No Such Luck

Alleys are hard to find in Manhattan. Sure, Hollywood would have you believe they’re filled with dumpsters, Spidermen, and homeless people, but usually, they're just an alley in New Orleans, Toronto, or Vancouver made to look like the Big Apple. This thought briefly sparked through Ben’s mind as he stumbled into such an alley. A real alley. In real Manhattan. Without the benefit of a director to lead him through the next couple of minutes.

Taxis were always hard to hail on 8th Avenue but almost impossible when the bars were in full swing on Saturday night. After fifteen minutes of trying, Ben lowered his arm, stumbled under the weight of too many beers, and began walking. His phone was dead because he spent most of the night grumbling to himself about his overwhelming boredom and propped up in a booth playing Fruit Ninja as the phone’s battery slowly drained. Uber was out, so was calling his friends who’d left hours ago. Instead, he pointed his body toward the New York Times building – the first beacon that would lead him toward his apartment on 18th.

Despite his earnest attempt to use the Times building as a guide, Ben ended up in one of Manhattan’s only alleys. A subway rumbled dozens of feet below him, rattling the walls and causing the ladder of a rusty fire escape to sway and squeak. Ben picked up his pace, heading deeper into the alley in a backward attempt to become less lost.

No. Such. Luck.

The alley dumped Ben out onto a dark street filled with shuttered warehouses and blinking street lamps. He turned around and decided to go back to where he came from. Another subway rumbled underfoot; this one seemed closer. When it passed, Ben felt like it pulled with it a vacuum of sound. Silence. No sirens in the distance, no honking, no steady roar from the Westside Highway. Ben blamed the beers.

In the silence, Ben realized one thing: he was alone – save for that black shadow moving toward him down the alley. What the absolute fuck? Squinting, he could almost make out eyes, deep flaming eyes that punctured the blackness of the shadow. He turned around to see another shadow at the other end of the alley, only this one held a long shiny object that it dragged along behind it.

The second shadow took a step forward, the object behind it sounding like an aluminum baseball bat being pulled over asphalt. The clank echoed off the alley walls. Ben couldn’t reach the ladder of the nearest fire escape, and there was no way in Hell he was running toward those… those… things. Instead, through a beer-battered brain, he determined his best course of action was to hide in between two dumpsters and wait it out. If things got bad, he figured he’d be able to reason his way out of it. Negotiate.

Clank. Clank. Clank. Clank.

The shadows were getting closer, converging on Ben. He closed his eyes, attempting to wake himself up from whatever messed up dream he was currently in.

No. Such. Luck.

The clanking stopped, and Ben opened his eyes. Standing before him were the two shadows – still impossibly black, as if the darkness were sucking the color out of the world. Their red eyes dialed in on Ben. A fiery, jagged half-circle appeared on the face – or rather, the spot where there should have been a face - of the one holding the metal object. Ben could only assume it was a smile. A sinister smile accompanied by a growling laughter.

He should have talked to that girl at the bar, called his parents more often, donated more to charity, and given money to that homeless guy on 23rd Street.

And then he heard what was clearly a bicycle bell. The shadows moved back from Ben with a start and focused their attention on the end of the alley. Another chime from the bell, and the shadows erupted into a wail. Ben couldn’t see who or what was ringing the bell, but whatever it was, it royally pissed these demons off.

Three. No four. Hell, maybe there were five who hit the pavement. Ben was in no position to keep count. He wasn’t sure where they’d jumped down from, and he didn’t have the best view with his position between the dumpsters. The sounds of swords being unsheathed came from everywhere. The wailing of the shadows only increased in volume. Crouching now, Ben held his ears while simultaneously bracing himself from whatever supernatural craziness was happening a few feet away.

Ben could make out bright flashes of light through his clenched eyelids and felt intense heat far too close to his body. The wailing sounds turned to screams of terror. Whatever was attacking these shadows seemed to be winning. But then again, what if the other things were more evil than the shadows? Ben decided it was time to make a move. He didn’t want to die in some forlorn alley next to a dumpster, and definitely not at the hands of whatever the fuck these demons were.

The action seemed to be taking place at one end of the alley giving Ben a chance to take the other end to safety. Peering around the corner, he saw fire, swords, dark, light, and, most curious of all … men. Whatever or whoever these things were, Ben didn’t feel like finding out.

Focusing through an increasingly heavy headache, Ben pushed off the side of one of the dumpsters and made a run for it. With the freedom of a cold, dark Manhattan side street in view, Ben felt for a second that he was going to make it.

No. Such. Luck.

His ankle was the first thing the shadow grabbed, tripping him. Ben fell to the ground with his arm and face breaking his fall. He turned to see what had grabbed him and was met with an ever-widening mouth of fire. Trying to kick, Ben couldn’t escape the inhuman grasp of the demon … and it was pulling him in. He reached into his pocket, searching for something – anything – to throw at the thing. He came across his long-dead phone, did a quick cost-benefit analysis, and threw it at the beast. Bouncing off the blackness, it only distracted the shadow for a brief second.

Bracing for his inevitable death, Ben closed his eyes and waited.

The slicing sound came first, followed by the roar of one hundred lions. Ben saw a silver sword pierce through the shadow, and the shadow let go of Ben’s leg. Half crawling and half running, Ben rushed out of the alley, knocking over a messenger bike, and took off without looking back. He stopped a few blocks away and saw a giant flash of bright white light followed by nothing. Silence. Darkness. For the smallest part of a second, he thought about going back to the alley to see what had happened, but an approaching taxi with its “For Hire” light on was heading toward him.

---

The light was brighter in the morning. It seemed to hit him directly in the eyes, perfectly traveling through the tiny slit in his blinds. A lovely way to start a hangover. Ben got up and grabbed some water. He needed some fresh air – something to help him figure out what (if anything) had happened last night. Lying to himself, he decided last night would be the last time he touched alcohol. Opening the door to his apartment, he almost tripped over a box sitting on his welcome mat. Wrapped in paper and twine, the only thing on it was a stamp that read “Wukong Couriers.”

For a brief second, he thought about those signs on the subway that tell you to say something if you see something.

“Fuck it,” and with that, Ben ripped open the box. Inside was his cell phone – fully charged – and ringing.