10 Minutes From Home | Book 1 | 10 Minutes From Home

by Howard, Bill

  I stepped out of the car first, on the side where the kids were. I stood beside their little bodies and turned one over with my foot. The boy’s chest looked slightly caved in, multiple ribs forced back into his lungs and heart. The other boy had a large wound on his head. They still didn't move. I felt nauseous. All I could think of when I looked at them was Jordan. My hands quickly jumped to my pants pockets, patting them down, then to my back pocket, where I found and pulled out my wallet. I flipped it open, dug my fingers into the little slot under all the cards, and pulled out a small, color picture of Diane pushing Jordan on the swing set in the backyard. I breathed in deeply, then let it out. I had to get home. I slid my wallet back into my pocket and motioned to Thom, who had already walked ahead a little. I started to walk towards him, then stopped. A thought occurred to me. What about the other cars? I didn’t see any other people come out after the emergency stop. I turned around and moved towards the car that was behind us, the one the large man had tried to escape to. I couldn't see anything through the windows. The flickering fluorescent lights inside the car lit up the windows in quick flashes, revealing only dark red tinted windows, thick with little bits of passengers. If the passengers were all dead, and there were raving lunatics in their car, where were the lunatics now? The doors on that particular car were still closed. I walked closer, trying not to make noise on the gravel floor of the tunnel. Once I got within a few feet, I leaned in, turned an ear towards the car, and listened. At first I heard nothing. Then a faint scuffling. I looked through the blood smeared window again, trying to make out any movement. There didn’t seem to be any. Thom was now shouting quietly for me to come. I took one more step in towards the door and squinted my eyes, trying magically to use some x-ray vision to see through the chunky residue. A face struck the glass hard, startling me and making me stumble backwards over the loose gravel and fall on my ass. There was a female face with her cheek flattened against the glass panel in the door. She was pressed hard up to it, and her tongue was flicking in and out, licking the small bits from the greasy surface of the door. A few more scuffling noises shook up and down the car and I figured I was probably better off just getting the hell out of here. There were eight cars on this train, and it looked like for now, the doors to ours were the only ones that opened. I counted myself fortunate, got up out of the dirt, and made my way to Thom before something horrible could prevent me from doing so.

  We walked about a quarter of a mile down the tunnel until we saw the light from the platform. Many of the other passengers had already reached it; we could see silhouettes of people climbing up onto the tiled waiting area. I didn't hear any screams, so at least that was a positive sign of what could be awaiting us on that platform.

  CHAPTER 4:

  THE ROAD TO DIANE

  Once I struck out on my own, I had a vast assortment of menial jobs just as everyone does. I worked in the kitchen of a pizza place, as well as a 50's style burger place that was run by the best boss ever, a tough as nails broad that was no nonsense while at the same time fun to work for and with. She taught me to enjoy work instead of just tolerate it. After that I did the clothing racket at a college clothing store where I had to put on a fake smile and help jocks pick out which "U of whatever" sweatshirt they would look most cool in. I also worked at a few mom and pop movie rental stores, which is how I discovered my true passion: film. I had always enjoyed writing, but once I discovered movies I knew instantly it was the field I wanted to write about. I loved to both hear and tell stories. I loved the art of the storyteller and I fell in love with the movies. One year I spent working at a video store, and had no signs of any social life, I think I stopped counting how many movies I watched at about 1200. That was a good year.

  Eventually I made my way out of these jobs and landed a small gig writing for a music magazine. I did interviews, articles, reviews, that sort of thing, and I really liked it. I started taking on more freelance writing jobs, and I finally got to do a few pieces on the cinema, writing movie reviews and interviewing various directors, actors, etc. I always had a soft spot for the people who worked in horror movies. For some unexplained reason, they seemed friendlier, more welcoming, more casual, and loyal. Everyone knew each other and helped each other out. They were the film equivalent of the rap music industry, with everyone helping everyone else to further the genre.

  One day Thom called me up to let me know that his roommate had up and left for an acting job on a sitcom in New York, and Thom was having some trouble making the rent on his own. I lived alone in a modest, rodent-infested basement apartment, and the idea of living somewhere aboveground with my best friend seemed rather appealing. I moved in within the week, and became part of a strange communal apartment building known as The Brock. Thom had lived at The Brock for some time, as did a college buddy of mine, Patrick. I was introduced to a slew of characters who lived in the building, all colorful artsy types, and all very nice. We became a small tight-knit community. We had barbecues together, hung out, and watched movies.

  Patrick had a girlfriend who had moved in with him just before I moved in with Thom. Her name was Diane Burton. The first night we ever met, Patrick had invited a bunch of us over for movies on a hot summer night. As we all filed in and got comfortable, I was introduced to Diane. She was tall with very unique features, a long face, beautiful eyes, dark hair. She was also dressed up as if she was going out to a four-star restaurant, and the rest of us were in shorts and t-shirts. My first thought of her was ‘who does she think she is’? Too fancy for this group, that was for sure. She kept to herself most of the night and didn't socialize much. She seemed like a rich kid at a poor kid's party.

  As time passed, and we hung out more, I took a liking to Diane. Once I got to know her and she opened up more, she was quite amiable and surprisingly funny. She was actually very shy, and didn't quite know what to think of Patrick's friends. But Diane and I got along well. We started to hang out as a threesome more, Patrick, Diane, and I. As time passed, we became better acquainted, and found we had quite a bit in common. Eventually we started to hang out with each other on our own, mainly when Patrick was working odd shifts at his job at the plant. We did laundry at the laundromat together, went to movies, listened to music. Over time we became best friends, confidants. It was absolutely platonic and we were both okay with that.

  I can still remember clearly one day when we had gone out to get strawberries at a local farmer’s market. It was a perfect summer day, with warm air and a soft breeze. It was ideal. After picking up everything we needed, I got back to the car first, and waited by my door for her. I looked back and saw her crossing the parking lot, the sun low in the sky behind her; she was totally unaware that I was watching her. She was relaxed, happy, taking her time strolling in the essence of that beautiful summer's day. A brief glimmer of romance skimmed the surface of my mind. She was a beautiful woman and I cared deeply about her. I quickly snapped out of it and told myself that she was just a close friend and nothing more. Or so I thought.

  CHAPTER 5:

  STATE OF THE UNION

  After climbing onto the platform at Union, most riders just stood there as if waiting to be told what to do next by some transit officer that was never going to show up. Once we were up off the tracks, I looked around at our rag tag bunch of subway survivors. Most of them looked pretty frazzled, many of them with blood-soaked clothes, blood-soaked faces. Most talked quietly amongst themselves, trying to make sense of the house of horrors that was contained in that subway car. A few people took off running out of the subway station immediately, up the different sets of stairs, randomly choosing a way out as if they were picking the box or curtain on Let’s Make a Deal. Was that Wink Martindale? No. Monty Hall. Yup, Monty Hall. I was astounding myself with how my mind went to strange places under stress, as well as my impressive recollections of useless knowledge.

  Thom and I decided to stick around and let things cool down for a few minutes. Rushing into whatever came next could prove very
hazardous, and we weren't in any immediate danger on the platform. That is, unless some of those other subway doors opened. But for now they were closed and we had to figure out what to do. The rest of the riders seemed to be forming into small groups, going with their gut instincts as to who they could make it further with, who they could trust. There was no way to know of course, but at this stage, you have to take what you can get and follow your instincts. Thom and I stayed on our own, and a young woman named Isabel joined us as we discussed a plan of action. Isabel suggested that we leave the station, 'borrow' a truck, and try to find a way out of the city. I didn't know how likely it would be that we could get out by vehicle; we were downtown and it was quite a hike to get out of the city, and masses of people would be doing the same thing right now. Thom suggested getting out via the waterways, and we were fairly close to the harborfront, but it would be harder to get a watercraft than a car. It was a good idea, but seemed an unlikely choice nonetheless. By now, almost all of the other riders had readied themselves and were getting prepared to leave the station. Some had selected the main hallway as their exit; others were going up the stairs to the central train terminal, hoping to run into some sort of authorities or help. I asked around to see if anyone had a cell phone I could borrow, and a few people offered one up, but with great hesitation. There was still no service anyway, so it did me no good. Thom, Isabel and I decided to follow the underground walkway, the P.A.T.H. system, and head away from Union Station before surfacing. We figured it would be madness around the station, and we wanted to keep our departure low key, stay under the radar. Unlike the other riders, we decided that now was not the time to make our escape. We would just keep meeting resistance, traffic jams, and panicked crowds. We all agreed that by hiding out overnight in some cubbyhole we might just fair better tomorrow, and actually have some success getting out of the city. We might be able to commandeer a vehicle of some sort, be it on water or land. We headed out as the other riders took deep breaths and went their own ways.

  We started out down the pathway, passing shops in the underground. All of them were abandoned; the doors still open, generic mall music playing over the speakers. We moved steadily but cautiously. Luckily, it was a relatively straight path, so there weren’t a lot of corners for anything to surprise us from. We came across a bank of pay phones, and Isabel and I ran to them as fast as our feet would carry us. Our hands searched through our pockets for any change we had, and we both tried to call home, me to Diane, and Isabel to whomever was most important to her. We both ended up with the same result, which was a dead line. We turned together like synchronized swimmers and looked at Thom, who stood in the pathway behind us, watching. We gave him our best deflated looks, and rejoined him to continue our mall walk.

  Eventually we came across a gift shop that sold knick-knacks, souvenirs, and that sort of thing. It had a large steel gate that tucked into pockets on either side of the entrance. Most of the other stores seemed to have regular aluminum or even wooden doors that closed like the front door of your house. This one seemed like it would withstand a little more abuse, should we need it to. We would hole up in there, close the doors, stay safe and secure for the time being, get rested, and set out the next morning. We entered the store cautiously, checking out all of the nooks and crannies and the small back storage room. It looked all clear. We faithfully tried the two phones that were inside, but dead air was all we got in return. The store had a small candy rack at the cash register, so at least we would have something to eat for the night. We closed up the steel doors, locked them with a rotated click, and settled into the back room with a couple of chocolate bars each. Isabel was around 20 years old with short brown hair. She was a healthy size, fit, not like all the other waifs you see touring the streets of Toronto. She had a few random piercings: ears, eyebrow, and a ring that encircled her bottom lip. We could also glimpse a few tattoos on her arms. She looked like she meant business, not the type of woman you would want to try to take advantage of. Although she was young, she looked wise in the face, old in the eyes, and street smart.

  “So Isabel, what made you decide that going with two frazzled old guys would be your best option?” I said wryly.

  Isabel smiled as well, one corner of her mouth much higher than the other, giving her face a skewed but adorable facade.

  “Everyone else on the platform had a panic in their eyes. We were all scared, but everyone else looked irrational, like they were about to flip out. You guys had a look of calm under the fear. Call it a hunch.”

  Thom chirped in. “Time will tell I suppose. Good job so far, you’re trapped underground with diabetes-inducing sustenance and two guys who will probably snore.”

  I almost spit out my gummies and we all had a much needed laugh. Isabel filled us in on what life she was living before this rude interruption.

  “I work in a pub down here called Mick’s but I live in Scarborough. When I’m not working at Mick’s I’m taking a class studying Police Sciences. I would prefer to live in the city but it’s so friggin' expensive so I just do the commute, gives me time for reading, studying, you know. It’s not that bad. I am a little worried about Dougie though.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Boyfriend?”

  “No, my cat. He’s named after John Douglas, the guy who pioneered criminal profiling. I left some food this morning, enough for overnight since I would be working tonight, but if I don’t get home by tomorrow the poor thing will be starving.”

  Thom put his hand on her shoulder.

  “We’ll do the best we can to get you home to your profiling cat, don’t you worry.”

  Isabel smiled and laid her hand over Thom’s, patting it.

  We filled her in on abbreviated versions of our illustrious histories, although, as usual in social settings, Thom tended not to get too personal or detailed about his past. He basically just relayed his educational and childhood history, saying nothing about Nicole and Sam.

  After the getting-to-know-you session, we had a fine dinner of chocolate and nougat with a lovely side of sour cherry candies. Although it would have been awkward behavior for strangers in everyday life, Isabel laid with her head on Thom's lap, and Thom gently stroked her hair until she was asleep. It was calming to them both, and he eventually settled into a deep sleep himself. At some point, I also drifted off on the dusty floor of the little gift shop that just happened to have good doors.

  CHAPTER 6:

  GETTING OUT OF DODGE

  The next morning, we awoke just as fatigued and emotionally drained as the day before, but at least our bodies were somewhat rested. When I first opened my eyes, I was disoriented and thought for a brief second that I was at home in bed beside Diane. As my mind focused and I realized where I actually was, I was suddenly very depressed that the previous day had not been a nightmare. Diane was the only thing on my mind that morning; I just wanted to hold her in my arms, or, at the very least, to hear her voice. I had to make contacting Diane my number two priority today, only after staying alive.

  We listened through the steel gates for any sounds or activity, but heard nothing. No voices, no running, no mass hysteria. We pocketed a few more candy bars and armed ourselves with whatever we could find to use as weapons. Thom found a good sized chunk of lumber in the back room, I had a steel bar that looked like it came from some sort of display unit, and Isabel had a large pair of scissors that looked like they would have been owned by some character played by Bette Davis or Joan Crawford in an old thriller movie. We opened the doors, and started out along the second half of the walkway system. We were walking for about 10 minutes when we reached a stairwell that ascended to the surface. The daylight shone a curtain of light down the stairs and onto the stained tile floor. We moved forward slowly, listening for noise from above, but heard nothing. We tread lightly up each step until we had a view of the street.

  Back in the seventies and eighties, I was a big fan of the now-classic George A. Romero zombie films. Even into the eighties and beyond, I lo
ved anything post-apocalyptic, Night of the Comet, The Day After, 28 Days Later. When we reached the top of those stairs, it was as if I was watching one of those movies come to life. Front Street was completely abandoned. Cars were everywhere, some with opened doors, some with people still in them, although they weren’t in any shape to fill us in on what had happened. There was even the odd newspaper blowing around in the street for effect. All that was missing was the infamous "The Dead Walk" headline on the front page. It was looking a lot like a zombie movie, but this was reality. We didn't have 'zombies' in Toronto. Or anywhere else for that matter. That left us wondering what in God’s name was happening here.

  We heard a low rumbling from somewhere up Bay Street, and a more distant rumbling from further down Front Street. We all ducked back into the stairwell and poked our heads out to see what, if anything, would materialize from the direction of the thunderous clatter. From north of the intersection, coming out of the financial district, crawled a huge, drab olive tank, steadily rolling through the intersection like an angular metal elephant. It was preceded by six soldiers armed with AR-15's, and was followed by a parade of similar looking army men marching behind. The tank turned right onto Front Street, the pavement crackling under the heavy treads. The ground shook beneath our feet, and all the way down the street we could see tiny stones on the pavement jumping frantically in the air like fizz off a glass of Coke. Thom turned to me looking quite happy.

  "This is it, they can help us, what are we waiting for?"

  I couldn't be as certain. Being a movie buff, my mind automatically shifted to the rule that if things are going bad and the military shows up, things are probably not about to get better. However, it did make a heap more sense than hiding in a gift shop.