The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories

by Craig Gabrysch

  “Sadly, I think you’re correct. We accept, Mr. DuBose,” Henry said, uncocking his revolver and holstering it.

  “Excellent. I’ll prepare my champion.”

  “Hold on just one second. Champion?” Jacob asked as he holstered his own pistol.

  “Correct. I may choose a champion to stand in. It is my right.”

  “He’s correct,” Henry said.

  “Now, gentlemen, as night is falling across the valley, I propose we make our preparations. If you will give me only a few moments, I will meet you at the rear of the house and we can begin.”

  Henry narrowed his eyes at DuBose. The Templars returned to their horses and remounted.

  “I don’t like this one bit, sir.”

  “Neither do I. But you were both right. We couldn’t just kill an unarmed man and steal the book, corrupted by evil or not. We play this game his way, no matter what the outcome, simply because we gave our word.”

  “I agree completely.”

  The pair circled around the south side of the mansion. The sun gave its final bit of light to the plantation as they rode. An overgrown, mismanaged garden sprawled out behind the mansion. A sparse forest of oak saplings and wild cotton plants surrounded the estate on all sides. Ahead of them, vague shapes moved in the dark yard. They met DuBose and his servant on the rear steps of the house. DuBose’s servant held a lantern aloft and its light made DuBose’s face look more sickly. The servant was aged somewhere between thirty and sixty years, white, and hunched over with a series of near-crippling deformities. His nose was flat, his eyes set wide apart, and his forehead entirely too large. He was unsettlingly disproportionate. The younger Templar fought the urge to stare.

  “My champion will be meeting us at the family plot, gentlemen,” DuBose said.

  “Family plot?” Jacob asked.

  “We’ll be playing out our duel in the cemetery. I prefer ambiance when I watch a fight to the death. Now, if you’ll be polite enough to dismount, my servant will take your horses.”

  “What?” Henry asked again. “No slave?”

  “Slavery is illegal, Mr. Bennett, in case you had not heard. Martin here is an indentured servant. His great-great-great-great-grandfather gave the souls of his lineage to my family going on two centuries ago.”

  Jacob sucked in air through clenched teeth. Henry caught Jacob’s gaze and shook his head.

  “If you’d be kind enough to follow me, gentlemen.”

  The Templars dismounted, Henry taking his shield. DuBose took the lantern from Martin and the “servant” took the reins of the horses. DuBose led the way through the garden paths.

  “If you look to the left, gentlemen,” DuBose said, pointing as he walked, “you’ll see the pristine farmland that has made the DuBose family such an economic force these past forty years, with the gracious help of Martin’s relatives of course.”

  Jacob followed his gesture but saw nothing except unploughed fields slowly being taken over by the Tennessee forest. He did notice a poorly constructed house on the edges of the garden, though, lit by a series of torches coming from the front door. The greying wood and darkness of evening had camouflaged the squat structure when he looked the first time. Now the new torchlight illuminated it perfectly. He looked to his right and slightly behind him and noticed more buildings like the first. Torches streamed from their doors, filling the garden with a soft, yellow-orange light.

  “Mr. Bennett, are you seeing this?”

  “Yes, I am. It’s a tad bit disconcerting, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Yes sir, I would say as much.”

  As they neared the stand of trees at the edge of the garden, Jacob turned his head and looked at the crowd following them. They all shared the same flat nose, incomprehensibly large forehead, and close-set empty eyes of Martin the servant. DuBose led the Templars through the stand of oaks and into the cemetery’s center. Granite headstones dotted the landscape.

  “You stated earlier that your champion would be waiting, DuBose.”

  “He should be somewhere around here, Mr. Bennett. I shall return once I’ve collected him.”

  Jacob and Henry stood in the center of the cemetery as the silent torch-bearing men and women shuffled in. They formed a loose semicircle behind the Templars, blocking them from the plantation mansion. The two men drew their pistols and checked them over.

  “I don’t like this.”

  “You’ll grow accustomed to the feeling over the years. When you stop being afraid, you generally embark upon being dead.” Henry smiled ruefully.

  A low rumble began amongst the crowd, almost a bass hum that collectively emitted from the chests of the men and women gathered.

  DuBose’s angular form approached through the headstones, one hand holding a chain draped over his right shoulder. A hulking form lumbered behind him. They stopped fifty feet away from the Templar Knights.

  “I apologize for the wait, gentlemen. Wyatt, here, was bit by the wanderlust bug and got off his tether. I had to retrieve him.” DuBose led Wyatt into the light. Wyatt was ugly; downright hideous. He, or it, stood at least nine feet tall and wore the tattered clothing of a servant. The skull of its bald and bulbous head seemed distended and far out of proportion from the rest of its features. The thing’s giant, black eyes bulged from its face. They possessed no properties of the eyes of man or beast. Twitching and thrashing tentacles sprouted from where there should have been a mouth. Its arms were of normal proportion to the rest of its body, except for the razor-sharp talons at the end. Powerful muscles rippled beneath its thick, grey hide.

  Yeah, it was ugly by Jacob Smith’s reckoning, even for a demon. Of course, it was the first demon he’d ever seen, so he really didn’t have much point of reference.

  “That a demon?”

  “Not like any I’ve ever seen. But it’s certainly not from our world.”

  “That’s for sure. Think we can take it down?”

  As they spoke, DuBose reached up, brushed aside the tentacles, and undid the neck shackle to which the chain connected.

  Jacob watched Henry size the creature up. “My experience has been that most things, extra-planar or not, capitulate when one properly applies enough of the correct kind of physical force. So, yes, I do think we can take it down.”

  “Gentlemen, are you ready?” DuBose called across the graveyard.

  “We are,” Henry called back.

  “Then let the duel begin. Wyatt, go on and kill now.”

  The Templars both drew weapons, a sword for the elder and a revolver for the younger.

  Henry Bennett drew a line in the Tennessean dirt with the point of his broadsword. Jacob Smith cocked his revolver. Jacob made the sign of the cross. The demon recoiled.

  The thing recovered and began to close the twenty paces of cemetery headstones to the two armored men.

  “Is this what I signed on for?” Jacob asked Henry as the demon came at them with deliberation, shoving over headstones in its path.

  “You signed up for the Templars, didn’t you?”

  “Suppose you’re right on that count.”

  “Cover me. Don’t close in on it unless you absolutely must.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Henry raised his shield enough to cover his mailed torso. He kept his sword’s blade out and to the side, giving him free range of motion in case the demon tackled him. Demons liked to grapple, that much Jacob had been taught in training. He’d never been taught just how damn ugly they were, though. That was a revision to the manuals Jacob would mention when next he spoke to the abbot.

  “Hell-spawn,” Henry barked, advancing towards the demon. “Come at me, you beastly thing.”

  Wyatt’s tentacles flared from its face, the tips flailing and grasping at air. The creature uprooted a tombstone from the moist soil and hurled the hunk of etched granite at Henry. Henry stepped aside from the granite missile’s trajectory with grace belying his age.

  “Put in a bit of effort on the next toss, Wyatt.” Henry shoo
k sweat soaked hair from his eyes. “Let’s make this interesting.”

  The tentacled thing stooped to the ground and ripped another headstone from the ground, a five-foot-tall obelisk topped with an ornate cross. It hefted the weight in its right hand, gave the makeshift club a test swing, and continued advancing towards Henry.

  “I believe that’s a slight improvement. Jacob?”

  “Yup?”

  “Is there a reason you’re not shooting?”

  “I was just . . . I apologize, sir.” Jacob leveled his revolver at the thing’s torso and pulled the trigger. The revolver roared and leapt in Jacob’s hand. The demon took the bullet squarely in the chest and recoiled a step. Black spread on the yellowing buttoned-up shirt. Jacob fired three more bullets. It took more steps back. Wyatt turned and focused on Jacob, hefting its obelisk turned club. It advanced, closing the distance with long-legged strides. “Sir, I don’t reckon bullets are working as well as we’d hoped.”

  “Not a concern. Perchance, could you endeavor to shoot it in the head next time?”

  “Yes sir.” He adjusted his aim slightly upward and fired again. A fine mist of black ichor sprayed into the air as the demon’s head snapped back violently. It stumbled backwards two steps, its club swinging out and away from its torso as it lost balance. A collective wail like the howling of ravenous wolves welled up from the crowd.

  Henry took the opening and charged the demon with a roar that would’ve put Johnny Reb to shame. He slashed across the demon’s belly with the outer edge of the blade, ending the cut with his broadsword raised and ready. More of the brackish ichor welled out of the thing’s gut. Henry struck again, this time at its exposed left limb. The demon backpedaled, but Henry matched each of its lumbering steps with two of his own. He hacked at the right leg. The demon swung the obelisk, but the Templar met the stone club’s base with his shield and absorbed the impact.

  Henry kept up the assault, chopping at the demon’s right wrist. The demon’s hand severed with a sickening plop and an otherworldly scream that sent its tentacles flaring. Ichor sprayed from the stump, leaving Henry’s breast plate with a shimmering patina of black slime. Henry danced out of the falling obelisk’s path and skirted around the creature to its rear.He sliced across the demon’s left Achilles tendon, hamstringing the demon with a practiced barbarism that produced another wail. It collapsed to its left knee, its head falling forward.

  Henry huffed and completed his circle, moving to the demon’s right side. Jacob glanced furtively around at the now quiet crowd. “Jacob,would you care to do the honors, or shall I?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to steal your glory on the battlefield, Mr. Bennett. You go right on with that beheading.”

  “You certainly have my gratitude,” Henry said as he raised his blade. With a roar, the Templar swung the blade down at the demon’s neck. A gunshot rang out just before Henry’s swing connected. Henry stumbled backward, stunned. The broadsword tumbled from his shattered right hand. The Templar went to his knees, the color drained from his face.

  “Drop your firearm, Templar,” a raspy voice said from the other end of the cemetery. “Or I end Mr. Bennett’s life at this very moment.”

  Jacob swung his revolver towards the shadowy source some thirty paces away.

  “Consider the course of events you are about to set in motion, Mr. Smith. I know you have already fired six shots at Wyatt. Which leaves your pistol empty, if I am not mistaken, and you surrounded with only a sword for defense. Bennett, handless as he is, will be of no help in this fight,” William DuBose said as he stepped from the shadows, a tightly held revolver pointed at Jacob. Jacob pointed his own revolver back at DuBose’s angular, pallid form.

  “Wrong, DuBose, I only fired five shots,” Jacob said and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder. “Shit,” Jacob cursed, closing his eyes. He never should have taken Henry’s advice. He dropped the pistol at his feet. “Thought this was supposed to be a fair duel for the book, DuBose. Us verses your thing there,” Jacob said, gesturing at the grey demon on its knees.

  “I lied, Mr. Smith.” Grey lips twisted and curled on DuBose’s drawn face. “Take him,” he snarled at the crowd. “We’ll use them for the ritual tonight.”

  Martin’s kinfolk obeyed with gusto. The circle closed in on Jacob.

  Consciousness came back to Jacob Smith. He lay on a dirt floor. His head felt like he’d tried to catch a six-pounder’s cannonball in the teeth. His left leg felt like it’d taken a kick from a horse’s hindquarters. It reeked awfully strong wherever he’d awakened. Jacob smelled something sickly sweet. Cooking pork, maybe? Below that was body odor and sweat. Not the most appetizing of fragrant combinations. Jacob kept his eyes closed, just hoping this would all go away. He groaned.

  “Quiet, Jacob,” Henry whispered.

  “Mr. Bennett? You’re still kicking?”

  “Yes, barely,” Henry replied, his voice jagged and full of rasp. “I’m still alive. My thoughts are that being well is another matter entirely. Now stay quiet. Our jailers don’t know you’re awake yet. I’d prefer it remained that way.”

  Jacob opened his eyes and turned his head to look in Henry’s direction. The movement ratcheted up the pain. He winced. They were in a filthy cell. Henry sat propped against the metal bars in the corner opposite Jacob. Dirt, blood, and Wyatt’s foreign ichor covered his armor and clothing. Henry wheezed with each breath, his face was pale white. Bloodshot eyes, sunken, with deep, black circles beneath, gave the impression of a raccoon rather than an English gentlemen. He cradled his shattered right hand, swaddled in yellowish gauze, to his chest. The space below the elder Templar’s left knee was empty. They hadn’t even bothered to dress the wound, they’d simply seared it at the stump. Jacob shuddered.

  “What did they do to you?”

  “It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. Keep that upper lip stiff. How are you faring?”

  “Fine. Headache from hell, and my left leg is injured, but manageable. But, you . . .”

  “Quiet, Jacob. Understand that I don’t have much longer. Do you smell that cooking? I can’t be certain,” Henry said, coughing weakly, “but that may very well be my leg. You have been out for over an hour and—”

  “We gotta get you to a surgeon or doc—”

  “No,” Henry said. The hissing severity shut Jacob right up. “DuBose came into gloat earlier. They’re starting a ritual tonight, a ritual you must stop. They’re tearing a hole into some place other than Hell. I won’t live much longer, whether or not you can drag me back to Chattanooga. You’ve seen wounds like this as often as I, and you know that oftentimes they prove fatal. So be a good chap and shut the fuck up. I have a plan to help you escape, boy. After that, it’s up to you to stop DuBose. That ritual must not be completed.”

  Jacob sighed. “Yes sir. Wait. Did you just cuss?”

  Henry just smiled and laid back his head against the cell bars.

  After ten minutes, or maybe five, or even twenty, one of Martin’s cousins, brothers, or uncles came to the cell door. Jacob couldn’t see them, he kept his eyes closed, but he could tell it was one of the inbreds from their shuffling, shambling steps they all seemed to have in common. Keys jingled, someone fumbled with the lock, and there followed a neat click as the key turned the tumblers.

  “Hello, mate. Come to take my hand? Quite the feast your kinfolk seem to be having this evening.”

  “Leg,” the Martin replied.

  “Sure you wouldn’t want my arm instead?”

  “Leg.”

  “Fine, fine. But you’ll have to fight me for it.”

  There was a soft thump and the sound of something heavy landing on the dirt floor, followed immediately by a horrendous howl. Jacob’s eyes snapped open. The servant was hunched over, clutching his privates. A heavy, rusted meat cleaver lay on the floor in front of Henry. Jacob clambered to his feet, his bad leg almost giving way. He braced himself and stomped on the right side of the Martin’s knee.

&n
bsp; A satisfying crunch sounded and the inbred crumpled, his yowls reaching a crescendo.

  “Jacob.” Henry handed the meat cleaver to Jacob.

  Jacob took it quickly. He grabbed a handful of the Martin’s greasy hair and pulled the distorted head back, exposing the throat just like he’d done to cattle on his grandfather’s farm. The man’s eyes went wide with terror. Jacob chopped the cleaver, sinking it as far into the exposed throat as possible. Blood welled up from the Martin’s mouth and around the blade. The blood ran down the servant’s worn shirt, pasting it to the skin.

  “Hurry, there may be more coming.”

  Jacob began desperately wrenching the cleaver’s blade from the inbred’s neck. Jacob hoped there weren’t any more of Martin’s kinfolk as he worked the blade back and forth. He finally yanked the cleaver free.

  Jacob hefted the cleaver in his right hand and exited the cell. He walked the short distance to the corner. He couldn’t hear anything, but he couldn’t be for sure. Jacob drew himself up against the wall and took a half-step back from the corner and steadied his breathing.

  Nothing. Just a room with a firepit in the middle and Henry’s leg roasting slowly on a spit. Jacob shuddered, then turned and went back to the cell.

  “Mr. Bennett? Still with me?”

  No response. Henry stayed against the bars, unmoving. The older Templar’s head leaned forward, his chin resting on his breast. Jacob’s stomach sank. He walked forward and put a hand below his nose. No feel of breath on his fingertips. Jacob sighed. He hunkered down next to the older Templar.

  “Mr. Bennett,” he began in a low voice, “I’ve really appreciated our time together. It’s awful we couldn’t get to know each other better. I’ll tell the abbot of your valiance and sacrifice when I get back to Chicago.”

  Standing, Jacob turned and walked over to where his hat lay on the ground. He picked it up and went back to Henry’s body. He laid it over the Englishman’s face. He made the sign of the cross, whispered a short prayer for Henry’s soul, and left the cell.