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

by Craig Gabrysch

  Jacob stumbled backwards over a piece of debris and lost his footing. He fell on his back. The creature clamored on top of him, fighting to get at his face with what remained of its gnashing teeth. Jacob brought up his left arm and forced it against the creature’s throat. If he could just get his gun up, he’d get another shot.

  A long string of yellowish saliva dripped from the afflicted’s slathering mouth. Jacob tried to turn his head away, but he was too late. The disease-ridden spit dropped onto his lips and front teeth. Jacob fought to free his shooting hand. He only managed to get the muzzle of his revolver redirected. But, he’d moved it just enough.

  The barrel was pointed into the afflicted’s jawline. Jacob pulled the trigger. The bullet, entering through the creature’s chin, expanded on impact and exited through top of its skull in a shower of bone fragments and rotting brain-matter. The afflicted collapsed on top of him.

  Jacob kicked off the smoldering body. He stood and spit to the side.

  He thought about sticking a finger down his throat, but then wondered if his hand carried the disease. Sticking his hand in his mouth might just make it worse. He just had to hope he wouldn’t get the sickness.

  Pulling himself together, Jacob jogged back to where he’d first come in through the window. He looked into the room. Within, Charlotte administered to the wounded. He did a quick head count: Only three had had to be left behind. That was a small wonder, right there. She had them spread across the heavy conference table Jacob had first rolled into during his high-flying entrance.

  “Jacob?” Charlotte asked. “Was that a bugle out there? What’s going on? Are we safe?”

  “Union’s coming. Here, everyone that can, help me with this table. Got an idea.”

  Jacob, Charlotte, and five of the walking-wounded pushed the long conference table against the windowsill. With three to a side, they managed to lift it up and push it through the hole Jacob had left in the window. They guided it out and laid the outside edge on top of the institute’s back fence. They had a slide to the back alley.

  “This isn’t going to work,” Charlotte said.

  “Oh, ye of little faith,” Jacob replied, grinning at his own handiwork.

  “Jacob?”

  Jacob grunted.

  “Are you feeling alright?” Charlotte asked. “You look a little piqued.”

  Jacob looked at Charlotte’s throat. It was bare. There should have been, instead, a pouch with her pepper. “Your pepper,” Jacob said.

  “I used it already.” A booming roar cut through the gunshots, making the rifles and pistols sound like kids’ fireworks. Charlotte grabbed hold of Jacob to steady herself as the whole of the building shook from the top all the way down to its foundation.

  “Jesus, don’t he know civilians are in here?” Jacob yelled.

  “What was that?” Charlotte asked.

  “Cannon fire,” Jacob said, going for the door. “Baird’s bombarding the institute,” he said over his shoulder. “I’m going to see how Christopher’s doing. Start sliding them wounded down the table. Get ‘em out, Charlotte.”

  He ran out the door and into the hallway.

  Back at the stairs, the situation had deteriorated. Christopher had abandoned the barricades. Instead, he leaned over an injured white man. The man cradled a hurt arm. His face glowed with blue light.

  “Pepper?” Jacob asked.

  “Yeah. He’s Judge Howell. Head of the convention, Jacob. Too important to my people down here. Couldn’t let him go.”

  “Gave mine to Baird,” Jacob replied, putting a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “I made an escape route. Go down the hall and take your first left. It’ll get us out.”

  “I’m not leaving.”

  “Someone needs to protect the delegates on the other side, Christopher, and get them out of the city.”

  “I ain’t leaving you here.”

  “I’m already infected,” Jacob said. He put a hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “Go.”

  Christopher didn’t say anything. He went back to the barricade, eyes straight ahead. Jacob crouched down behind the banister to the left of the stairs and looked out over the entrance hall.

  Union cannons had blown a six-foot-wide hole to the left of the double doors. Dead Kukluxers were scattered throughout the antechamber, their blood-soaked robes ragged and torn to shreds. Potestas tried to rally his troops in the center of the room. Jacob returned to the barricade and took up a position next to Christopher and Montegut. Jacob felt the fever creeping in and taking hold of his body.

  “Start sending off the delegates,” Jacob said to Christopher. “I’ll stay and cover your retreat.”

  The afflicted had gained ground in the last few minutes since Jacob had left to deal with his escape plan. The fire on the stairs had gone out and most of the delegates had exhausted their ammunition. Jacob reloaded his revolver and handed it to Montegut.

  Jacob drew his sword. If an afflicted came close enough, he struck its head from its shoulders, or cleaved its head in twain. They didn’t stop coming, though. Soon, the bodies of the afflicted piled in front of the barricade. They kept on, crawling over their fallen comrades.

  Soon, it was only Montegut and Jacob on the barricades. Jacob stripped off his gunbelt and handed it to the other man, saying, “Don’t got much ammo, but you’ll need it.”

  “Mr. Smith,” Montegut said, taking the gunbelt and strapping it on, “thank you.”

  “Just go.”

  Montegut left Jacob on the barricade. He stood and struck down another afflicted, blood spraying onto his coat and shirt. Another took its place. There were just too damned many of them.

  Jacob retreated from the barricade as they began to overrun him. The creatures swarmed down the landing, falling over each other as they followed after him in a tide of death.

  “Templar,” Potestas roared from the hall below. Jacob stopped and peered over the railing for a moment. Potestas, the damned cause of this all, stood down there at the foot of the stairs.

  “Baird take care of your men yet?” Jacob hollered back.

  “Baird may have stopped me for the time being, but I can feel the fever in you, Templar. It’ll do for you, just wait and see.”

  “Go to hell,” Jacob yelled.

  He ran down the hall to the conference room exit. He looked inside. Only Christopher and two of the delegates remained.

  Another cannonball rocked the building, almost knocking Jacob from his feet.

  “Jacob,” Christopher hollered, “come with us.”

  “Potestas is coming. I need to draw him off.”

  Christopher just looked at him. “It’s been good,” he said after a moment.

  “Yup. Sure has,” Jacob said, stepping back into the hallway and closing the door. “Sure has,” he said to himself, jogging down the hall away from the landing. He needed to distact the Kukluxers long enough for the others to escape. He stopped at the stairs and waited for Potestas and the afflicted horde.

  Potestas came around the corner, his great coat sweeping out behind him. Blood and gore slicked his cavalry saber. “It’s only a matter of time,” Potestas said, marching down the hallway at the front of his army. “You can run, Jacob, but that’s only gonna make it work a sight faster.”

  “Maybe,” Jacob said. “Probably.” He ran up the stairs to the third floor, taking the steps two at a time. The upstairs was dark. The hallway stretched on.

  What little light there was came in through the doors on his right, filtering in through the office windows. Jacob ran down the hall looking into the open offices, searching for a way out.

  Nothing.

  Ahead, the hall turned off to the left. Potestas and the afflicted army followed close behind. Jacob took the turn. About fifteen feet down on his right, a sign hung on a door: “Roof Access.” He tried the door. It was locked. Seemed like every damn door he ran across had been locked.

  He stepped back, hoping he had enough strength in his fevered body to bust it ope
n. He threw his shoulder into it. The door budged a little. He slammed into it again. The door flung open. He ran inside, massaging his shoulder.

  The room beyond was a small utility closet. Racks of cleaners and rags stood in one corner. A ladder on the far side of the room led up to a wooden access door. He climbed the rungs, opened the hatch, and crawled onto the roof.

  The sun beat down on him and heat came up from the tar, making the sweats worse. Jacob, groaning, climbed to his feet and looked around.

  “Smith,” Potestas shouted from below. “I ain’t some hunting dog. I grow weary of this pursuit.”

  Coughing, Jacob ran across the tar-covered roof to the alley-ward side. He stood on the ledge and looked down. Christopher and Charlotte stood down in the alley, looking back at the wooden slide Jacob had made. He saw only delegates with them.

  “Why ain’t you left yet?” Jacob asked quietly. “Damn people.”

  “Jacob Smith,” Potestas roared from behind. Actual force came with the shout, like a cold wind on a January night, pushing roughly into Jacob’s back. He reached down to the ledge and steadied himself.

  Below him, down in the alley, his friends’ heads snapped up. Charlotte waved at him, her arm raised over her head. Jacob waved a small wave back.

  “Turn and fight me, Templar.”

  Jacob sighed. He turned and drew his sword. Potestas stood alone at the other end of the rooftop, his coat flapping in the breeze. Behind him, the haze of smoke drifted over the city. Turned out, the ladder had been Jacob’s saving grace. Afflicted, apparently, had to take the stairs.

  The Teeth hung from Potestas’s neck. They glint wetly in the sunlight, like the slather covered fangs of some ravenous beast. Jacob’s eyes were drawn to the bloody smudge of warpaint streaked on Potestas’s forehead. It seemed to throb with unearthly power. What was it? Where had it come from? And why was a Kukluxer even wearing warpaint?

  The gunfire had slowed from its rapid tempo and almost completely quieted. No matter who had won the battle, the battle had ended. Well, it had for everyone else.

  “Alright, Potestas,” Jacob said, walking over to the thin blonde man. He stopped ten feet away. “Let’s tussle.” He tried to puff his chest out, but it didn’t work too well. He just ended up coughing. Truth be told, he’d exhausted himself. The last three days, with only bits of chow here and there and hardly any sleep, was taking its toll.

  The fever didn’t help things much, neither.

  “You look,” said Potestas, advancing slowly on Jacob, “like something I once stepped in in a pasture, Smith.”

  “Do I now?” Jacob asked. “Well, looks can deceive, can’t they?” He coughed again, spitting to the side. “Oh God, I do feel ragged,” he said, a weak smile on his face.

  “I can just kill you now,” Potestas said, “and take the pain away.”

  “Nah,” Jacob said, beckoning the Kukluxer with a wave of his sword’s tip. “Let’s have at it now. Put some heart into it this time.”

  Potestas made a slapping gesture with his hand, slapping downward to the roof. A wave of force, cold as the grave, slammed into Jacob’s head and shoulders with the strength of an artillery round, flattening him to his chest.

  Jacob grunted and called out in pain from the roof. He rolled over on his side, coughing.

  “That weren’t fair, you sumbitch,” he yelled. “You wanna kill me? Fine. But, leave off them tricks of yours if you want it to be a real duel.” He coughed again. “Jesus,” he yelled, rolling over onto his chest and pushing himself up.

  “Fine,” Potestas said. “Fine, fine, fine. We’ll do this your mortal way. No powers.”

  “Your word?”

  “My word of honor.”

  “Let’s go then.”

  Potestas roared and charged. Powers or no, he was still in as good a shape as Jacob. On top of that, a cursed fever hadn’t attacked his body. Potestas drew closer. Jacob stood his ground. Potestas raised his sword when he was five feet away. He struck out with his cavalry saber, aiming for Jacob’s head.

  Jacob ducked the swing easily and sidestepped. He kicked out with his left leg, hitting Potestas in the side of the knee. Potestas lost his footing and went sprawling. He sprang to his feet in a flash, though, before Jacob could take advantage of his prone state.

  Jacob advanced on him, striking mid-chest with his sword. Potestas parried and delivered a right cross to Jacob’s face, knocking the Templar back a few steps.

  Potestas’s punch made a nag’s kick seem weak. Jacob shook it off and recovered his stance. Jacob kept the blade of his sword up in the same defensive posture Henry Bennett had taught him when he’d first become a Templar.

  Potestas went on the offensive, but Jacob blocked all his swings and stabs. Jacob countered every strike the other man made. More importantly, though, he studied Potestas.

  Potestas didn’t have a strong fighting form. He depended on his supernatural strength and endurance. Jacob had to admit that, under normal circumstances, that tact worked just fine for Potestas. That man could probably fight all day long and cleave through most crowds like they were lard. But he lacked finesse.

  Jacob deflected a strike and spun around his opponent. He smacked Potestas in the back of his head with his chainmailed forearm, sending him to his knees. Jacob was too close for any forceful strike, though.

  Instead of backing away for a better swing, he kicked Potestas in the back and knocked him flat. Jacob struck at him with an overhead, two-handed blow, but Potestas rolled out of the way and leapt back to his feet.

  Jacob moved back from Potestas. The fever had reached his legs now. They were slowing.

  Potestas charged him again. Jacob backpedaled. Time seemed to slow as Jacob stared at the red smudge on Potestas’s forhead. The ritual they’d performed on Father Jacques? Maybe it was something similar?

  Jacob’s heels hit the edge of the roof. He brought his broadsword up and moved forward to meet Potestas.

  Their swords clashed. Goddamn the man had some strength. Jacob grit his teeth, fighting against the Kukluxer bearing down on him. Their eyes locked.

  “I see that bloody smudge,” Jacob said, struggling to stay upright. “What ya got inside you?”

  “Never you mind, race-traitor,” Potestas said, shoving him back with the strength of ten men. Jacob’s heels slid back on the tarring. He put the last of his strength, coiled it up from his feet and into his legs, into one final go.

  He drove Potestas back a few steps and knocked him off-balance. Potestas stumbled backwards. Jacob dropped his guard and made a lunging grab for Mackandal’s teeth. Potestas bent backwards out of reach, laughing out loud as Jacob’s fingers barely brushed the artifact.

  “Not close enough, Templar. This little game, I think, is finished.”

  He brushed his hand to the side. That same force from nowhere struck Jacob’s sword, knocking it aside and almost from his grasp. Jacob tried to raise it as Potestas advanced.

  Potestas’s hand shot out and gripped him by the throat. Jacob struggled to strike with his sword, but he couldn’t fight the unearthly energy. He groped with his free hand, first trying to uncoil Potestas’s hand from his throat, then reaching for the other man’s face and trying to dig a finger into his left eye.

  Potestas extended his arm, holding Jacob farther away. Potestas drove him back against the ledge, knocking him onto his back, and pushing him out and over the institute’s yard below.

  “I’d almost say it’s funny,” Potestas said as Jacob struggled to breathe, “that you died this way. But there’s not really any humor or irony in it. You’re just going to die, Jacob Smith. Then I’m going to find that nigger of yours and kill him slowly. Make him suffer. We’ll keep little Miss Gibson around for a while, though. She’s right pretty. The boys’ll enjoy her.” Potestas gave Jacob a good shake, clamping down harder on his throat. “Finally, I’m going to take these Teeth to every city in the north, then to Europe, and to the world.”

  Jacob, his vision fad
ing, looked to the side. Charlotte and Christopher stood in the alleyway still. They’d waited for him. Now they’d get to watch him die. At least he wouldn’t die alone. That would be worth noting in the annals.

  Potestas shoved him backwards, coming closer, pushing down on Jacob as he held him out over the ledge. “You, Templar, will be just the first of many deaths.”

  A shot rang out. Potestas lurched backwards, his grip slackening. The bullet had struck him in the forehead, rubbing off some of the blood-red smudge, but not breaking the skin in the process.

  Magic. It was strange.

  Jacob took the opportunity. He lunged forward with his free hand and wiped a thumb across the smudge, smearing the Kukluxer’s forehead clean. A sharp shock of power shot up his arm, numbing his hand and forearm.

  Potestas’s eyes, now a plain mud-brown, went wide.

  Jacob dropped his broadsword and kicked up his boot into Potestas’s groin. Jacob grabbed hold of Potestas’s left shoulder with one hand and the Teeth with the other. He kicked him in the crotch again, pulling backwards and flipping him over the ledge.

  Jacob didn’t watch Potestas fall, though he dearly wanted to. He only heard him land. That was satisfaction enough, though.

  The Cyclops landed on the fence separating the alley and the institute’s grounds. It sounded like a tree trunk snapping in a hard wind. Jacob rolled over and looked down on the corpse. The fall into the fence had bent Potestas backwards. Blood already pooled below the body.

  Jacob pushed back from the ledge and stood. He looked down at the artifact in his hand. He could feel the knowledge of all the afflicted in New Orleans. He could go down into them if he wanted, walk in their shambling footsteps. He knew this somehow.

  That knowledge intoxicated. It was like a moldy black spot of power had grown on Jacob’s soul. He heard whispers somewhere in the back of his brain, whispers of power. He ignored the coaxing from the artifact.

  Sighing, he went and picked up his broadsword. He hefted its weight in his hand, and walked back over to the edge of the building.