Bleak History by John Shirley Read Free Book Online Page B

cop,” Bursinsky said. “Yeah, nobody gonna get that worked up about it,” the other guy said.
    Bleak was sorry he didn't have a gun. He didn't want to use an energy bullet here in front of these people.
    He realized that Shoella was watching him, seeming bemused. “I get to watch your especiality now?” she asked.
    “Nope,” he told her, sizing Bursinsky up. The damned fool was standing much too close. “Not the technique you're thinking of, Sho'. I work with a team, when I'm bringing a man in. I've got people I  call.”
    “Yeah, this bounty hunter was a little bitch,” said the gangly guy. “Had to use a buncha guysta help him.”
    “If being professional aboutajob is being a little bitch...,” Bleak said, shrugging. Bursinsky was so close Bleak could smell the big lug's sweat and the corn dog he'd been eating. “You want to go back to jail, Bursinsky?” Bleak asked, levering his feet hard against the floor and leaning forward. “You've gotta be on probation.”
    “Now yuh threatening me wit' jail again? Gleaman...?” Bursinsky turned to the skinnier guy. “Give me the—”
    The moment Bursinsky looked away, Bleak launched himself out of the chair, slamming his right shoulder into the big man's solar plexus; feeling Bursinsky fold up, wheezing over him. Bleak gave another shove, with his whole body, and Bursinsky fell heavily back onto the wooden floor, making it boom hollowly; making the glasses on the bar rattle. Gleaman gaped, confused.
    Hearing Shoella mutter something to her loas, Bleak straightened up and in the same motion brought his right fist up hard into Gleaman's chin; felt Gleaman's jaws clack shut, teeth crunching under the blow. Gleaman spinning, falling.
    “Sorry about this,” Bleak told the bartender. “Come on, Shoella,” he muttered to her, turning toward the door. He got three steps—and normally he'd have “seen” Gleaman aiming at his back. But too many people were staring at him.
    A gunshot, and the bullet sliced past Bleak's right ear.
    Bleak spun and saw Gleaman sitting on the floor, pistol in hand. Bursinsky was getting to his hands and knees next to him—as Gleaman squintingly aimed the Glock nine-millimeter at Bleak through a blue cloud of gun smoke.
    “Not gonna fucking miss this time,” Gleaman said.
    Bleak began conjuring an energy bullet—but he figured it'd be too late.
    Shoella was hissing to herself in Cajun French, and suddenly a translucent creature with a giant vulture's head and a man's body was hunched over Gleaman. A baka loa, one of the dark, “bitter” entities formed in the Hidden by voodoo beliefs. The apparition wore a lion's-hide skirt, and anklets of yellow grass hung over his bare black feet. The vulture's head was proportional with the body, beak  opening wide...
    And the baka loa dipped its beak to feed within Gleaman's skull. Its beak penetrated his skull without breaking the bone.
    No one here could see this but Shoella and Bleak. All the others saw was Gleaman reacting in paralytic agony, flopping on his arched back, foaming at the mouth, whites of his eyes showing, the gun firing once. A glass fishing float shattered.
    Bleak stepped in and expertly twisted the gun from Gleaman's hands. He looked at Bursinsky and said, “You want that to happen to you—what's happening to your friend?”
    Bursinsky, getting to his feet now, was looking at Gleaman—who was spasming, chattering, and peeing his pants. Babbling: “Nuh take it out nuh take it out nuh take it out nuh take it out oh please God take it outta my head...”
    “No,” Bursinsky said in a low voice. He took a step back. “I don't.”
    “Then back off.”
    Bursinsky looked at Shoella, sensing it was her doing somehow. He looked narrowly at Bleak. “How yuh find me anyway, last time? Just tell me that, Bleak. Ain't nobody shoulda been able to find me.”
    Bleak shook his head. “I don't have to tell you anything except go see your fucking parole officer. You can tell your