I Should’ve Taken the Car

I SHOULD’VE TAKEN THE CAR

In hindsight, the little changes were piling up. What if I’d driven? What if I’d taken the bus to the subway station instead of walking? Would the fifteen minutes I’d spent walking have made a difference? What if I’d just taken an Uber? What if I’d sat in the second car instead of the first? So many small, insignificant decisions that resulted in me sitting on a subway train, thinking I’m going to die.

*****

When I woke up this morning, I thought it was going to be just another weekday—get up, get ready, have breakfast, and head out to work. But, I made one change to my usual routine—instead of driving, I’d decided to take transit. I’d made the decision yesterday, when it had taken me an hour and a half to travel three kilometres in my car because of road construction.

As I walked the three blocks from my home to the subway station, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. Instead of hopping on one of the surface buses that passed me, heading for the station, I’d walked the entire way.

Good for me! I thought.

I tapped my fare card, and headed for the platform. Just as I started descending the stairs down, I heard a train approaching. I started to hurry a little faster, reaching the platform at the same time as the train pulled in. Because the staircase emptied at the front of the platform, I made my way into the first car.

There were only two other people in the car with me, besides the train’s motorman. I walked up to the very front, beside the motorman’s cab, and sat on the double seat, my back to the front window. I listened to the chime, watched the doors closed, and felt the train gently surge forward.

I looked around the car. I used to take the subway a least twice a day, but it had been quite a while since those halcyon days of no air conditioning, questionable hygiene, and frustratingly long delays trapped in dark, dank tunnels. But even after all those years, the cars looked more or less the same. There were subway maps, advertisements, PSAs. It was pretty much how I remembered it, but with a sprinkling of digital screens—like a digital billboard, but smaller.

I put my ear buds in, and dialed up a playlist from Spotify. I had eleven stops until I was at the office, so I settled in, thinking about the day ahead of me.

The first three stops were normal—no one got off, and one person got on. Just before the doors closed at the fourth stop, a trio of transit workers slipped onto the car.

I didn’t pay them too much attention—they looked like transit maintenance workers, and I was on transit, so … They were dressed alike—work boots, the word “MAINTENANCE” stencilled across the back of their reflective jackets, and those bright yellow and orange reflective pants that outside workers wear for warmth and safety. Each was carrying a hefty looking red tool kit. They were all wearing ubiquitous blue disposable face masks. Idyly, I wondered if the job mandated the masks, or if they were just being cautious. But more importantly, I hoped that everything was okay with the train. In hindsight …

Because I was facing the length of the car, I half-watched as two of the workers walked to the far end of the car and unlocked the door that led to the next car. I wasn’t really watching, just sort of following them move about in the car. In actuality, I was reviewing my morning’s schedule in my head, making sure that I was ready for my first meeting at eight o’clock. One of the workers stepped out in the space between the doors. He bent over and did something close to the rear car platform. It looked pretty sketchy—him hanging out between the cars of a moving train. I wondered if workplace health and safety would approve.

Then someone stood in front of me, blocking my view. I startled, and took out my earbud. It was one of the maintenance workers.

”Excuse me, ma’am,” he said, not looking at me, but pointing down the car. “Could you move to another seat on the far side of the doors?”

“Sure,” I said, grabbing my bag and moving to one of the middle inward-facing seats. I watched as the man who had spoken to me knocked on the door of the operator’s booth and the cab door opened. I watched as the worker stepped in. It must have been tight—those cabins are only made for one person. Then the motorman stepped out. The cab door shut from the inside. Then the train slowed, then stopped. I watched the motorman stare through the cab window, his body rigid. I wondered what was going on.

I turned to watch the other two workers at the back of the car. They were still working on something. Whatever it was, it took a couple of minutes. Then they stood up, locked the rear door, and walked back to the front of the car.

The taller of the two knocked on the cab door, made a whirly sign with his finger—the universal sign for “let’s go,” and the train lurched forward.

CLUNK, CHUNK, CLUNK!

The train stuttered for a couple of seconds, and then we were moving, slowly at first, then gaining speed. Back on schedule. I smiled, figuring whatever the problem was, it was now fixed.

I was wrong.

The first clue that everything was not as it should be, was when we whooshed by what should have been the fifth stop. I watched the look on the faces of the people as the train that they’d been waiting for zipped through the station without stopping—surprise, confusion, anger.

Then a man in a business suit, mid-forties, sitting at the back of the car said “Hey!” He was sitting in the same position as I was, but at the other end of the car. He looked from the window, towards the front of the car, then back out the window. My eyes followed him. We should have been able to see into the next car. Instead, we saw the lights of the tunnel whizzing by.

Where was the rest of the train? My heart thudded. Something was wrong—really wrong.

And it was at that exact moment that two of the maintenance workers moved towards us. The younger worker pushed the motorman forward down the car towards me.

“Sorry for the inconvenience, folks,” said the taller of the two maintenance men. “But we’re hijacking your train.”

Shocked, I looked around at the other passengers. They looked as confused as I did.

”Now, if you would be so kind as to move to the back of the car, we’d appreciate it.” He shoved the motorman again. He stumbled and stopped in front of me. “Do what he says.”

I got up and walked to the back of the subway car with the others. We huddled together in the four seats at the very back of the car watching the men at the front, fearing what they might do next. I watched as the shorter of the two hijackers walked towards the black bubble cameras mounted on the ceiling between the doors, and spray-painted the lens. Then he repeated it on the second set of cameras.

Damn.

We were definitely in trouble.

Then both of the hijackers took off their masks.

Oh no!

In every book I’ve ever read, if the bad guys let you see their faces, that means they don’t care if you can identify them, because they aren’t going to let you tell anyone. Ever. I swallowed hard.

The motorman was sitting beside me on the inward facing seat. I turned to him and leaned in. “What’s going on?” I whispered.

The motorman shook his head slightly. “I think we’re just become hostages,” he whispered back.

Damn. We were in deep trouble now.

On the end seat perpendicular to us sat a younger woman, maybe mid-twenties, casually dressed—maybe a student. Her head snapped our way. “What?!” she hissed.

The business man was sitting beside her. He looked at us, eyes bulging. He said nothing. The only person not huddled together with us was the fourth passenger, a woman, also in her mid-twenties. She was sitting alone on the inward facing seat directly across from me, watching us intently, saying nothing. Unlike the rest of us, she didn’t look nervous.

”I think they’re—“ started the motorman.

”Okay,” said one of the maintenance workers, walking towards us. “That’s enough talking.” He stood in front of us, swaying slightly with the motion of the train.

“Where are you taking us?” I asked.

”Did I not just say no talking?”

I sucked in a lungful of air and started talking. My hands were shaking. ”You did, but I don’t want to start panicking, and the best way to prevent that is to let us know what’s happening.”

He squinted at me, a smirk on his lips. I’m not going to lie, his gaze was unnerving. “The balls on you!” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. He stood staring, thinking. “Fine,” he said. “We’ve commandeered this subway car. We’re making a slight detour to one of the connector tunnels.”

”Why are you doing this?” asked the business man.

He smiled, more broadly this time. “Money. Why else?” Then he held out his hand. “Phones.”

We all complied. He put them in his pocket, turned on his heel and walked back to the front of the car. I noticed that he didn’t ask the girl across from us for her phone. Why not?

”They have a gun,” whispered the motorman. “The man driving the train threatened me with it. That’s how he got me out of the cab.” He shook his head. “He looked like a maintenance guy. We’re always supposed to open up for maintenance.” He grimaced, and shook his head again, his regret almost palpable. “I shoulda called dispatch and checked.” He dropped his head into his hands. “I’m such an idiot.”

As he was speaking, I felt the train slowing down. Then I felt the car sway left to right, and heard the clickety-clacking as the train moved onto another track. Then we stopped, and the third man, older than the other two men—exited the cab. They put their heads together, talking in hushed tones, occasionally looking at us.

The motorman looked up and turned towards the window at our back. Then he turned back and leaned in. ”I think we’re under Bay Street station. The abandoned Lower Bay station should be right around the next curve.” He nodded his head.

We sat watching our captors. They were unpacking their tool kits, placing small packages around the train car—one by each of the doors, and one inside the cab.

“What do you think they are?” I whispered to the motorman, nodding towards the devices.

But it was the business man who spoke up. “IEDs,” he said, his voice flat.

The three of us looked at him, shocked, questioning.

”Afghanistan,” was his reply. He took a deep breath, and watched. “They’re placing the devices at the different ingress and egress points. The one in the cab will disable the car. The other four devices will disable the doors.” He sighed. “And the only other door—the one behind us—is locked.” He looked back at us. “I think they’re going to blow the train car. With us in it.”

The woman sitting across from us, checked the men at the front, and sprinted across the aisle. She squatted down beside the forward-facing seat.

”What did you say? About bombs?” she whispered.

Before anyone could answer her questions, I spoke up. “Why do you still have your phone?” She looked at me, confused. I continued. “They didn’t collect yours. Why?”

“I … I …I guess they forgot?” she stammered. It was more of a question than a statement.

I scrutinized her. “I think you’re with them, and you’re spying on us—making sure we don’t cause any problems.”

She shook her head. “Are you insane?”

I continued to stare at her. “Maybe. But where were you going this morning?”

She looked from one person to another. “Work.”

”Yeah,” I said, “Where?”

Her cheeks flared red. She became belligerent. “I don’t have to tell you shit!” She got up and stomped back over to her seat on the other side of the car. She glared at me, arms folded across her chest.

The woman sitting beside the business man looked at me. “That was kinda harsh. We’re all in this together.”

I looked at her. “Are we?” I asked. She said nothing.

I gazed back at our kidnappers. The taller man was on the phone. I strained to listen.

”… hijacked train … hostages … five million dollars … one hour … kill all the hostages … routing number … 8 … 3 … 0, bravo, alpha … One hour!

My heart sank. If I had heard that correctly, they wanted five million dollars in one hour or we were all going to die.

Nobody was going to pay five million bucks for us. We weren’t important. We had sixty minutes to get out of this subway car, or we would die.

”This is a lot like that movie The Taking Of Pelham 1-2-3.” said the business man. “Except they’re going to blow us up.”

I looked at him. “How do you detonate an IED?”

He looked at me. “Depends. Timer, pressure sensors, cell phone, or suicide bomber.”

”What do you think they’ll use here?”

”Probably a timer or a cell phone.”

I nodded, thinking. All the doors were blocked by bombs, except the one we were sitting by, which was locked. The windows were all sealed. There were no floor hatches or ceiling vents to escape through. But that was all moot because if we made a move, we’d be spotted. And they had a gun.

I leaned into the motorman, and whispered quietly so no one could hear us. “Do you still have your keys?” He nodded his head once.

They’d made a mistake!

“Do you have a key for this door?” I looked towards the locked, but unarmed door behind us. I held my breath. He nodded his head yes.

“How fast can you open the door?”

He whispered back. “Five seconds.”

I smiled faintly. Now I just had to figure out how to get the door open without our captors noticing.

The subway gods had been listening. Ten seconds later all the lights flickered. Our captors became agitated, staring at the ceiling, as if just looking at them would ensure that they stayed on.

”Get ready,” I whispered. “In case the power goes out.”

He nodded, his hand going to his side pocket.

But the power didn’t go out. We waited. Our hijackers settled down. My heart sank.

I looked at my watch. We had about forty minutes until our time was up.

The kidnappers were angry, their voices raised.. The taller of the three took out his phone, punched a number, and started screaming into the handset. ” Try that stunt again …. kill the hostages …. blow the whole place to shit!”

Yeah, they were not happy.

We needed a plan. And we had about thirty-five minutes to figure it out.

I leaned in to whisper quietly to the motorman. “What if I pretend to have a panic attack. I’ll stand with my back against the door. You try to settle me down, while unlocking the door?

He thought for a minute. “Might work,” he said.

“Tell the others?” I asked.

This time he thought longer. ”Everyone?”

Before I could answer, the lights went out, and stayed out. The motorman jumped up and quickly felt his way to the door, trying to unlock it. Time slowed down. It seemed to take forever.

Then I felt it. Cold air from the tunnel.

”Got it!” called the motorman.

”Come on! Let’s go,” I said to the others.

”They’re getting away!” screeched the woman across from us.

I knew it! She was one of them!

”Stop them!” yelled one of the men.

Too late! The motorman helped us down to track level, and we fled down the dark dank tunnel away from the kidnappers.

”Hold on to the wall. There’s a door to a stairwell in about ten metres—just around the bend.”.

Those ten metres were the longest of my life. I could hear the kidnappers yelling, stumbling in the dark.

Then I felt it. A concussive blast that pushed me to the ground. The tunnel was illuminated bright yellow. The walls shook and debris rained down on us. Then everything went black.

I woke up in the hospital. I was going to live. In fact, all four of us were going to make it. The hijackers weren’t so lucky. They’d blown themselves—and the subway car, tunnel and track—up. No survivors.

I was interviewed by so many different law enforcement agencies that I lost count. They all wanted to know why we’d been hijacked. I said that I didn’t know.

But the one thing that I did know was that I was never going to take public transit again—never, ever again.