10 Minutes From Home | Book 1 | 10 Minutes From Home
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Praise for 10 Minutes from Home
"Bill Howard's 10 Minutes from Home might start out like a standard apocalyptic zombie novel, with scenes that could be taken straight out of a Romero script, but it slowly unfolds into a well narrated love story about one of the most harrowing experiences a couple might have to face. Bonus for those of you located in Ontario: there are plenty of references to genre hot spots, such as the town of
Pontypool and Toronto's Bloor Cinema."
Jessa Sobczuk – Rue Morgue Magazine
“Finally, a believable zombie saga with well developed
characters you actually care about!”
George Mihalka – Director of My Blood Valentine (1981)
“Heartbreaking and soulful, 10 Minutes from Home is one gut-wrenching read I will not forget. This is one meta-cool book!"
John Palisano - Author of NERVES
“Bill is an amazing writer and what he has forged here is a
zombie lovers must have. George A. Romero himself could not have penned a better zombie tale!”
Brad Mavin – Proo(f) Paranormal
“So many things I never saw coming, a definite adrenaline rush while reading! I felt myself reading faster as the pace picked up. This is a book I would read over and over again.”
Paul Silliphant – Proo(f) Paranormal
“10 Minutes from Home had me fully engaged from start to finish, all of the characters were easy to relate to and the story line was unique, horrifying and showcased the strength of the human spirit.”
E. Barr – reader letter
“It literally gave me chills. It’s a zombified, bone-chilling
apocalyptic romance.”
Stephanie Moulton – Editor
10 Minutes from Home
Bill Howard
Fountain Pop Press
2021
Copyright © 2021 by Bill Howard
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.
First Printing: 2012
ISBN 9798579709707
Fountain Pop Press
1377 Dumont St.
Oshawa, Ontario, Canada L1K 2V3
Cover and back cover artwork by: grandfailure
CONTACT THE AUTHOR AT: bill@smalldogdesign.ca
Dedication
To my wife Joanne and daughter Evie, they keep my imagination alive every day and inspire me to keep dreaming always.
Contents
PREFACE: NATURE BOY
CHAPTER 1: THE BIG 4-0
CHAPTER 2: A DAY AT THE RACES
CHAPTER 3: RIDING THE ROCKET
CHAPTER 4: THE ROAD TO DIANE
CHAPTER 5: STATE OF THE UNION
CHAPTER 6: GETTING OUT OF DODGE
CHAPTER 7: THE SUMMER OF RECEPTIONS
CHAPTER 8: THE SEWER THE BETTER
CHAPTER 9: THOMAS RICHARD WASHINGTON
CHAPTER 10: IN COUNTRY
CHAPTER 11: ISABEL LUCINDA HAWKINS
CHAPTER 12: THE INFORMATION HIGHWAY
CHAPTER 13: THE GREEN MILES
CHAPTER 14: JOHN VINCENT HICKLE
CHAPTER 15: SCARBERIA OR SCARLEM?
CHAPTER 16: DIANE STEPHENIE BURTON
CHAPTER 17: THE GREAT ESCAPE
CHAPTER 18: APARTMENT COMPLEXITIES
CHAPTER 19: FRANK STIRLING CALLAGHAN
CHAPTER 20: SEIGE OF THE BRAMFORD
CHAPTER 21: CLIVE STANLEY MORGAN
CHAPTER 22: HOUSEKEEPING
CHAPTER 23: SAVIOUR
CHAPTER 24: DENVER LEO COLLINS
CHAPTER 25: FEELS LIKE HOME
CHAPTER 26: ELEANOR SUZANNA CROFT
CHAPTER 27: WELCOME TO THE JUNGLE
CHAPTER 28: EXODUS
CHAPTER 29: FAMILY TIES
CHAPTER 30: STEPHEN JEFFREY WINTERS
CHAPTER 31: WHERE THE HEART IS
CHAPTER 32: DAMAGE CONTROL
CHAPTER 33: TOOLS OF THE TRADE
CHAPTER 34: GOD BLESS THE CHILDREN AND THE BEASTS
CHAPTER 35: CONTAINMENT
CHAPTER 36: AND DARKNESS FELL
CHAPTER 37: THE END OF THE ROAD
CHAPTER 38: HOME
CHAPTER 39: AFTERMATH
EPILOGUE: CONTAINMENT PROGRESS REPORT
PREFACE:
NATURE BOY
But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be weeping and gnashing of teeth.
-Bible (New Testament)
St Matthew 8:12
I never fully appreciated the beauty of the outdoors. As a kid, I liked to run and play near the woods by our house, clutching a fallen branch as a machine gun in my own imaginary Vietnam War, snapping my makeshift whip around a tree to swing over a treacherous drop and find the hidden lair of the sacred idol. As an adult, I couldn’t be dragged into the woods if you paid me. The thought of sleeping in a bag on the ground was so alien to me, you might as well ask me to sleep on the roof in a garbage bag; it made about the same amount of sense.
Nevertheless, as I sit here in these woods, night begins its rapid takeover of the warm summer day I had survived. I look around, taking it in. I can smell the grass and the bark on the trees. The air is damp in my nose, humid and soft, pleasant. Insects and small animals are going about their daily tasks, coming out to do their shopping in the animal rush hour. For a moment, I am engulfed in the beauty of nature. Strange that it would hit me now, after all these years. After all the times I had a chance to savor it and didn’t, it is now, after going through what I have gone through and seeing what I have seen, that I find this moment, this sliver of my life to take it all in.
You see, I’m almost at the end of my journey, my trek through what used to be the ordinary, boring, run of the mill world. My ordinary life. It used to be about my morning tea, the Tim’s run, the bagel. Getting through another day of work. Trying to get home and spend some quality time with my wife and daughter. My commute home from the office in Toronto used to take me about two hours; this time it took me over a week. I have been making my way home, to our farm near Pontypool, Ontario, just north of the Ganaraska Forest. To the place I call home. I am not a religious man, but today I prayed with all my heart and soul. The same as I’ve prayed each of the 9 days it took for me to get here.
I suppose I should start this tale a little earlier. After all, you won’t be able to understand what I’m hoping to find, what I have endured a living, waking hell for, unless I go back to the beginning and tell you how my average, humdrum world was turned on its head. How everyone’s world was turned on its head. And why it may never get turned back.
CHAPTER 1:
THE BIG 4-0
My name is Denver Collins, although most people call me Denny. It was August 15, 2009, and, as a matter of fact, my 4oth birthday. I awoke in my bed to a small round face just inches from my own; the huge smile was mischievous and she was eager to speak.
"Happy Birthday Daddy!"
My daughter Jordan was sitting on my chest with her hands on either side of my face, holding it in place in case I might look away. For a 3-year-old, her strength was formidable.
"Thanks sweetie. Where's your mom?"
"Inna kitchen, makinna eggs."
I lifted Jordan off my chest and swung my feet out of bed. We sat side by side on the bed, our feet hanging off the edge, dangling in the cool morning air. As I stood up, the coldness of the hardwood sent little shockwaves through the soles of my feet. Jordan grabbed my hand and led me down the stairs and in
to the kitchen where a plate of good old-fashioned bacon and eggs was waiting for me to devour them.
"Honey. Thank you, this is very sweet," I said coyly.
My wife, Diane, was statuesque, tall, feminine, and downright striking. She was an intimidatingly beautiful woman, and one not to be reckoned with. That was one of the many reasons I loved her.
We met under strange circumstances, which is to say she was the girlfriend, then fiancée, then wife of a friend. She became a close friend and confidant of mine throughout the course of that relationship. That is, until her marriage fell apart and we fell in love. I think it was a case of both of us figuring out too late how we felt about each other. Then through the mess that was their break-up and eventual divorce, we found the clarity to admit our feelings for one another and be together. Or something like that. In any case, we have been together now for almost 13 years, and married for 11 of those years. Life couldn't get much sweeter.
I thumbed through the crisp morning paper, skipping the depressing true crime stories that were gloriously emblazoned across the front page to look for real news. The whole country seemed to be in a state of panic over the swine flu. As the majority of the public seemed to be uneducated about it, the panic had risen to record levels. Line-ups at walk-in and mall vaccination clinics were hundreds of people deep, all clamoring to get the vaccine to save them from the new flu. Diane and I weren’t particularly fond of the 'vaccines solve everything' credo that so many people tended to follow. We just couldn't buy into it. We have immune systems for a reason. But we had always kept Jordan up to date on all her regular vaccinations since she was a baby, and when this flu started to hit we learned through some research that her age group was the most susceptible. We arranged with our doctor to get the vaccine as soon as it was available. Once our doctor had it, we took Jordan in to get injected--with a few tears shed. That was before the line-ups. Before the madness. Since Diane and I were not at risk, we didn’t bother with the vaccine. There was no need to fret. It’s amazing how much more prepared you can be if you just read up on things a bit before jumping on the panic bandwagon.
There didn't seem to be much good news in the paper that day, so I opted out of the stereotypical newspaper-reading-dad mode, and asked Jordan about her day instead.
"So what's going on today my sweet? Are you going to the park at daycare?"
"Yeah daddy, we gonna play at tha park, and eat cupcakes, and I gonna go on tha swing and play."
I love toddler sentence structure. She rambled on for a solid two more minutes, and I’ll be damned if she didn't take one breath the whole time. After she was done and had returned to her entrancement with Count Chocula, I went over the day’s schedule with Diane and ensured her I would be back by dinner.
I finished my birthday breakfast and opened a present from my daughter, a copy of North by Northwest on Blu-ray, undoubtedly purchased with some assistance from Mommy. Either that, or she already had an uncanny taste in films. I gave each of my girls a kiss, showered, and got dressed for the day ahead. Diane was pulling out of the driveway to take Jordan to daycare when I heard a horn honking outside. I was planning to have a celebration at home with Diane and Jordan that evening, but first I was heading out for a birthday road trip with my friend Thom. Thom had been through his share of tragedy in the past couple of years so he needed these outings just as much as I did.
Thom is a music producer, and I’m a screenwriter. Well, I fancy myself one, but, truth be told, I’m a feature magazine writer for Hollywood North, a reputable Canadian film industry magazine. That's what I do now anyway, until some brilliant producer out there has his or her epiphany and decides they can't live without one of my scripts.
Thom and I are also film buffs. One of our favorite pastimes is going into Toronto to see old movies at the Bloor Cinema. Today, on my birthday, the cinema was kind enough to be showing a most peculiar double feature, Annie Hall and Phantom of the Paradise. I don’t know how two of my favorite films showed up in the same theatre on my birthday, but they did. Thom may or may not have been behind this strange coincidence, but I wasn’t questioning my stupendous and fortunate luck. I just wanted to sit in that musty old gem of a theatre and soak up the adventures of Alvy Singer and Winslow Leach while sipping a moderately cold fountain Coke. God, I loved that combination of a movie theatre and a fountain Coke while partaking in the communal appreciation of a good movie with a crowd of strangers. Damn, I will miss that.
CHAPTER 2:
A DAY AT THE RACES
Thom and I arrived downtown around noon and parked in the closest Green P we could find. We had time to sit down for a quick lunch at the Pig and Pint, a small pub we frequent when we’re in the city. We enjoyed the dark walnut walls, the leather seats, cracked from years of patronage, the smell of beer and wings, and the staff that have been there for years, not because they have to but because they love it. We sat in a booth near the front of the pub, looking out through the bay window at the passing hordes. There were so many people. Then, anyway.
We sat and ate, and discussed the usual birthday woes, reflecting on the aging process, and how outside of our 10-year-old brains and hearts there were 40-year-old bodies that frequently farted, ached, and betrayed our sense of how far we could run or how much we could lift. The real fact of the matter is that I felt better than I ever had in all my years, not necessarily physically, but in general. I was happy. Without the bullshit expectations and perceptions that accompanied youth, I was actually happy. It felt good.
Thom and I finished our unhealthy but damn tasty lunch, and walked over to the theatre. Bloor St was bustling with people, rushing in and out of stores, laughing, kids skateboarding by us in a blur. The usual street kids were sitting against buildings asking for change, yet they wore nicer shoes than I do and had what appeared to be fully groomed and well-fed dogs, and at least $1000 worth of tattoos and piercings each. I could never understand that.
We arrived at the Bloor Cinema shortly before the festivities began, so I took the spare moment to call Diane and check in. She told me that Jordan went to daycare with none of the usual fuss of crying, kicking, and general mayhem that typically accompanied the drop off. Of course, she was always fine once inside, nonchalantly waving us away as she targeted a certain toy and bee lined for it. Then Diane mentioned that Jordan had a bit of a cough as she went in, but that it didn’t seem to be anything to be concerned about.
About three quarters of the way through Phantom, around the part where Winslow is bricked into the studio by Swan, the film jerked and the theatre went black. Of course. It was my birthday; things couldn't possibly go smoothly. Murphy's Law was written specifically for me, I was sure of it. With the important things in life I was as lucky as they come. I had my health, love, family, and friends. But when it came to the smaller things in life, I was notoriously unlucky. Give me fifty-fifty odds, I’ll lose nine times out of ten. Regardless, we waited for word from the theatre, as would usually happen in a situation like this. A few patrons walked out, presumably to get some answers, but still no help came. We waited about twenty minutes before realizing the film wasn’t coming back on. People had been sporadically leaving the theatre for a while now, and we decided it was time for us to leave as well.
We filed out of the theatre with a small group of people, up the musty inclined aisles and into the lobby. A few people were mulling about, but none of them seemed to work at the theatre. We couldn't figure out what was going on. Thom walked up to a group of three or four people.
"Do you have any idea what happened to the movie?"
A tall man in a corduroy jacket turned to answer.
"We're not really sure. We came out here just as some guy came down from the office, said something to the two girls at the snack bar, and they all took off out the main doors."
Thom relayed this information to me, and we stood staring at each other dumbfounded. We considered the options and agreed to leave.
Once we were on the street outsid
e the Bloor, the strangeness continued. Something about the mood had changed since we entered the theatre a couple of hours earlier. Sure, there were still crowds, people with shopping bags, kids running around. The difference was that everyone seemed to be moving fast. No one seemed to be casually strolling. Everyone was rushing to get somewhere, and no one looked happy. Traffic had multiplied since we went into the theatre, and Bloor St was like rush hour, packed bumper to bumper. After a minute or two of watching and trying to make sense of what we were witnessing, Thom and I both jumped when a piercing scream came from somewhere down the street. We couldn't see who it came from, but it was loud.
A few minutes passed of us standing there observing and sorting out the scene in our heads. I felt like I was looking at one of those pictures that are just a mess of color, but when you squint and look really hard, you can see an image. I never could figure those out, I only ever saw the mess of color.
We started walking down the street towards our parking lot, which was about two blocks away. We tried to avoid everybody on the street, dodging out of the way of the migrating herds. In the course of the first block and a half, we heard two more screams coming from different locations, another female, but younger sounding, and a male. As we came around the corner onto the street our parking lot was on, we heard a din ahead, the noise of a crowd, like a group of people cheering someone on, only more aggressive.
We approached the parking lot cautiously, to where the noise was originating. As we walked up and crouched behind an Escalade, we peered around the SUV's massive frame to witness what was actually a mob of people. They were gathered in a group, in a circle, and they all seemed to be concentrating on something in the middle. We could hear that the shouts were mostly angry, and we could see the raised arms of people beating something, someone. We could pick out a few choice refrains. “Son of a bitch.” “You fuckin . . . ” “Oh my God.” We surveyed the area and looked for Thom's car. It was just behind and to the left of the mob. It seemed to have something sprayed on the driver's side window. Paint? No. It looked like blood. But why? How? We stayed put for the time being, until the mob started to die down. A few people left, then a few more. One man, older, with grey hair, but fit, came out of the crowd quickly, holding what looked like a child, maybe ten years old. The child must have been unconscious, judging by the way she was lying limp across his arms, and she had blood on her clothes. He held the child delicately, but with a definite sense of urgency, stumbling briefly but always conscious of the small girl in his grasp. We ducked back down and circled to the front of the Escalade, then moved in front of the car beside it, a Corolla. The man put the child in the back of the Escalade, got in and started up the engine, and drove out of the lot with a harsh squeal of his tires.