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| The lights never go completely out in Manhattan. At all hours of the night a hazy glow hangs over the island that blots out any sign of stars above and leaves the sky a permanent blue, never black. Between buildings and streets the sidewalk lamps burn and flicker all night, penetrating the pitch darkness of the secretive alleys while at a distance the entire city glowed with an almost divine luminescence. As the land stretched out beyond the Hudson River surrounding the island, into the suburbs and slums, the area grew darker, quieter, separated from the never-ending bustle of Manhattan. |
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| Yet there are some who relished this darkness over a teeming city; some who took advantage of it and walked the shadows of the island as though in their own domain. These beings need not fear the masses of disease that swirled around them in the form of rats, dogs, humans, and microscopic things that none could see or detect. They need not fear the threats of the streets: of murders, rapes, and robberies. They need not fear the detection of authorities, guard dogs, or violent gang members no matter where they walked. They were but shadows among the humanity of the island, seeing and hearing but unseen and unheard as they went. No lock kept these beings out, no secret went unknown, no passage went unexplored. These beings could walk the darkness of Manhattan without hesitance, without fear. |
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| One such being walked the streets just outside Manhattan now. His boots clicking against the recently wetted pavement were the only sound as he walked a solitary way, proud, unafraid, down the barren, empty streets of a downtown Brooklyn slum. Clad in only a pair of worn jeans, a black t-shirt, and leather jacket to accompany his boots, the man was an appropriate figure to be seen walking the night among the dark, filthy, trash-ridden streets. Yet had one a closer look at his features, things could have been viewed quite differently. A mane of wavy hair, darker than pitch in the night with a dull sheen that shimmering with the lights of the city, fell to just above his shoulders, held back out of his face with only a few strands falling forward over his eyes in the night seabreeze. The man's face remained high and watchful as he made his lonely way down the long street, missing no detail of the things around him. His eyes were twin black pools of sparkling knowledge that swung over his path, catlike in their intensity but glowing with a wolfish savagery. The man's nose was thin and angled, flaring with each breeze that blew by to catch what scents were carried by it. His mouth was small and thin, set in a hard, unbreaking line as he walked. |
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| Hands shoved into his pockets, the man walked on, not speaking, not slowing. The hunger had been present since night fell and the man began his solitary trek, walking the streets towards Manhattan. For many days now he had been walking, only by night, steadily waiting until he could finally look up and see the lights play off the Hudson River and the city beyond. He could feel the familiar aura surrounding the island reaching out for him, beckoning, calling his name in a way that only he could hear. The sea breeze was a soothing comfort to his senses, brushing away the fires of his journey and the things that had plagued him. |
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| For a moment the man paused under the circle of pale yellow light provided by a buzzing streetlamp. Withdrawing one hand from his jacket pocket, he ran it back through his mane of dark raven hair, his eyes casting about with a knowledge of things forbidden. Even beyond the circle of light he could see things, things no other could see. They were there: watching him. Waiting for him to let down his guard so they could attack. So they could finally kill him. But he wouldn't let them. He would kill them first. |
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| He could hear them now. They were surrounding him, afraid to pass into that circle of light. Their angry, evil chattering was a pestilence in his ears, the scratching of their tiny feet pattering along the cold, wet asphalt. Glaring out at them, at their beady black and red eyes that glared back with equal malice, the man showed his defiance by withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and lighting one up, drawing a long breath just enough to make the white tube flare with fire. Blowing out a cloud of smoke into their eyes, he flicked the long cigarette out into their midst, making them scatter with angry shrieks and wails. |
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| His eyes glowed with that hunger. |
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| They remained beyond that circle of protective light, growing more and more in number by the moment. First there were ten. Then twenty. Then fifty. Now they were countless as they swarmed from the darkness, gnashing their teeth and scraping their claws in an effort to get at him. But they wouldn't pass the light. The man clad in black could only grin at them, mocking, confident. He wasn't afraid. They were small, easy to kill. No matter how many there were. They were only rats. |
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| The rats screamed in agony as the black form rose up among them. A black form, gigantic in bulk as it towered over them, flashed its sickle claws and sabre fangs white as ivory as it tore into their masses, ripping and slashing with predatorial power. In the darkness of the night the rats were slain by the masses as they attacked it, giving their share of bites and scratches but doing nothing to stop the genocide. Their fight was futile. The blackness among them was darker than the night itself, twice as silent, and unequaled in lethal potential. |
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| The man walked away from the rodent massacre without a second glance, giving no regard to the hundreds of carcasses left behind as though nothing had happened. It was quiet again, the calm Brooklyn night broken once again only by the tap of a solitary pair of boots. Hands shoved in his pockets, the black-clad man kept on his solitary way, behind him the circle of streetlight still buzzing steadily, now shining down on only a still pile of ripped and torn flesh and cracked bones: the bodies of rats. |
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| The man was no longer hungry. |
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| Rather, a new hunger burned inside him. A desire, deep and steadfast in its hold, could now be felt in the absence of physical hunger. It was a desire that could only be satisfied by one thing, the very thing he was seeking. He knew it was there, as well. He could feel it. Calling him. Drawing him in to its enclosing web as a light draws moths. It was this drive that kept the man going, walking, alone and unafraid, until he reached the bridge. |
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| Still active in the late hour, the man avoided the bright lights of the highway coming to and from Manhattan, walking the edge of the light's penetration so that he was naught but a shadow himself to the humanity who passed by, unknown of his presence, uncaring. There was a blessing in their ignorance. They knew nothing of him. Of his deeds. Of his purpose. Walking the edge of the bridge and out of sight the man went undaunted. Nor did he care. Standing beneath the bridge, safe in its shadow, he gazed out at the brightly-lit city beyond the river. The thin, hard line of his mouth broke slightly in a small grin as he leaned against a bridge support, drawing another cigarette and lighting it, looking fondly over the shining lights of the water to Manhattan Island. Physical hunger was forgotten. He had a bigger hunger to satisfy. |
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| "It's good to be home," he purred deeply to himself, placing the cigarette in his mouth for one last, long draw before tossing it to the ground, smothering it with one boot. Blowing out a cloud of gray, rancid smoke, his eyes turned back up to the city beyond the Hudson River: the light fading as the sky brightened with an oncoming day. There was a comfort that came with the daylight, a comfort that he would be able to rest until night fell again. Then he would cross the bridge. He would reach the city beyond. Manhattan. |
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