Read Online Midnight Taxi Tango by Daniel José Older - Free Book Online

frenzy, and I’m left panting, sweating, and cursing as quietly as I can. I still myself, will my terror back into the iron box I keep it tucked away in. Breathe. There’s something behind the fridge. Something besides ungodly insects, I mean.
    Shelly,
a voice whispers in my head. But all I hear is
Angie.
    It’s a small door, wood-carved and old-fashioned, but just a brass hole where the knob’s supposed to be.
    Fuckers.
    I want to hold my breath, but I know that’ll only make things worse when something awful happens, and I’m positive something awful is about to happen. So I breathe, reluctantly,deeply, as I reach my finger into the hole. The door swings open with a creak, reveals more darkness. And I’m actually relieved I finally have real cause to unholster this Glock and point it into the emptiness as I step-by-step it down some old stairs.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    The wall doesn’t crawl to life when I swat it with my hand. It’s solid and cool, not even the bumpy decay I was expecting in my less wild nightmares. I flick something and a fluorescent glow blinks on from the ceiling. It reveals a recently remodeled basement: shiny white walls and gray carpets, even that fresh-paint smell. A couple of boxes are stacked in one of the corners, and the floor is covered with children’s toys. There are stuffed animals, plastic trains, and action figures. It makes me nauseous, so I try to keep my eyes away from the toys as I work the perimeter of the room, checking the wall for irregularities. There are none: everything is solid-sounding, support beams right where they should be, paint even. I shove the boxes over to the side, and there behind them is another small doorway. This one is just big enough to fit through if I duck, and it has a doorknob.
    I realize I’m sweating. And my breathing’s not quite right. None of which is usual for me. I won’t go into details, but the Bad Years put me in the face of every imaginable form of death, my own and others’, and I’m one of the only ones who made it out of that time alive. Charo’s another, but even he had it relatively easy compared to what I got mixed up in. They say Death walks just a few feet to the left of every man. Fuck that. Me and Death are kissing cousins. But right here, right now? I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. Besides the obvious things. I guess I’m still not right. Maybe I’ll never be. Or maybe it’s the skittering death monsters, whose absence from the basement is somehow even more unnerving to me than their abundance inthe kitchen. Or maybe it’s those toys, which have no business being in a place like this.
    Whatever this is.
    Or maybe it’s the muffled grunt that comes dancing out of the darkness in front of me. I almost yell, “Angie?” but then I remember Angie’s gone. She’s gone. Dead. It’s Shelly I’m trying to find. Shelly. And maybe that was her. It could’ve been. There was a wetness to it, like whoever grunted was choking on her own saliva. Or blood. Enough. I shut down my imagination and duck into the darkness.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Kia
    K arina’s right: the new capoeira teacher is fine as hell. The dude’s not even my type; I usually go for really overweight dudes with skin dark as mine. He sits on a foldout chair facing us in the big meeting room, his muscular arms crossed over his muscular chest. There’s a shiny bruise on his left cheek, but otherwise, his face is perfectly symmetrical, like he might be an android. His left eyebrow is raised slightly, making him look just the right combination of arrogant and thoughtful. He’s got big, perfect lips and a carefully trimmed goatee. Golden brown shoulders bulge out of that sleeveless shirt in a way that’s almost profane, like just sitting there, being all burly and shoulderful in front of a group of teenagers seems somehow inappropriate.
    And