John couldn't remember when they started calling him 'Biscuit.' He's had a hard time remembering a lot these days. Somehow he knew that today was an important day even though his addled mind couldn't remember why.  

Was someone chasing him? He seemed to remember being chased, or was he merely late? Cursing himself, he asked the taxi driver, "Where are we going?"

The driver looked at him incredulously in the rearview mirror and sniffed. "Mister, I've been asking you the same thing ever since you got in my cab. Are you okay? You seem kinda out of it."

"I'm fine! Everything's fine. Just let me out here." John said, irritated.

The driver sighed, "Are you sure? Not much around here except abandoned farms. Tell you what. I'll take you to Bloomfield. It's the next town down the road."

"Okay," John said.

John pressed his palms to his head and squeezed as if he could free memories from his mind like the pulp from an orange. It was just no use.  

He looked out the window and gazed up at the stars. So many stars he couldn't count them if he'd tried. He could make out all the constellations and knew them by name. Maybe he was an astronomer.

"You look familiar. Have we met before?" asked the driver.  

John inspected the driver's license displayed on the acrylic glass designed to separate the driver from the passengers.  Jack Haywood, the license read.

"I doubt it. I don't recognize your name," John replied.

"You look so familiar. Are you famous or something? Where you on TV?"

John didn't know if he was, in fact, famous or otherwise infamous. He ignored the driver.

A cold chill ran down his spine, and he looked over his shoulder out the rear window and saw nothing but night as black as tar. The shadows were chasing him, and John felt uneasy.

"Can you drive any faster?" John asked.

"Sure, but seeing as you don't know where you're going, it doesn't make sense to drive nowhere fast."

"Just get me to Bloomfield - fast."

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The driver snorted, and the cab jumped as if shoved forward by some invisible force. The tires screamed like a wounded cat as it navigated the twisty road. The old car protested, creaking and groaning like some ancient tree in a storm.

Feeling unsafe, John was about to tell the driver to slow down when the car lurched and screeched. The cab became weightless as if sprouting wings. There was a crash, and the windshield exploded, showering John with hot molten glass. Then all was dark.

John's head hurt, and the smell of gasoline made it hard to breathe. His hands were bloody, and the sight of it made him sick. His stomach retched as he wiped the blood from his hands on the damp grass.

The taxi cab made a tap, tap, tap sound as it lay half crushed against a large oak tree. The engine and passenger compartments were indistinguishable from each other, and John knew no one seated in the front of the cab could've survived. His stomach roiled, and he began to wretch. Pushing himself off the ground to his knees, he stood, legs shaking. He screwed his eyes shut, unable to look inside at what was undoubtedly the mangled remains of the driver. He listened for signs of life, but there were none - no rasping breath or pleas for help. Just the tap, tap, tapping.

"Do something, Biscuit," John whispered to himself. He might need help, and you're no use to him unless you move now, John thought.

John forced his eyes open and reluctantly looked inside the wrecked taxi cab. The driver wasn't there. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. No driver, just a tangled mess of metal, glass, and blood. So much blood.

"Driver?! Are you hurt? Where are you?" John yelled, circling the cab, searching. He wished he could remember the driver's name.

John looked through the rear door passenger window. The back seat was empty, and - John paused, puzzled, and wondered how he got out of the cab.  

The doors were jammed shut, and miraculously the rear windows were still intact.

He remembered being in the cab, and then he was on the grass. Did the driver pull him free when he was unconscious? If so, how did he open the rear doors when they are so obviously jammed shut? Why is there so much blood? He inspected his hands, arms, chest, and legs. Not a scratch.

"That's odd," John said aloud and began to panic. "Driver! Where are you!" 

John tried to calm down. He was on the verge of losing his shit.

"He's gotta be around here somewhere, and people don't just disappear," John said to no one in particular.

Tap, tap, tap.  

John followed the sound to the front of the cab. He knew cars made tapping sounds when the engine was cooling down, but this noise was somehow different - more organic.

John reached the front of the cab where he lay earlier. No driver.  

Something warm and wet dripped onto John's forehead. He wiped it with the back of his hand and examined it in the flickering light of the taxi's headlight. Was it blood?

Slowly, John looked up into the tree and found the driver. John gasped in horror and fell onto his back. He couldn't believe his eyes. It had to be his imagination. Maybe he bumped his head and had a severe brain injury because only that would explain what he was seeing. He wished this was a nightmare so he could wake up, but he knew it wasn't a dream, it was real, and his horror turned to panic, and panic turned to terror. 

The driver wasn't just in the tree- He'd been crucified - nailed to the tree, his body displayed with both arms splayed wide, spiked through the hands, head lilting, and left foot overlapping right. His blood dripped from the spikes onto the hood of the car.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

"Hello, Biscuit." said a voice from behind him.