10 Minutes From Home: Episodes 1-4 Read online

  "Good God, thank you. My name is John, please, I locked myself in here, the keys are over there on the floor, please let me out…"

  He looked and sounded sane, there was nothing raving about him. I turned where he had indicated and sure enough, a large round key ring was on the floor with a dozen or so keys on it. I picked it up and held it to the window. He motioned for me to open the door. I felt it would be okay, he wasn't acting anything like any of the things we had encountered. Thom and Isabel agreed so I opened the cell door. John practically fell out of the room, taking a deep breath of non-holding-cell air. After drinking a bottle of water we had given him, he proceeded to explain to us that they were overrun with hoards of the infected, mostly stemming from a flu clinic that was located in the mall. When the proverbial “shit” hit the fan, he locked himself in the cell, even though he knew he could not get out unless someone got him out. I supposed he was right, it is preferable to being torn apart or eaten alive. We updated John on all we knew, about the military setting up across the highway, and our plan as to where we were headed and why. John said he had a brother in Lindsey, and he would be grateful if he could accompany us as far as we were going, safety in numbers and all. We agreed. John led us to the back of the security office, to a small room that hosted a bank of surveillance monitors. The room seemed completely intact, but John said no one was in it at the time of the outbreak, so I guess there was no reason for one of those things to go in if there was nothing to eat. We looked over all the screens, surveying the entire mall from the strange oscillating eye of the various cameras situated all over the property. No one in sporting goods; no one in the movie theatre. Not your typical busy day at the mall. One camera was on the bare storefront that housed the clinic, which had all of its windows papered over, as it was an abandoned unit and waiting to be leased. It seems that after a mob of infected started running amok, some mall security officers locked up the clinic doors, trapping the remaining dozen or so infected inside the store. In another camera view inside the clinic we saw dozens of infected still there, lying around barely moving. We could see small movements, but most of them were just sitting still; some were rocking back and forth. One small boy sat in the middle of the room, stoic as a statue, staring at the lens of the camera, at us. It sent a cold shiver down each of our spines.

  CHAPTER 14: JOHN VINCENT HICKLE

  John Vincent Hickle was born in Ross-on-Wye, a small market town with a population of 10,089 in southeastern Herefordshire, England, located on the River Wye, and on the northern edge of the Forest of Dean. He was born on November 23, 1967, to Beatrice and William Hickle, and was an only, but very happy child. He was imaginative and smart, and always had a distinct love of music, even in his younger years. When he was 15, he started a band called Crunch with a few friends, John on drums and vocals. John's band never saw the level of professional success needed to make a living, and so he worked various menial jobs to make ends meet. When John was 21, he decided to try and make a life for himself elsewhere. Seeing England as a dead end for his musical endeavors, he moved to Canada with Willie, a friend and band mate, and they came to Toronto in hopes of finding fame within Toronto's indie music scene.

  Unfortunately, Canada's opportunities for bands were about as ripe for the picking as England's were, and John ended up working the same types of blue-collar jobs here that he had worked in England. This pattern of playing small gigs and balancing day jobs was the norm for years in John's life, until he decided the music was just not going to happen and he was going to have to get a good job to secure his life in Toronto. John went through all the procedures to become a police officer, like his father, whom he had always respected for his job. He did very well in his training, and was eventually on the beat with the Durham Regional Police.

  Six years into his career in law enforcement, at the age of 32 and the rank of sergeant, John and his partner, a large Italian man named Vince Moretti, answered a call of domestic abuse. They arrived at the modest bungalow on a quiet court around 8:30pm on a warm Saturday night in July. John approached the front door as Vince checked around the side of the house. John knocked on the door and announced them as police. There didn't seem to be any movement in the house, nor any noise. Vince rejoined him on the front step, and John knocked again. The sound of locks turning was accompanied by the door cracking open to reveal the petite face of a woman, pushed into the open space between door and frame. She asked what was wrong and John relayed the reason for their call. The woman insisted she didn’t know what it was all about, and that she was home alone. John asked if they could take a look inside, but the woman claimed she didn’t feel comfortable allowing that. John reassured her that they were there just to make sure she was safe, but the woman declined the offer. As she backed into the house, John caught a quick glimpse of a forearm coming out of the back of her hair, as if a hand were grasping a handful of it on the back of her head. John glanced quickly at Vince, who confirmed what John had seen, and Vince's hand shot out to prevent the door from completely closing. The woman turned her head to look back out, a tear forming, then trickling down her left cheek. John figured from the direction of the mystery forearm that the man must be directly behind the door, so he took a chance and rammed his foot into the door. The chain snapped and the door exploded inwards, clipping the woman's arm, sending her spinning into the front hallway. As she fell, now free of the forearm of her captor, she landed on the floor hard, her head hitting the bottom of the stairs in the hall. The force of the door flying open also had some effect on the man to whom the forearm belonged, as it hit him square in the face, instantly bloodying his nose, and sending him to the floor on the other side of the hallway. John entered the house first, gun drawn, and Vince followed behind. John turned his attention to the woman as Vince swung over to the man. The man shook off his fall, and Vince noticed the hand that hadn’t been holding the clump of hair in it had a sawed off double barrel shotgun. Vince yelled for him to drop it, but his sentence was cut short by the bellowing boom of the shotgun, which caught Vince in the upper chest. Vince flew back hard, falling right back out the open front door. John's head spun around, eyes following Vince as he disappeared from the hallway. As he turned his gaze quickly back to the man on the floor, he was aware of him screaming.

  "BITCH!" the man yelled. He was holding the shotgun out towards the woman unconscious on the floor, and already squeezing the trigger. John squeezed the trigger of his Glock twice, sending the small but lethal projectiles into the mans chest dead center as his shotgun roared once more, the short barrels of his gun sending buckshot in a wide spray towards his wife. John's bullets had found their mark and pushed the man back into the floor, the sharp crack of bullets sinking into wood floors behind him as the shotgun slid out of his grip and across the floor. The man's buckshot had also found their marks, hitting the woman in the side of the head, making an incomprehensible mess up the stairwell wall. John screamed a loud NO as it all happened, then stood in complete silence as three bodies lie around him in all directions. He turned and kneeled beside Vince, sliding his hand behind Vince's head.

  "Vince. Vince, can you hear me?"

  Vince's face was sprayed with blood, and the bottom of his neck was torn up like meat through a grinder. The majority of the buck had hit his vest, but it hit him high and the spray was wide, catching his shoulders and neck as well. Vince tried to gurgle out something, but he couldn’t make it out. John grabbed his radio and called in the incident, and within minutes the paramedics were there working on Vince, trying to stop the geyser of blood that was draining him from the hole in his neck.

  The next day, sitting in a very uncomfortable plastic chair in the hospital, John was given the news that his partner and friend was going to survive, but that he would never speak again, and worse yet, would never move below the neck again, the shot had shattered the spine in the back of his neck. Less than 24 hours later, John resigned his position with the police force, and spent a very long time dealing with h
is guilt over that tragic day.

  A year or so after the incident, John took on a position with a company called Security First. He found the world of security much easier to deal with than police work, and he continued to do it for the next 10 years or so. His current position was as supervisor at the Scarborough Town Centre, where he usually just did office work and training, but this particular day he had been filling in a regular shift for a guard that was off sick. John wondered what the fate of that guard ended up being. Who knows if anyone John ever knew was still alive. Or how much longer John would be for that matter.

  CHAPTER 15: SCARBERIA OR SCARLEM?

  Scarborough had a reputation as being a tough city. A city of gangs and crime. Of course, it wasn't much worse than any other city or town, but once reputations are formed, they are not easily forgotten. In the 50s and 60s, Scarborough was your typical, primarily white suburban city, which was jokingly referred to as Scarberia because it supposedly symbolized drab conformity. In the years that followed, Scarborough became one of the most diversified cities in Ontario, with over 50% of its inhabitants being of ethnic origins, and the minority being whites. After some history with gang violence, the nickname became Scarlem, although it was not a term openly used due to the demeaning nature of it. Despite the reputation, Scarborough was a lush, green vibrant city with beautiful landscapes such as the Scarborough bluffs and the Rouge Valley. John, the security guard, had his share of experience and history with Scarborough, having lived within its borders for most of his adult life and then being a member of the police force there.

  As John sat looking over the monitors with Thom, Isabel, and me, trying to figure out the best way to get out of the mall and over to the relative safety of the apartment complexes, he noticed a group of 5 young men on the northern part of the property, smashing a door and making their way into the mall at the entrance by the movie theatres. Usually this wouldn’t bother John, as he would just call for back-up and get the situation taken care of, but these particular young men troubled him, and it wasn't because he didn’t have any back-up. It was because he suspected from the look of them that they were members of the 401 Boyz, a notoriously violent gang that operated in Scarborough. As if mad infected citizens weren't enough to worry about.

  John filled us in on the gang, and suggested we find a way out fast, as gang presence tends to grow rapidly and exponentially. After a few more minutes of strategizing, we all agreed that we would follow a short series of back hallways, usually used by couriers and delivery men, that lead to a docking bay exit at the east end of the mall, leaving just a short jaunt across a highway on-ramp over to the apartment complexes. We gathered up our stuff, and left the security office, half-jogging, half-crawling across the food court as if we were sneaking around in some Die Hard movie. We only had to cross one open area of the mall to get to the access hallway: an intersection of escalators and stairways, with a big elevator in the centre. The access door was on the opposite side, so we stayed close to the storefronts and worked our way around the centre court. As we got about a quarter of the way across, we heard voices from across the way, shouting and taunting each other. The gang members were nearing. We all picked up the pace, convinced that we could make it to the door before the gang made it to the court where we were. We broke into a full run now, more concerned about reaching our destination than being noticed. Once we reached the door, John opened it and held it open as the rest of us ran through. Isabel went through last and John took one quick look back just in time to see three of the guys arrive in the court and look straight across at him. They locked eyes with each other for one brief second.

  "HEY!" yelled one of the hoods.

  John's eyes widened and he let go of the door, turned back the way he came, and sped away in a full-on run. The three hoods took off after him, one with a knife and one with an automatic handgun. I heard the yell, ran back to the door, and looked out just in time to see the punks chasing John back down the mall. I told Thom and Isabel to go ahead and I would catch up to them, but they resisted, saying they wouldn't go ahead without me. And I insisted that we couldn't go on without John; we couldn't suddenly adopt the attitude that it was okay to leave someone behind.

  They both agreed. We couldn’t leave John behind, especially after he took off to make sure the gang members didn't discover us, and so we headed off to help him. We followed the shouts of the youths, who didn't seem to care if anyone heard them. We finally caught up with them as we rounded a corner to an exit where John was backed up against locked glass doors and the punks were narrowing in on him. Thom and I raised our guns simultaneously, concentrating our aim on the two that had weapons. My finger twitched on the trigger, I was just waiting to see if they were going to make a move towards John. That was the thought running through my head when I felt cold steel press into the back of my head.

  "Drop the fucking guns."

  The deep, aggressive voice came from behind us. We slowly lowered our guns and turned our heads to see five more of the gang members. One of them yelled out to the original three, who turned around to witness the triumphant capture. Diane and Jordan's faces flashed through my mind as the youths all laughed and hollered. One of them grabbed Isabel forcefully behind the neck and pulled her close, whispering something in her ear that made her physically retract, a look of absolute terror and disgust on her face. They grabbed John, and took us all back through the mall. Along the way, other wandering members of the gang joined them, some randomly smashing windows and looting stores, taking iPods, Blu-ray players, and random pieces of clothing. As we passed by the court near the escalators, I glanced at our escape door and looked around for something that could help us, but I didn’t know what. I just wished there was something we could do to get out of this situation. As I walked, I tilted my head back with my eyes closed, hoping this was all a dream. As I opened my eyes, head still tilted, I noticed movement through the skylight, but I didn't catch what it was. Something dark had been in the window, and then ducked out of sight. Then a thought occurred to me. The clinic. I spoke up.

  "What do you guys want from us? We work here. We can get you anything you want."

  The one who seemed to be the head honcho stopped the whole group, and we all stood still, silent in the middle of the mall.

  "What could we possibly want from you that we can't just take ourselves?"

  I thought for a second.

  "There's stuff in this mall that’s more valuable than what's in the stores. When the outbreak started, we stored away all the cash, and a huge amount of drugs from the pharmacy. It would be worth a fortune. We can show you where it is."

  The leader thought for second, and I could practically see the gears turning in his head. He stood there for a moment, and then turned his attention back to me.

  "Where?"

  "The food court, there was an empty store, so we figured we would stow everything away there. We figured looters would never break into a seemingly empty store.”

  He seemed to buy this. He turned and slapped one of his buddies on the back, and cracked a twisted smile. He turned back to me, grabbed the back of my neck and put the tip of his knife right up to my face, millimetres from my eye.

  "There better be motherfucker, or I cut me some steaks."

  CHAPTER 16: DIANE STEPHENIE BURTON

  Diane Stephenie Burton was born on July 1, 1970, in Savannah, Georgia. Her mother, Suzanne, was a house cleaner, and her father, Nate, was a jazz musician and songwriter. Nate wrote jingles in the 50s and 60s for television commercials, but that died off not long after Diane was born. Jazz just wasn’t a catchy way to sell products anymore; rock and roll and contemporary became the way to go. Nate still provided a decent income by playing jazz guitar with an ensemble, doing shows all over the southern USA. Although Diane's family didn’t have much money, Diane wasn’t aware of it. She was a happy child. She enjoyed her life in Savannah, and she always knew her parents loved her. She had lots of friends at school and in her neighborhood n
ear Washington Square.

  A kid's life in Savannah was different from the average kid's life, mostly due to Savannah's culture and history. Diane and her friends would often play hide-and-seek in the Bonaventure Cemetery, the famous resting place of Savannah’s favourite son, Johnny Mercer. Because of this famous association, Savannah was also infused with the spirit of jazz; it was the lifeblood of the city and therefore a part of all of its inhabitant’s lives.

  One bright, hot Savannah day in August 1980, Diane and her friend Arlene were playing in Washington Square, running around the huge trees, trying to catch one another. Diane came around one of the large trees and bumped right into a young boy from her school, Tyler Jackson, and knocked him right on his rear end. Tyler already had a history with Diane, and it wasn’t a good one. He was the bully from the grade ahead of Diane and for some reason took a particular disliking to her.

  Tyler stood up and dusted the dirt off of his pants. He grabbed Diane by the arms and threw her to the ground, calling her names. Diane stood right back up and got in Tyler's face. She called him a jackass and belted him right in the nose, blood instantly streaming onto his lip. By now, a large group of kids had gathered, and were cheering on Diane. Tyler didn't much like being laughed at and humiliated by a 10-year-old girl, so he moved to grab her and Diane started running. Tyler caught up pretty fast and, being bigger than Diane, threw his weight into a double-handed push on Diane's back. Diane flew forward, falling out of the Square and onto the road ahead, rolling in the dry dirt blowing around on the pavement. As her last roll came to a stop, the last thing Diane saw was her own reflection in a shiny bumper as a city bus screeched to a stop, skidding right past her head and stopping beside her. Diane let out a long sigh of relief and started to sit up. As she tried to lean forward, she found she wasn’t able to get up. She turned her head to the right and saw that her right arm was stretched out from her body, but she could only see it just past her shoulder, as the rest of her arm was under the tire of the bus. Her vision went hazy as she realized what had happened, and she turned her head back to the left. In the blurry view from the road, she could see people around her talking to her, trying to help. In the distance she saw Tyler running with all his might in the other direction.