Scary Horror Stories by Dr. NoSleep - "If There’s a Red Taxi Outside Your House at 3:33 AM, Don’t Get In It"

Episode Date: August 18, 2025

Head to NoSleepCoffee.com and use promo code NOSLEEP20 for 20% off your first order! A drugged man wakes trapped in a sealed room, forced to fight for survival against strangers in a deadly game where only one can escape—and a mysterious red taxi waits to claim the last passenger alive. Author: Jake BibleCheck out the author's latest release: Blood Cruise! https://jakebible.com/novels/blood-cruise/ * * * CONTENT DISCLAIMER: This episode contains explicit content not limited to intense themes, strong language, and depictions of violence intended for adults. Parental guidance is strongly advised for children under the age of 17. Listener discretion is advised.  #drnosleep #scarystories #horrorstories #doctornosleep #horrorpodcast #horror Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

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My fucking head. What the shit? I mumble. My mouth and throat feel like I gargled broken glass, sharp rocks and possibly plutonium. My head feels worse. I feel a thumping and pounding like my skull is being pumped full of blood while my bones are grinding together. And my lungs aren't too much better. It's hard to take a deep breath without thinking razor blades are slicing through my chest. Jesus. I carefully open my eyes.

It's pitch dark. Like dark, dark, not a speck of light. Which is probably a good thing, because I doubt I can handle much light right now. Even my eyes, now that they are open, feel like someone shoveled sand in them. A lot of sand. Then baked that sand into glass. This isn't good. No, this is bad.

Very bad. I struggled to grasp a memory of what happened, of how I got wherever the fuck I am. I come up with nothing. Which means I have two choices. Freak the fuck out or figure it the fuck out. I slide my hands about and realize I'm on a cot. No mattress, no blanket, no pillow.

Just bare canvas underneath me. My hands continue to explore. explore, and I feel cool aluminum bars and braces. Pretty sure I know what kind of cut this is. I shiver and goosebumps break out across my body, making me realize I'm dressed only in my boxer shorts. My skin is slick with oily sweat, like I'm detoxing, which makes sense, since I'm almost 100% sure I've been drugged. I don't usually fall asleep in my house and wake up in a pitch-dark room on a bare cot. So, yeah, I'm more than certain I've been fucking kidnapped, because I sure as fuck didn't end up in wherever I am by choice. As I slowly sit myself up, which is about all

I can do before I feel like passing out, I try again to drag my last memories out of my pounding skull. My hand finds a wall, and I adjust my position and lean my back against it, Glad to be propped up. It puts way less pressure on my lungs so that I'm able to take deeper breaths. Not too deep, though. Those razor blades are a bitch. My fingertips tell me that the wall is painted smooth, most likely a high gloss.

I've painted houses in the past before I got into my current line of work. You use high gloss for the shimmery sheen it produces when light hits it, and when you want to easily wipe off stuff like juice and dirt, stuff like juice and dirt and blood and shit off the walls without damaging the paint. I shiver again, but this is from the implication of why this room needs the high gloss. Does someone plan on wiping me off the walls? The one good thing, though, is I can tell that underneath the paint is basic drywall. All it takes is a quick wrap of my knuckles against the surface to get the feel of the drywall

and also hear the slight hollow noise behind. Not concrete block. Thank fucking God. Drywall implies I'm in a structure above ground. Concrete block would most likely be a bunker. We all learned fast in Afghanistan that if you wake up in a bunker, you are as good as dead. Taking slow, even breaths, I think.

Adding up everything I've figured out so far. My conclusion, I'm most likely completely, 100% fucked, whispered to myself. What's the last? thing you remember. Think, think, think. There's a noise from somewhere. Outside the space I'm in, I'm pretty sure. It sounded muffled and distant, like it's coming from down a hallway. Hello! I call out, or try to. It's not much of a call, more like a loud, breathy squeak. Still struggling with those razor blades in my lungs and gravel in my throat. I cough hard and then

cry, Hello? Is anybody out there? No one responds, And I don't hear the noise again. Okay, okay, screw the noise. Whatever it was, I'll figure it out later. Right now I need to know my situation and how I got into it. Focus, Scotty! Fucking focus! It takes all of my effort, but I'm able to scoot myself off of the cot and onto my hands and knees.

Again, slowly and carefully, I crawl across the floor, searching for another wall. When I reach it, I ease along the wall, feeling my way carefully in case. of booby traps or worse until I hit the corner. Then I backtracked to get a full sense of the length of the wall. My guess is the room is maybe 12 by 12. It could be 10 by 10, though, hard to tell. It does seem square like a basic bedroom. My head is feeling better, and my muscles aren't so mushy. So I press my palms against the wall and use it to help me get to my feet. Once standing, I turn and keep exploring the space. Three walls, a cot, no window. Then, on the fourth wall, a sliver of hope arrives.

A door! There's a door! I grab the knob and twist. It's locked. I yank on it, shaking the door as hard as I can in my weak-ass condition. Hello! I shout, and while it still hurts like a mother on my raw throat, it's an actual shout, not a forced whisper. Hello!

The door isn't opening anytime soon. It's secured by more than a knob and latch. most likely barred or bolted from the outside. However, the door itself is about as basic as it gets. When I knock on it, it sounds hollow like every crappy, cheap-ass residential door in America. Hollow core with a veneer on the outside. I can probably kick through it, except I don't have shoes. So even though it's cheap as shit, the door can damage the hell out of my feet.

But it's good to know I haven't been dropped down some well or stuck in a cave. unless this room is inside a well or stuck in a cave. No, no, the drywall. Gotta think straight. The drywall means I'm not in a bunker or cave or huge well. Still pretty fucking shitty. What's even more shitty is how well I'm handling this. Normal, well-adjusted folks would be in the corner,

curled up in a fetal position, bawling and screaming. Me? I've been through shit. I've seen shit. I know shit. I guess I've made my decision. Freaking out is not an option. Am I scared? Yeah, I'm scared.

In fact, I'm fucking petrified. I'd piss myself if my blotter was full. But from the smell coming off my boxers, it appears I pissed myself a while back. The thing is, I've been walking a razor's edge for years. Dope and girls and money and deals gone wrong, and cartels and gangs in the mob and two-timing low-life junkies and bent cops. That's been my scene.

Those are only some of the reasons I'm not completely losing my fault. fucking mind. Deep down inside me, I knew something like this was coming. It was only a matter of time. If only I could remember how I got here, what was I doing just before all this shit? As a memory flashes across my brain, I lose it as I'm almost blinded. I stumble back away from the door as a light comes on outside, leaking through the gaps between the frame like a million lighthouses all aimed at my throbbing skull. When you go from complete and total blindness, to even a little bit of light. It's shocking.

Add in that my eyes aren't exactly up to par right now, and you have a recipe for intense pain. As my eyes adjust, and I'm able to turn in a slow circle to take in my room, there's an electronic crackle, and a speaker comes to life. A voice, like it's out of an old-timey radio, says, Good evening.

When the music starts, you will have until the end of the song to get out of your rooms. Rooms? What does that mean? If you are unable to escape your room, you will die. In addition to this public address system, your rooms are equipped with gas nozzles. Those nozzles will pump in chlorine gas at a concentration of 1,200 parts per million. For those of you in the cheap seats, and by that I mean, those of you who are not so bright or educated, 1,200 parts per million will kill you in under five minutes.

You will beg for mercy. You will receive none. All you will receive is a slow and excruciatingly painful death. What? Who the fuck are you? Where am I? I scream and I can hear someone else screaming too. Maybe more than one person. Hey, let me the fuck out of here.

Good luck, folks. The voice says, then the music begins. I know it. The music. Some old song. Ragtime, I think. It was in that movie with those two old white dudes. Well, they weren't old then.

Some movies set in like the 20s, or was it the 30s, I don't know. But my parents showed me the movie when I was a kid. I remember that. And suddenly, I remember something else. You can give me the money, Jack. I snap. You owe me 65. This is 31?

Why even give me the fucking one? Man, I got the rest. I just have to go home and get it. Jack says, his fingernails digging into the flesh on his arms, scratching out long welts past old needle tracks. Jack is a between the toes or in the thighs kind of junkie now. Sure you do, I say, and hand him his 30 fucking one back. When you have the full amount, then we'll talk.

Dude, man, come on. 30 buys me something, right? You gotta help me out, Scotty. You gotta. Jack, I don't have to help you with shit. This is not a service. I am not a charity. You're a fucking low-life piece of shit junkie who walked out on his wife and two-year-old

because you love Smackmore. It's a sickness, man. A fucking sickness. I just need a little to get by on, Scotty. Please, man, please. Take my money, and then I'll bring you the rest. I promise. You promise?

Oh, okay. That changes everything done. Oh, great. He holds out his 31 bucks again. Thanks, Scotty. Bitch, fuck you, I say. And slap the cash out of his hand. Your promises ain't worth jack shit.

I laugh at my own joke. Jack shit. Good one. That's what I'll call you from now on. Jack shit. The bills drift to the floor, and Jack watches them fall the entire way until they are resting on the stained

used to be bright orange shag carpet. He slowly bends down and picks them up. Then he looks at me. His bruised eyes all yellow and watery. You dropped it. Jack says and holds the money out again. Can I get some now? My fist whips out,

And Jack's nose explodes. Blood sprays everywhere, which really pisses me off. I was just annoyed and mad before. Now I'm rage mad. When Jack's hands go to his broken nose, I send a hard right into his gut, then step back, knowing what may be coming. I'm not wrong as Jack doubles over and vomits onto the shag.

Grabbing him by the back of the neck, I squeeze as hard as I can. Jack lets out a pained wine, but that's it. I get in close to his dirt-crusted ear and hiss. Get the fuck out of here. When you come back, you'll bring the 65 you owe me. Another 65 for the mess you just fucking made on my carpet. And another 65 if you actually want to walk out of this house with a score.

You hear that, Jack? Are you getting what I'm saying? Yeah. He whispers and then spits. I get it, Scotty. I get it. Still squeezing his neck. I half walk, half drag his junkie ass to the front door.

Yanking it open, I throw him out onto the crumbling porch. He tries to put his hands out in time to break his fall, but he fails miserably and ends up getting a chin full of splinters. Come back here again without the cash and I'll fucking kill you, slice and dice you up, and feed you to Mrs. Howell's pit bulls down the street. She keeps them chained up all day and night without any shade, barely enough water, and definitely not enough food. They'll eat and shit you out before lunch. He manages to get his hands under him and stands up into a crouch. I'm about to give him more shit when I glance past him and frown. What the fuck is that?

I ask, seeing the car parked directly in front of my brown and dead front yard. Is that a red fucking taxi? Did you call a motherfucking taxi, Jack? Jack turns and looks at the taxi and looks back at me and shrugs. I don't know why it's there, Scotty. I didn't call it. I swear. I pull my phone out of my back pocket and take a pick.

Then I yell. Get the fuck out of here, bitch. No one called you. The clock on my phone. phone says it's exactly 333 a.m. I'll get your money, Scotty. Jack says and stumbles down the splintered porch steps and out into the dirt yard. I'll be back tomorrow. I promise. Fuck off and get out of my sight, Jack. I see you here again without my money and your dog child, got it? Got it, Scottie, got it. Thanks, Scotty. He scurries off, not even glancing at the taxi.

I snort and chuckle at the fact the fucking loser just thanked me for kicking his ass. The taxi still sits there and it's bugging me. Get the fuck out of here! I shout at it. Staying on the porch, I lean over and try to see inside the car, but the only streetlight on the entire block is four houses down. So while I see her shadows, fuck this.

I go back inside, walk over to my couch, reach under the middle cushion, and pull out my clock. But when I get back outside, the taxi is gone. That's right, motherfucker. And don't you fucking come back. Picture this. It's late at night. You're scrolling, and suddenly you find exactly what you've been looking for.

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With Shopify and their shop pay button, sign up for your $1 per month trial today at shopify.com slash dns. Go to shopify.com slash dns. That's shopify.com slash dns. I have no idea how long the song is. Two minutes? Three minutes? Maybe three minutes.

Which means I need a fucking hustle if I'm going to save my ass. I grab the doorknob and twist. Still locked. I do the yank and pull and shake thing, and it is definitely still barred or bolted from the outside. How the fuck does this psycho motherfucker expect me to get out of here if the door is fucking locked? Huh? This is fucking nuts. The piano music is so loud that even without the after effects of whatever I've been drugged with, I'd still be wincing. Pain stabs at my eardrums as I turn in a circle to see if there's some other way out.

No windows. I already figured that out. The walls are solid. No hat. or hidden doors, I'd know if there were. I'd deal with junkies and drug dealers for a living. And after three tours in Afghanistan, I can find a bolt hole in 30 seconds. Which is about how much of the song has gone by? Do I have two minutes left? A minute and a half? Fuck! Okay, okay, fucking think, Scotty, think! Solid walls. Barde door. Solid walls? I mean, are they really? It's drywall. Drywall is only solid if you let it be. I sure as fuck have put a

fist or two through drywall on more occasions than I'd like to count. I honestly could try punching through it. But where would that get me? What's on the other side? A way out? Or just another room that's about to be filled with fucking chlorine gas? No fucking thank you. That leaves the door. The locked, barred, and bolted door. Shit. Wait, hold on. Yes, it's locked and barred and all that shit. But it's still just a basic door. A basic, hollow door. Punching the door as hard as I can doesn't do shit except fuck up my hand. I hold up my bruised hand against my chest as the ragtime piano keeps on rag timing. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Then I see the cot. I hadn't really given it a once-over since the light outside the room came on. I was right. I do know the type. It's exactly like

the barracks I slept on back in Afghanistan. I know this type of cot like the back of my bruised hand. It folds up easy for transport. Now I have a plan. Hurrying to the cot, I folded up so the canvas is inside and the outside is just the aluminum frame. A heavy fucking duty aluminum frame meant to hold 300 pounds of soldier. Then, with the cot in my arms, I turn and look at the door. The trick is hitting it in just the right spot, avoiding the bar on the other side. The music keeps blaring, and if I'm not mistaken, the song is about to end. I back up against the far wall and prep myself by holding the cot like a battering ram, then rush the door. The aluminum frame hits the lower half of the thin, cheap wood, it immediately breaks inward,

showing me that sweet, sweet hollow core. I step back and make another run at it, and the cot crashes through the outside layer. Bright light streams in, and I toss the cot aside as my hands grab and pull the jagged pieces of doorway, giving me just enough room to wriggle through. The song ends, and a loud hissing comes from the room ceiling. I've never wriggled faster in my life. Something wakes me up. When I startle upright on my couch, my hand instantly goes to the middle cushion and my Glock underneath.

I slap at my phone with my other hand as it sits on the coffee table between a wall of empty beer cans and an ashtray full of roaches. Then I see the time. It's 3.33 a.m. in the morning. Something about that time nags at me, until I remember Jack in the night before. Then the car horn blasts again. That's what woke me up. Are you fucking kidding me? Oh, you fucked up, asshole, I say and stand up quickly.

I have to pause as I get a head rush, but it only slows me down by a second. I stumbled to my front door and burst out onto my porch, Glock at the ready. There it is again, sitting at the curb in front of my house, the fucking red taxi. This is how you want to play it, asshole! I shout and aim the pistol at the taxi. I start down the steps, slowly, my aim on the passenger side window. The first shot will break the window. the second shot will hit the driver.

It's a play I made a thousand times back in Afghanistan. One warning, two shots. But before I can squeeze the trigger, the taxi pulls away slowly. I track it with my Glock and don't lower the pistol until the taxi turns the corner at the end of my street and is lost from sight. That's right, bitch! I put the Glock into the back of my jeans waistband,

and go back inside to get another beer and make some toast. The second I'm through the door and into the hallway outside, A steel panel slams down inside the room, sealing it off from the chlorine gas, streaming out of the jets in the room's ceiling. And I know it's real chlorine gas. The place smells like a public pool during the summer, when the Parks Department does everything it can to combat the gallons of kitty piss being streamed into the disgusting water.

Every Monday, for two blocks around the pool, all you could smell was chlorine. Gasping for air, I stumble hunched over to the far wall and place a hand against it while I try to catch my breath. I spit several times and take in as many breaths as I can without hyperventilating. The gas didn't do my already messed up lungs any favors. That shit is a bitch, Aiden. Voice rasps from down the hall. I straighten up and spin around, ready to beat the ass of whoever has me held captive.

A guy is standing a few doors down, and there are doors. Probably six of them lined the hall on both sides. He's swaying outside a door that looks a lot like mine, except by how the flesh on his hands is just shredded. He didn't think to use the cot. He just punched his fucking way out. Blood pools at his bare feet as he stares at me, waiting for an answer. Where the fuck are we?

I ask. Then realize I hear other voices. People are shouting for help behind the still-closed doors. Their fists are pounding on the thin wood, and the blows are getting weaker. Use your cot! Break through the door! I shout. I stumbled to one of the closed doors and smacked my door. palm against it.

You hear me? Break through the door! There's a two by four barring the door, but it's screwed against the frame tight. It's not meant to be taken off at all. Won't matter. The other guy says as he presses his back against the opposite wall, then slides down to his ass. Too much gas already.

The pounding slows and stops. But then there's a flurry of pounding behind me, and it doesn't sound like fists. I whirl around. The door at the far end of the hallway is vibrating. I rush down there, ready to help whoever it is, escape their own personal gas chamber too. The end of a cot breaks through the veneer once, twice, three times, making a hole wide enough for a man to get his head through,

then his shoulders. But one of the broken bits of the door is angled wrong and digs into his shoulder like a hook, setting in a fish. A little help! The man shrieks, and I recognize the voice. He's coughing and spitting and crying. But even with the blood and snot running all down his face, when he looks up at me, I know exactly

who it is. Hi, Jack's shit, I say. Scotty? He asks and tries to wriggle free, but he's in quite a fucking bind, and it's about to get worse. You fucking piece of shit, motherfucker. I say that now have to tuck my face on the crook of my arm to keep from choking on the chlorine coming out of his room. I should be happy that you're as fucked as me. But you know what, Jack shit? That ain't going to cut it. I want you way more fucked than me. I want you fucking dead. Scotty? Scotty, Scotty. Hold on. now help me out of here we can talk please nah don't feel like talking i say and lift my foot up over his head i feel like stomping instead i bring my foot down on the top of his head and he grunts then collapses with his head and shoulders hanging out of the hole in the door carrie please fuck your please i bring my foot

down again and again and again before i'm forced to back away down the hall my lungs burning i hack and cough and spit as I stare at Jack Shit. Friend of yours? The guy sitting against the wall behind me asks. I snort a wad of snot and spit it on the floor, and angle my head so I can blow snot out of one nostril than the other. There's a loud clang in Jack Schitt's head and shoulders, shudder, wobble, then fall onto the floor.

His body sliced in half by the metal plate that seals the room off from the hallway. The air is almost immediately better. I turn and look at the sitting guy, and he opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by that old-timey radio voice. Only two left. A fair fight. And that is what you will have to do to survive.

Fight. Ah, fuck! The sitting guy says and slowly gets to his feet. I glance at the pitiful state of his hands, and he just watches me study his weakness. There is only one seat available in the red taxi. The person who gets to it first will go home alive and in one piece. guaranteed.

Like we believe you! I shout. Like we have much choice, the sitting now standing guy says. I don't think we're outsmarting this trap. One person gets to leave this house. Survive to do that. Then make your way to the end of the road

where you will find the red taxi waiting. Remember, there is only one seat. Only one can go home. Good luck and God bless. Fuck you! I shout. And in that split second of the same, of anger, standing guy makes his move. I'm sitting up and wide awake when I see the red taxi pull

up outside my house. With my Glock in my hand, I open the front door, look around, and double check to make sure I'm not going to get jumped. I walk down the porch steps, go across the dead yard and right up to the vehicle. But before I can get there, one of the back doors opens, and what the fuck do I see? Jack shit. I fucking knew this was you! I shout and lift my pistol. No, no, hold on, man. Jack cries. I got your money, man. I got it all plus interest, plus more to take care of me for a few days.

He waves a handful of Benjamin's at me, and I frown. He knows what I'm thinking. No, man, this shit is real. I got like... He counts the bills quickly. 800. All yours, Scotty. Great.

Get out of the fucking taxi and give it to me. No, man. I can't. He says sheepishly. I, uh, well, Well, got caught by mangers yesterday. My legs ain't working so great. That's so.

Swear to God, Scotty. I got fucked up bad by the guy. He used a fucking steel pipe and shit. Pretty sure one of my shins is shattered. Hurts like hell. I move in close and try to peer inside the taxi. But all I can see is jack shit in the backseat and a tinted glass partition between him and the front seat.

What's this happy horse shit? I ask, taking a few more steps, closer. Where'd you get the money, Jack's shit? Why are you in this fucking red taxi? Dude, it's cool. Don't worry about it. But from the tone in his voice, and the fact he's a piece of shit junkie, I do worry about it. Nah, crawl your ass out into the yard if you want to give me that cash. No fucking way I'm getting any closer to that. A sharp pain in the back of my neck makes me start to twirl around. I bring my Glock up, and I'm ready to put a few holes in a motherfucker, but before I'm even halfway around, my legs give out, and the world begins to spin.

I'm sorry, man, so fucking sorry. Jack's shit says, as hands lift me up and carry me to the taxi. I'm thrown in on the back seat next to the junkie. They made me do it, Scotty. They said they cut my nuts off. Can't feel my legs. I mumble. The car door shuts, and I try to look through the window at whoever it is that grabbed me, but I can't see nothing. Then, before I can even think of doing anything else, the taxi is starting up and we're moving. Sorry, Jack shit says quietly. His bitch-ass words are almost as quiet as the hissing noise I hear. Then I smell something medicinal as gas fills the back of the taxi.

Jack shit coughs and coughs, then slumps across my helpless body. My eyelids lower, and blackness takes me. I'm tackled about the waist by standing Guy. We hit the floor hard and all the wind is knocked out of my lungs. As I try to catch my breath, diving at me, Guy, who is now straddling me, Guy, lifts a bloody, mangled fist and brings it down hard right between my eyes. Stars explode in my vision and I have to fight hard to keep from passing out. I bucked my hips and raise my knees, putting him off balance.

I'm surprised by how light he is and how easy it is to get him off me. When I roll to the side and scramble onto my feet, I'm able to my feet. able to get a closer look at the guy. He's fucking emaciated. How long have you been here? I ask, getting my fists up and in front of me. He has to use the wall to help get to his own feet. I let him.

I don't fucking know. Too long. He finally answers. And I want out. Nothing personal. But I'm going to kill you now. Feels personal. I say as he comes for me again.

It's almost sad how weak he is. The only reason he got me down before was because he surprised me. Now he's barely able to. stay upright. The skin on his face has pulled tight against his skull, so much that I can see the outline of his lower jaw and teeth as they press against the parchment that is his cheek. Only one of us can make it, he says after I easily dodge his attack. He has to pause and lean with one hand against the wall while he takes several breaths. I'm getting in that fucking taxi. Dude, I have no fucking clue what's happening, but just

fucking stop, okay? We can work together and... Can you fucking hear? There's one C, one, and it's mine. He swings for me, and I bat his hand away, then send a left jab to his mouth. His lips split like tissue, and blood oozes down his chin. The guy goes berserk. He thrashes and claws at me,

trying to scratch my eyes and my cheeks. But all I have to do is put a hand out against his chest and turn my head away to avoid getting blinded by his long, nasty fingernails. Then all it takes is a hard shove to make him stumble backwards. He trips over his own feet and falls hard on his ass. I don't wait for him to get back up. I don't bother trying to make peace and work together again. I walk up to him and kick him as hard as I can in the face.

A tooth slices a gash in the meat of my big toe, but that's all the damage done to me. Him, on the other hand, begins to choke as half his teeth are kicked down his throat. He slumps onto his side, instead of clawing at me, he's clawing at his neck. Sorry, dude, I say and lift my heel over his face. My heel is mostly hardened, cracked skin, so I doubt I'll get sliced again. I really am sorry. But if it's you or me, well...

When I bring my heel down, I hear the crunch the skull makes and I want to throw up. There's no cry out or shudder or last gasp. The guy just goes still, as I slowly take a few steps back. Congratulations! You may now leave the house. The old-timey voice reverberates around me. Now, don't forget, there is only one seat in the room. a red taxi, so you must not dawdle.

You may want to work on your math skills, motherfucker. I shout up at the ceiling. Because I'm all that's left. There's no response except for a door at the end of the hallway clicking and slowly swinging open. Leaving a trail of blood behind me from my sliced toe, I limp my way down to the door and listen. When I don't hear anything, I angle my head and can just see what looks like a living room off to the side. There's a couch on its back, no cushions. a shit ton of rips and tears all throughout the upholstery. A coffee table split in half is in front

of it. I don't really have much of a choice, so I limp out of the hallway and into the living room. The fucking front door is right there. Hurrying to it, I yanked the door open and stumble out onto the small concrete stoop. When I'm outside, I throw common sense to the wind and breathe in as much fresh air as possible. When the head rush I get from almost hyperventilating goes away, I realize I know this fucking place. It's the old Hawthorne sub-development outside town that went under a decade ago. Nothing was built to code by the contractors, so the developers abandoned it when they found out how much it'd take to get it up to spec. I could have sworn it burned down a few New Year's Eve's ago, and as I study the neighborhood, I see some houses have. The one

still standing are mostly rotted and bent, even the one behind me. Looking one way, then the other, I see the red taxi at the far end of the street. It's lights on, exhaust puffing out of the tailpipe. I ride. I mumble and limp off the stoop, then out into the street. There's no sidewalks. Those never got put in. I did it.

Whatever this is, I survived. Yeah, sure. The second I sit down in that taxi, I could be as good as dead. But why do that when they could have me killed while I was still inside the house? Whatever I just went through, it's about to be fucking over. I put one foot in front of the other, suck up the pain radiating from my entire body, especially my split toe, and hobble my ass toward the taxi. I fucking did it.

I've gone no more than a few yards when I hear a door open, then another and another and another. A woman in only her underwear and covered in blood sprints out of a house across the street. Two doors down a man in tidy whitties throws himself out of a house's front door and faceplants in the dirt. Another front door opens, and a man clutching what's left of his right arm bursts out, leaving a long trail of blood behind him as he struggles to get to the pavement. All up and down the street, doors are opening and people in various stages of distress and obvious brutal violence come staggering, stumbling, and falling out. I count a dozen.

For a split second, we all stare at each other, stunned. Then all of our heads turn toward the red taxi. Ah, fuck! I say. Then I run my fucking ass off.