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

by Craig Gabrysch

  A rifle fired. The second afflicted’s nose exploded from its face as the bullet passed through. It crumpled to the cobblestones. Another shot, this one from a pistol. Fat Man lurched to its side, but kept coming. It still struggled against Jacob’s grip, reaching down at his face, gurgling and groaning.

  A blue-coated soldier wearing an officer’s cap walked up behind Fat Man. He put the barrel of his revolver to the afflicted’s ear and pulled the trigger. The creature slumped forward. Jacob continued to hold it, knowing that if he tried to move, the corpse would just fall on him. The pommel of his sword still pressed his breastplate into his chest.

  The officer walked around into view, crouching down next to Jacob. “Well, as I live and breathe,” he said. “Jacob? Jacob Smith?”

  “Yes?”

  “Maj. Joseph Overman. You were briefly attached to the Ninth Cavalry in Missouri, were you not?”

  “I was,” Jacob replied. He peered up at the officer’s face. “Joey Overman?” Jacob asked. “How in the hell did you become major? All the qualified captains die in the war?” He grunted against the pain as the corpse resting on his chest shifted and wheezed with corpse gas. “Never mind, tell me when this thing’s off me.”

  “Apologies. Just a moment,” Maj. Overman said. He shouldered into the corpse, knocking it off to the side. The body fell to the street, thudding like a side of beef dropped on the floor. Jacob lay there for a moment, hand where the pommel of his sword had been, breathing deep breaths.

  “You alright?” Overman asked, standing over him.

  “Yup. Think so. Didn’t get bit or bled on, thank God.”

  “That wouldn’t be fortunate,” said Overman, offering him a hand. Jacob accepted and Overman helped him to his feet. Jacob went over and looked down at Fat Man’s corpse. He kicked it over and went to wrenching the sword from its collarbone. Jacob cursed himself for his brashness. Almost got himself killed this time.

  “What in the hell are you doing in New Orleans? And working for the Church?”

  “Long story. I need to see Maj. Gen. Baird, though,” Jacob said. He wiped his sword clean on Fat Man’s shirt and sheathed it. He leaned down and picked up his hat, placing it on his head. He drew his revolver and flipped open the cylinder. “Quick-like,” he added. He ejected the spent shell casings from his revolver and reloaded it with fresh cartridges.

  “Not a chance,” Overman said. They turned and headed back to Washington Square. “The major general’s come down with the fever.”

  “Dammit,” Jacob said. “How long ago?”

  “Just a few hours. He’s not well. Surgeons are doing all they can, but, well . . .”

  “Well?”

  “Not a man or woman who’s contracted this fever has come out the other side. Not a one. Talk is that President Johnson’s going to continue the quarantine. All food and goods coming into and leaving have been curtailed. The place has gone wild, feral.”

  “Seems the case,” Jacob said as they passed through the gates and into the camp. Big Beard and Fence Post glared at him as he passed.

  “I myself am near recommending the city bombarded. We can’t let this disease spread,” Overman continued as they walked through the camp. Soldiers saluted Maj. Overman as they passed. He gave them the briefest of recognition and kept his focus on Jacob.

  “This isn’t yellow fever, you know.”

  “I know that. But what name would you use? A fever which makes a living man impervious to attacks unless they’re shot in the head? I don’t believe the president or our superiors would understand that. Care for a drink? Lord knows I need one.” He took Jacob’s elbow and led him off the path. “This is my tent. I have a bottle stashed away.”

  “Listen,” Jacob said as he followed Overman through the tent flap, “Joey, reckon I need to come clean. I’ve dealt with more strangeness than most men. I can help you folks, but only if you can help me.”

  “What kind of strangeness?” Maj. Overman asked as he grabbed a bottle of whiskey and a tin cup from the small folding desk in the tent’s corner.

  “You wouldn’t believe me.”

  “You’d be surprised.” Overman poured a healthy cup of whiskey for Jacob. “I’m a God-fearing man, after all,” he said, handing Jacob the tin cup.

  Jacob took a sip of the whiskey. “Demons, mostly,” he said, wincing at the taste of the firewater. He took another drink. God, it felt good. “But some like this. Living dead. There’s an organization that’s working against the Union. Call themselves the Kukluxers.”

  “Heard of them. Ex-Rebels,” Overman said, taking a long pull from the bottle. He pulled up a canvas chair and sat. He gestured to another seat for Jacob. Jacob took it. “Demons, you say? Like fallen angels?”

  “I know,” Jacob said, shaking his head, “it sounds like I need to be in a sanitarium. But it’s real. There are things out there I can’t explain, and you wouldn’t believe me even if I could.”

  “So what does this have to do with the fever? That’s the thing, Jacob, demons are fine. We all have them, do we not? But demons don’t turn people into lunatics. At least not whole cities-full.”

  “My partner and I had an object stolen from us,” Jacob said, taking another sip. “It’s the source of this. One of those Kukluxers took the relic. He used it to start the fever.”

  Overman took another long drink from the bottle. “Jacob,” he said, exhaling sharply and setting the bottle aside, “let’s suppose what you’re saying is, on the outside spread, actually even possibly true. How can you stop it?”

  “By destroying the object.”

  “And these Kukluxers have it?”

  “A man named Potestas, yes.”

  “Potestas, you say?”

  “I know where he is, Joey. He’s at the convention at the Mechanics Institute.”

  Overman laughed, slapping his thigh. “What can you show me to prove your case?”

  Jacob sat back. He chewed on his lip. He took a sip of whiskey. How could he prove this story of his?

  Wait. Maybe there was something. He just hoped Fat Man’s weight hadn’t damaged it.

  “I might have something,” Jacob said as he began reaching inside his breastplate. “An old woman gave it to me.”

  Maj. Gen. Baird’s tent smelled of warm alcohol and hot death. The surgeons had closed the flaps against the sun. The general, an old, bald man with a great salt-and-pepper beard, lay tucked under the sheets on his cot, alternately baking and freezing in the sepia-toned light. Surgeons wearing blood and pus-covered white coats milled about. One of them leaned over the major general, feeling his forehead. He looked to Maj. Overman and shook his head.

  “Alright,” Overman said, holding the tent flap open, “everyone out.”

  The surgeons looked at each other. “Fine,” one said, with a shrug, “not much to be done anyway.”

  The surgeons left.

  Overman looked at Jacob. “Are you certain this will work?”

  “Never said that,” replied Jacob. “Said I might have something to cure him.”

  “That’s fine and dandy, then. Well, it won’t hurt him any worse.”

  “Reckon not.” Jacob walked over to Maj. Gen. Baird’s bedside. He pulled up a canvas seat and sat next to him. “Major General?”

  The old man’s eyes opened. He tried to turn his head to look at Jacob. “No,” Jacob said, taking the pouch from his pocket, “don’t do that. I’m gonna give you something to eat. I want you to chew and swallow it. Alright? You hear me?”

  Baird nodded as much as his weakness would allow. Jacob opened the drawstring on the pouch and shook the contents out into the palm of his hand. The little, dried pepper looked fiery beneath its crust of strange, pink salt. Some of the salt broke off in Jacob’s hand as he handled it.

  “Here,” he said, feeling like a priest offering the Eucharist on Sunday. Baird opened his mouth and Jacob fed it to him. “Chew, Baird. Don’t matter how hot it gets, you just keep on chewing.”

  The old
man chewed. His lips seemed to lighten. A blue light shone out through his teeth, illuminating his jaw. He continued to chew, his nose lighting up the same way. The light crept into his eyes, shining like twin beacons from a lighthouse, and down into his throat. It pulsed with each grind of his molars. Jacob leaned in close and looked at Baird’s face. The sweat began changing color, changing to the amber color of tree sap. It ran more profusely as the old man continued chewing.

  Jacob looked at Maj. Overman, eyes wide. “I think the pepper’s actually working.” He grinned from ear to ear. “First good news in days.”

  The old man swallowed. “This pepper,” he croaked, exhaling black smoke, “tastes of embers and fire. Heat. I need milk. Is that smoke?”

  “Not yet, Major General. You eat the whole damn thing, then we’ll get you a glass. And, yup, it’s smoke.”

  Overman left to get a glass of milk for the major general. The old man kept chewing.

  “Who are you?” Baird asked. “And help me sit upright.”

  Jacob helped the old man sit up. He began the long explanation of how he’d arrived in the major general’s tent. By the time Overman had returned, Baird had thrown off the bedsheets. He’d also heard most of Jacob’s story.

  “Who is this man you’re after?” Maj. Gen. Baird asked.

  “Name’s Potestas.”

  The old soldier sucked in breath.

  “Ring a bell then?”

  “I received a letter from him three days ago. I decided it was a letter from a crazy man, the product of a mind addled by the war, and dismissed it out of hand.”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “It should be on my desk with my other correspondence.”

  “May I read it?”

  “You may.”

  Jacob walked over to the desk and sifted through the letters. He found the one from Potestas. He withdrew the letter from its envelope and began to read.

  Dear Major General Baird,

  I trust that though this letter may find you in good health, such good health shall be fleeting. Why will it be fleeting? you ask. Because I shall make it so. I have in my possession a powerful weapon. I will use it on this despicable city and all its cowardly denizens. I will cause them to rise in defense against the Northern and Negro aggressors, just as they should have originally done on that April day in 1862. You and your soldiers can not hope to stop me. But believe me when I say I truly hope to witness you try. Driving your army before mine will be one of the finer points in my life.

  Cyclops Potestas had signed his name below the missive.

  “Well,” Jacob said, finishing the letter. “He’s cocky ain’t he?”

  “Yes,” Baird replied. “I would tend to agreement. Now, to the point, sir. How can we help?”

  “We need to protect the Constitutional Convention.”

  “We’ll have plenty of time, then,” Baird replied. “Lord. Nearing noon on the 30th already? And the city falling around our ears?” He picked up his pocket watch from his table and looked at it. “We still have several hours. Plenty of time to mobilize the troops.”

  “Reckon you don’t, sir,” Jacob said. “It starts in just a few minutes.”

  “What?” Baird asked, his voice rising. “I was informed it started at six this evening.”

  “Don’t know who told you that,” Jacob said, “but I know it was scheduled to begin at noon.”

  Maj. Overman nodded and said, “Mr. Smith’s correct, sir. We sent runners to try and stop them from proceeding, even before Mr. Smith arrived here.”

  “Their response?”

  “That this was all,” Overman said, taking out a piece of script-covered paper and unfolding it, “quote, ‘nothing more than Rebel trickery meant to circumvent the democratic process,’ unquote, sir.”

  “Help me up, young man,” Baird said, swinging his legs off the bed. “Maj. Overman, go ready the troops. We march for the Mechanics Institute before the next tolling of the bells. God willing, our effort will not come too late and be in vain.”

  “Sir,” Maj. Overman replied, snapping off a quick salute. He left the tent, barking orders as soon as he exited the canvas walls.

  “And you, sir? Will you march with us?” Baird asked.

  “Reckon I won’t. I’ve got friends in the hall, and can make better time on my own.”

  Baird nodded, frowning resolutely beneath his salt-and-pepper beard.

  “I could use a horse, though.”

  “Here,” Baird said. He walked shakily over to his desk. He grabbed a quill and a loose leaf of paper. He scribbled down a quick note, signed it with a flourish, sanded the ink, and handed the letter to Jacob. “Give this to the quartermaster. He’ll provide you a mount.”

  Jacob took the note. “Thank you, sir.” Out of habit he went to salute, but stopped himself. He offered the major general a hand instead. They shook.

  “No, Mr. Smith, thank you. I’d be out of my wits and trying to tear Overman’s throat asunder, were it not for your assistance.”

  “Yup,” Jacob said. “Reckon you’re right.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I’m gonna get now. Still got a city to save, and all.”

  Jacob rode down Rampart on an old nag, the only spare horse the Union had. Jacob didn’t care much. He only needed to go a few blocks. He’d taken Rampart because he figured the wide thoroughfare would give attackers less cover from which to ambush.

  No healthy person walked the street. What could be looted already had been. Shops were either boarded up, or empty and thrown open to the world. Glass littered the street. A newspaper floated through on the blast-furnace-hot wind. People stayed locked inside their homes. They were scared. Of course, they had cause to be.

  Jacob stopped in front of one of the shops. A sign of warning had been painted on the outside wall. “Don’t try. I am sleeping inside with a big dog, an ugly woman, two shotguns, and a claw hammer.”

  He shook his head, smiling. He rode on.

  A pack of wild dogs fought in a butcher shop over scraps. A whitish mongrel flipped a grey mutt onto its back, its foamed muzzle close to the whipped dog’s throat, teeth bared. The grey mutt whimpered loud enough for Jacob to hear it out on the street. The Templar nudged his horse with his knees, clucking his tongue. They continued on.

  He rode past Congo Square. The Union had staked it out when they were still trying to maintain order. A makeshift tent city half-stood abandoned, the canvas fluttering in the boiler-hot breeze.

  He reined his horse in at Common Street and dismounted. The din of gunfire rose up from just south. He went the rest of the way on foot, poking his head around the old Spanish building at the corner of Rampart and Canal. Potestas’s army spread out in front of the Mechanics Institute a block south. Afflicted, dead policemen, dead civilians, and the white, peaked hoods of Kukluxers covered the breadth of Canal and reached almost to Jacob’s position. There must have been hundreds of them.

  “Damn,” Jacob muttered. He needed to get around behind the building and find another way in. He retreated around the corner and mounted his horse. He rode back to Common Street and turned right. The empty road stretched before him. He rode down the street towards Dryades. At Dryades he dismounted and popped his head around the corner.

  The institute was pushed up against Dryades street and stood near center on the city block. The structure itself, a three-story stonework building with a columned facade, took up most of the space on its side. Its grounds kept it separated from the other buildings on the Canal and Common Street sides. Jacob couldn’t see the back, the side of the block which butted up against Baronne. He hoped that way would provide him an entrance.

  Potestas stood in the back of the wagon sporting the Gatling. His army swelled around him. His booming voice rolled down Dryades. “You knights,” Potestas yelled, pointing to a cadre of white-robed Kukluxers, “up to the front with the ram. Break down those damnable doors.”

  A sickening roar, something akin to a scratchy groan, went up from the
ramshackle army as the men charged forward over the corpses decorating the front steps of the institute. They hoisted an iron-bound tree trunk which had been turned into a battering ram. The men inside opened curtains on the second floor. Rifles and pistols appeared from the windows, firing down on the approaching Kukluxers.

  Jacob didn’t wait to see the outcome. He got back on his horse and crossed Dryades, continuing down Common Street. Baronne, ahead, looked to be empty. He took a right at the intersection. It was clear. Buildings lined either side, shops and boutiques mostly. Alleyways led between some of the shops. The Mechanics Institute peeked over the buildings to his right.

  He dismounted, hitched his horse, and headed down the nearest alley. From where he stood, he could tell it intersected ahead with another back alley. It looked to be divided from the back part of the institute’s grounds by a wooden fence. The barrier’s slats were old, and the paint was peeling.

  The smell of rotting flesh hit him as soon as he slipped between the buildings. He pulled his kerchief from his pocket and covered his mouth. A colored woman’s corpse lay to the side, still cradling her dead baby. They’d been left next to a pile of decaying vegetables. The heat and humidity had bloated the bodies. Likely, they’d been dead since the day before. Jacob stopped next to them and knelt down.

  The woman had been bludgeoned to death, her head caved in, her teeth knocked out. The baby’s mouth hung open, like it’d died mid-cry. Jacob said a silent prayer, stood and walked past her, deeper into the alley. He heard movement ahead.

  He stopped at the intersection and looked both ways. Three afflicted crowded to his left over the body of a dead dog. One of them was small and waifish with ragged, straight brown hair. It had been a small boy, a child. The second one was an old colored woman missing her left arm. The third was a younger. busty white woman wearing a torn dress. They ripped out the dog’s white entrails and tore into its gut. Canine blood and filth covered all three. Jacob felt a momentary pang of sorrow for the mutt. Jacob cocked his pistol.