EBULLIRE [PREVIEW]
© Fred Dumpling. Redistribution is prohibited.
Three shots, fired in succession, escape the barrel of the gun to soar—
It's almost beautiful, but the impact is instantaneous, and whatever beauty was in the release of the bullet is drenched by a shower of dark, thick blood and a sharp cry as the creature rears its great wrinkled head and keels, a round wound in its throat and two more in its chest, pumping, pumping—
The man approaches the creature, cautiously, hatefully. His boot comes down on its abdomen, and it squeals painfully, blood gurgling in its open mouth, foaming, red like Christmas. Red like valentines. Red like her lipstick that morning when she handed him his lunch and ushered him out the door eight long years ago. He fires again, madness creasing his face, raw passion tearing into the creature's white skull. It oozes. Thick. Dark. It wets his hands, paints his pants. The creature screams, unintelligible. Then it falls limp in its own pool of—
Raspberries.
--
"Ilzéus Creeley," the bouncer read off the members' card. He peered over it at the short, svelte figure before him. The bouncer was not a particularly tall man; at 6'2", he was at the lower end of the bouncer spectrum, but the man demanding entry to the club, for all his cocky stances and impatient facial expressions, was at least a head shorter. He looked young, too, though the card insisted he was twenty-three. The bouncer began to examine the card for signs of counterfeit.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Ilzéus said. "Are you new or just daft? Let me the fuck in before I get pissed, and any one of the guys in there can tell you what happens when I'm pissed."
The bouncer bristled because he was new, and he had high hopes for this job. But though Ilzéus' tone made it clear that he was already pissed, the bouncer decided there was greater risk in letting someone in on a fake members' card than in upsetting one customer.
"I'm going to need to see another ID, please."
The look Ilzéus gave him then was one of pure unadulterated hatred. The bouncer would have hated to be the guy who totaled Ilzéus' car or ran over his puppy if the man got this upset over being asked for an ID. On second thought, Ilzéus wouldn't have a puppy. He'd more likely own an attack dog, ready to maul at a moment's notice.
"What do you think that members' card is?" Ilzéus snapped. "A pretty picture?" Well, it was pretty. "Let me the fuck into the club, or I swear it'll cost you your job."
The bouncer was about to assert his authority and tell the man to leave when a barking laugh sounded behind Ilzéus, and both he and the bouncer turned to see John Giles, the club owner, sauntering up to the entrance.
Giles was a tall, genial man; the sight of him standing next to the considerably shorter and more sour-expressioned Ilzéus was comical, although only one would permit the smallest snicker in reaction to it. His solid build emanated power, even when hidden beneath a neat (but, the bouncer noted, inexpensive) suit, yet his nigh perpetual disarming grin and his eyes which crinkled at the corners seemed to argue against that power. He seemed, with good reason, to be universally well-liked but, at the same time, was exactly the type of man who was plagued with innumerable enemies. At his club, however, Giles regarded every man as a friend, Ilzéus Creeley in particular.
"Don't be threatening my men, Ilzéus," Giles said with a warm grin.
Ilzéus, who had relaxed somewhat in Giles' presence but whose irritation was still clear in his voice, complained somberly, "He wouldn't let me in."
"Forgive me," Giles said to both of them. He then turned to the bouncer. "I forgot to explain. Ilzéus is a good friend of mine with special privileges. I don't ask for his real name, and he doesn't ask me mine, so in the future, let Mr. Creeley in, no questions asked, all right?"
The bouncer nodded, but as Ilzéus and Giles entered the club, he wondered what kind of "good friends" didn't know each other's real names.
--
The Bouncing Baby was highly atypical for a private club. No patrons danced, for no music played. Instead, they sat at plain wooden tables under incandescent lights. The usual assortment of individuals carried guns and knives, and status was earned not by dollar signs but by body count. These hunters specialized in one species: Weres.
The scarred, senior members, who knew the big names on both sides, some more intimately than others, only glanced at Ilzéus and Giles before returning to their work, but the newer members, who had an unmistakable look of innocence to them, no matter what their age, started to greet Giles before their companions whispered harshly at them. Then their eyes widened, and they settled back into their seats, staring fixedly at the shorter man. Ilzéus had enough of a reputation among this sort that, once they knew who he was, they didn't dare approach.
Ilzéus and Giles seated themselves at the bar. Giles signaled for the bartender to bring them their usuals, then got down to business. "Did you find it?" he asked.
Ilzéus nodded. "They make me sick. Every single one."
"Preaching to the choir, my boy," Giles said. "Well, I hope you're not too sick because Satyr has another lead for us."
"Satyr," Ilzéus repeated with disgust, sliding his glance sideways at Giles. "Why are you so sure you can trust that kid? You know he's dealing to the Weres, too."
"Yeah," Giles conceded, "but I'll forgive him for dealing them weapons since he tells us where they are. The kid's poor, Ilzéus! Cut him some slack. He's on our side in the end because he's human."
Ilzéus remained skeptical.
"So are you game or not?"
"I'm game."
"Good," Giles said. "The address is 211 Bay Street. It's a theatre. They close at midnight, and that's when the Weres start using it as a meeting hall.
"All right," Ilzéus said, downing the last of his orange juice. "You coming?"
Giles grinned. "Wherever you go, bro, I'll follow."