to repair the barriers that had begun to deteriorate. It would be terrible to be trapped in here if the soulless managed to burst through. Finally, he reached the ground level and pushed away the shopping cart he'd used to barricade the fire exit and walked across the plaza to the mall.

He slowed as he approached the row of heavy glass doors at the entrance. It was generally not advisable to hang around highly populated locations from the old world due to its high soulless count, but he had done it so many times, the warnings scrawled across the doorways in faded graffiti didn't faze him. 

Entering the mall on the ground level he shuffled past a few sparse hordes of dazed shoppers. Jonathan had come to think there were about a hundred of them living there, shuffling around aimlessly, carrying out monotonous tasks that perhaps were their usual routine in life. They seemed to spend their time shuffling about all day, grunting and groaning, shrugging, nodding, occasionally uttering a single coherent word, and progressing through stages of decay until they just crumbled to dust. 

It's not that different from before they were dead. Jonathan thought. He slowly made his way across the mall, careful to keep his expression neutral as he'd been trained. He suppressed a smile, noticing that the escalators were moving. Occasionally the old emergency generators would kick in and the lights and screens would blink and flash as the machines stuttered back to life. Jonathan always enjoyed those moments, when motion and light returned to an otherwise darkened and still world. 

The soulless standing on the escalator seemed unstartled by the sudden movement. They merely stopped shambling up the steps to enjoy the ride. Jonathan watched them for a moment, he'd seen some of them spend their whole day doing that, riding the escalator up and down. A sad and meaningless existence, he thought, like those that spend all day standing in a queue. Jonathan figured that might just be the perfect metaphor for soullessness — a hollow life of never reaching your destination. 

He pushed the thoughts from his head and took the stairs to the next floor. Most old-world stores had been completely ransacked but the small record shop, that was out of date even when it was fully operational, was one of the few places that had been left relatively untouched. Jonathan supposed that most people wouldn't consider music, films, games, and pop culture items, "essential for survival" and worthy of looting. 

The store itself was reminiscent of a time even before his grandparents but like the green house, it had provided the perfect haven away from the tragedy and turmoil of reality.

Soon Jonathan found himself standing in Sunrise records. He made his usual rounds, ensuring that both the gate and glass doors were securely locked and checked the seal on his sound proofing. Usually, he was in the mood to look for nothing in particular. Most days he'd flip through the shelved rows of album covers, make his selection, and slide the shiny, round disc out of its sleeve and into place on the record player, anticipating the familiar sounds he adored. Today, he unloaded his backpack of the day's radio selections and then spent some time hunting for tomorrow's playlist.

It was early afternoon when he finally headed back to camp. River District hadn't been marketed as a survivor base in the beginning, it was slated to be a master-planned waterfront community along the Fraser River in the Marine Drive and Boundary Road area of Vancouver. Once, there were even grand plans for it to be the new more affordable version of Yaletown or Coal Harbour but, of course that was before the outbreak. Jonathan jogged along the row of stacked shipping crates which walled off the River District Colony, searching for the entrance. There were three along Marine Drive, but only one was ever operational. Every three hours the entrance changed locations, determined at random by a three-sided dice. It kept things from becoming too much of a routine.

It was tedious checking each entrance, but it was a small price to pay to be able to live in a protected community. The current entrance ended up being the one on the farthest side of the border and Jonathan was out of breath by the time he approached the vertical facing shipping container that had been converted into an entrance tunnel. He gave the large doors 2 long knocks followed by 3 quick ones and waited for the familiar sound of the lock to click open. He'd begun to think that maybe he'd gotten the coded knock wrong when suddenly the lock turned, and a panel slid open to reveal a piercing set of blue eyes. Even without seeing the familiar shock of bleach blond hair, Jonathan could tell that the guard on duty was Cameron Kells. At 19, Kells was only a year older than Jonathan and the closest to his age in the colony. Though they rarely shared more than a few pleasantries, Kells' was friendly and relatively approachable. The closest to a friend, Jonathan had allowed himself.

"Name?" Kells asked.

"Really Kells?" Jonathan said dryly and mockingly checking his watch, "you forget about me already?"

Kells sighed, "Coast clear, Johnson?"

"Sorry, what was that?"  Jonathan asked, turning his head to listen as Kell's repeated the question. He took a quick look to make sure that no soulless were lurking around nearby and responded affirmatively. A small circular panel at waist level slid open and Jonathan slid his arm into the slot. He waited as Kells inspected the identification tattoo on his forearm and retrieved a handheld testing unit. He felt the cool metal plate of the pressure pad as Kells pressed it against the tip of his index finger. The sensation was quickly followed by the sharp bite of the embedded needle breaking his skin. He flinched. He pictured Kells suppressing a smirk behind the barrier at his expression of weakness. Unlike Diabetes tests, these ones were built to hurt. Lack of sensitivity to pain was an early sign of infection. Jonathan waited a few moments for the test to reveal it's result. Even though he'd done this many times before, he could never seem to shake the fluttering feeling in his stomach while he prayed for a negative test result. One simple flash of a red light and he'd be left to wander the wasteland until he turned. The light at the top of the test must have glowed green because within moments, Kells had pushed the heavy metal door open just enough for Jonathan to squeeze inside.

"Alright there, Johnson?" Kells asked.

"Huh?" Jonathan asked, looking up. As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he could just make out Kells' tall, lanky form seated by the door, his white-blond hair almost glowing in the darkness.

"You good?"

Jonathan nodded. Kells' eyes scanned over him as if waiting for him to speak. Jonathan realized he was waiting for him to elaborate on his answer, but he wasn't sure what more there was to say. Kells knew better than to ask him where he'd been, knowing it would only give Jonathan an opportunity to placate him with a sarcastic and utterly evasive remark.

"I'm shocked to see you working on a weekend. It's practically sacrilege." Jonathan said trying to fill the silence.

"I swapped shifts with Terrance—it's Valentine's Day don't you know? Sadie's making him do something romantic I think."

Jonathan supressed a smirk, "poor bastard,"

The corners of Kell's eyes crinkled as he cracked a smile beneath his mask. "You're coming tonight, right?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Not my scene."

"That's too bad." Kells opened his mouth as if he intended to say more but seeing the look in Jonathan's eyes he quickly fell silent and instead reached over to sterilize the testing unit and dispose of the needle in a biohazard container. Jonathan smiled politely and then took his leave down the tunnel. He could feel Kells' eyes on him as he walked. He'd decided early on that he wouldn't be going to the Valentine's Day social and made his own plans for a late-night trip back to the greenhouse. It was true he could have said yes to tonight's social gathering, but he knew Kells' invitation had merely been a formality. Anyone that spent too long in conversation with him always ended up tiptoeing around him as if they didn't really know what to say to him. Kells was no exception. Every person in River District had been acquainted with death some way or another, but there was something in his own family's tragedy that brought on the whispers of pity and curiosity. It was easier for his father, he figured. The military background allowed him to throw himself into his work, unquestioned. Jonathan forced the thoughts of his father from his head.

As he entered the plaza, he broke into a jog. When the colony was founded, the marketplace had simply replaced the shops at River District Town Center. It seemed people of both the old and new world felt most comfortable doing their shopping on the same acres of land. Tradition is a comfort in a time of uncertainty, Jonathan supposed. Today, it felt just a little more festive and a bit ironic that the fully weaponized tank was covered in little hearts crafted out of odd bits of scrap metal and stray pieces of fabric. String lights cast a hazy glow over the vendors. Someone had re-inflated the heart shaped balloon found in the ruins of an old-world dollar store, it was the kind of thing he used to smuggle into River District. The corner of Jonathan's mouth lifted as he passed a couple of kids gently pat the shiny plastic between them, like a game of tetherball. His sense of amusement quickly disappeared when he noticed how careful the children were being with the toy; their enjoyment was so fragile and fleeting. Despite the occasion, everyone looked solemn. Jonathan always felt strange watching people working and going about their daily routines trying to make meaning of their lives. He'd been alive 18 years and hadn't done anything that felt remotely important. He'd survived and continued to survive a global catastrophe, yet the life he lived never quite felt like his own, control of any kind was somehow beyond him. As he watched the others around him live their lives, he couldn't help but feel as though he was just breathing. Just watching. Just waiting. But for what? Perhaps soullessness wasn't the only hollow life.

A member of the extremist Zen preaching community, the Serenity Society, was standing in the center of the square ringing a handbell that everyone in the marketplace was decidedly ignoring. Though their face was covered by a beige featureless mask, Jonathan could feel the bell ringer's eyes follow him as he ran past. Jonathan kept his gaze forward, knowing that if he gave them the time of day, he'd never escape the endless lecturing of what protection "no-mindness" would provide against the soulless. The beige hoods and faceless mirrored masks of the Serenity Society had always made him feel uneasy. They were colourless, emotionless, void of identity... sometimes they seemed even more unhuman than even the soulless.

Soon, he arrived at the residential units and took the stairs to the two-bedroom apartment he shared with his father. The place was dark and quiet as a tomb. Likely his father was still out on a supply run, guarding the storeroom or maybe on patrol. Jonathan recognized that his life was solitary one, apart from the small talk and exchanges with whomever was on guard duty, and he realized he had come to enjoy his solitude. He'd fixed his schedule to make sure he'd always be long gone before his father got home. It was easier to avoid the chances of conflict altogether. Sure, they still lived together but that was built into their agreement; his father wanted to keep up appearances.

He made his way over to the kitchen and pulled open the top drawer to retrieve his keys. He then grabbed the holster hanging from a hook on the wall and strapped it tightly against his body. Security in the colony was tight, and the weapon was mandatory. Though he wondered why he needed it considering his job was the least exciting, sitting in the dusty records room keeping the books straight and guarding pieces of paper. He'd been angry when his father had him sanctioned for the "respectable job." In fact, that had likely been the last time they were on speaking terms. It was always about the reputation for his father and Jonathan knew he wasn't a son who fit the mold. His father's final bargain: Jonathan would stay in the apartment; he would go to work and in return he'd leave Jonathan alone. Jonathan retrieved one of the SIG Sauer P226s from the dining room table and weighed it in hand. To his father's vexation he'd never liked guns. The mandatory training had taught him that he was a decent shot if he tried, but he never really bothered to carry one with him.

"I've broken gun-shy dogs, easier than you," his father had once told him. Jonathan checked the barrel to ensure that it was loaded and in working order. He paused for a moment before slotting it into its holster, letting his finger hover over the trigger. To this day, he'd never fired it at anyone, living or dead. It was a tradition he wasn't keen on breaking.