Adam needed to avoid it at all costs.

That's no elevator; it's a death trap, he told himself, choosing the lesser evil and opting for the stairs. Even after having lived there for years, Adam still could not fathom why a thirteen-story building with over fifty apartments had a spiral staircase instead of a regular one with intermediate landings.

Like most apartment complexes in Caracas, this place, The Eden Towers, was yet another remnant of the anarchic real estate growth driven by the oil boom in the mid-seventies. That didn't justify the liberties taken to create such an architectural oddity, however.

The four buildings faced each cardinal point; their backs framed an oversized patio with the skeleton of a rusty playground beset by tall grass, an outdoor basketball court with no backboards, and a half-empty swimming pool with foul water.

Adam might have overlooked all of those things if not for the gloomy, underground parking garage, the claustrophobic elevators, and the cylindrical appendix attached to the left of each building (the dilapidated sarcophagus-like structure where the spiral staircase was).

Although impossible to prove, Adam suspected that, based on the buildings' layout, the construction company had built the stairs after finishing everything else. Perhaps someone had realized, at the last second, that the tenants of this travesty of a building complex wouldn't be able to move between floors if the elevators broke down.

Adam called several cab companies from his cell phone before reaching the end of the staircase. Both times he got the same answer: "Sorry, sir. There aren't any units available at the moment."

"Of course," Adam said to himself. "You live in a country where bakeries don't have any bread and gas stations have no gasoline. What did you expect?"

On his third try, they told him he would have to wait for an hour or so. No good. The later it got, the more dangerous it would be.

That thought stopped him at the gate as he realized this was no longer true. Not really. In Caracas, the hours of the day and zip codes had lost all meaning. There had been a time when a few municipalities, such as Chacao, became consecrated grounds of sorts by keeping the ghouls wearing sleeveless shirts and gold chains from getting in. Not anymore. Today, if you saw two riders on a motorcycle at any corner, your fate was sealed.

And all you can do is pray that your wallet is enough to satiate their appetite.

Then he remembered that, sometimes, the criminals in the city didn't hunt for food, like other beasts, but for sport.

"Taxi!"

The car didn't stop. Adam squinted, unable to tell if the cab was taken or not. A few more minutes went by before he saw a rundown Chevette with a sticker on its windshield that read, "Cab." Adam let that one drive by. Even in the face of desperation, getting on an illegal taxi would be his last choice.

He cracked his neck, cursing his bad luck. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

"Taxi!" he shouted again.

The white Sedan, drawing nearer, gleamed under the orange streetlights; it didn't seem like one of those pirate taxis. A little groan of relief escaped Adam as he noticed the taxi driver's license hanging from the rear-view mirror, stating his name and ID number.

Finally, a lucky break, he hoped. Let's buy that circuit breaker and get this over with.

Adam's senses remained sharp at first. He held his breath whenever they stopped at a red light, or a biker would ride next to them, dodging the cars without slowing down. But, after a few minutes, the part of his mind that tugged at him anxiously quieted down. It didn't matter if the streetlight was red or not; they were trapped in a traffic jam.

"Every hour is rush hour," the taxi driver said.

Adam nodded and forced a smile as he pointed to the headphones on his ears. "Can't hear you."

Perhaps believing his lie, the man focused again on driving and turned up the volume of Nelson Bocaranda's show on the radio. Adam followed suit and looked for a podcast he had downloaded to his smartphone; his reliable video library often served two purposes: multitasking and avoiding unwanted conversations with strangers.

To Adam, multitasking was a way of life even before the term became popular. In fact, when he didn't take on two or three tasks simultaneously, a nagging sense of foreboding overwhelmed him.

The cab might as well have been parked during the first fifteen minutes of the one-hour-long podcast Adam was listening to. The loud voice of Greg Miller felt unusually subdued and made Adam drowsy. I want a Red Bull, he thought, giving in to the crushing weight of his eyelids. He shifted himself. Falling asleep would be an unforgivable mistake. If the driver noticed, he could...

His body slumped as his mind drifted into a dreamless oblivion.

Adam awoke with a start on the back seat, shaking off the stupor caused by the murmur of the car's engine and the tires on the gravel. The podcast had ended, and not a single street or building around him looked familiar.

"Where are we?"

The man driving the taxi smiled. That mocking grin reminded Adam of that damn plumber so much that he realized right then and there that they were the same person.

Sometimes I feel like I'm moving at a brisk pace. 

Sometimes I fear the plot is moving too slow.

What do you guys and gals think? I have the outline done and a first draft I'm editing as I go, so I could adjust accordingly based on your feedback. 

Looking forward to hear your thoughts!