Gunsmoke Blues

by Balogun Ojetade

  All those factors elevated the risk.

  The Pack would have to hunt close to populated areas, but away from the busiest hot spots. The Axeman had discussed it with Mary that afternoon. They had decided to hunt as a single pack, and, as luck would have it, the night of the full moon coincided with the New Year’s Eve celebrations. There would be no shortage of revelers on the streets of New Orleans tonight, and even a hundred armed constables couldn’t possibly hope to protect a city of nearly 300,000 on the busiest night of the year.

  The Axeman had chosen home ground for their first attack—Seventh Ward.

  The area drew a local crowd to its taverns, restaurants and cabarets, many of them familiar haunts of the Templeton Brothers, and the nearby parks made a perfect getaway route. ST. Bernard Avenue was wide and open, and as long as they kept away from the major railway and omnibus stations they would be safe.

  And there would be people in abundance, like lambs waiting to be slaughtered.

  The Templeton Brothers set out from their lair just after eleven o’clock. There was no point going earlier, as thick clouds lay heavy over the darkened city. It was predicted that it would clear in time for the turning of the year at midnight, though.

  What wasn’t being predicted was the bloodbath that would follow.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  St. Bernard Avenue, Seventh Ward, New Year’s Eve, 11:45pm, full moon.

  Anton heard the noise before the others. Despite the racket inside the tavern, sudden shouts intruded from the street outside, even over the loud partying within. The shouting didn’t sound like people having fun. It sounded like violence. He grabbed hold of Smokey’s sleeve. “What’s that noise?”

  “Nothing,” Smokey said. “It’s nearly midnight. Some people are starting the New Year early.”

  “It sounds like fighting.”

  “I can hear it too,” Ava said.

  Smokey cocked his head to one side and listened harder. “Let’s go outside and see.”

  “No,” Anton said. “If there’s trouble we have to stay here and protect Garcelle. It’s why we came.” He started to push his way through the crowd toward her. Ava and Smokey followed.

  Close up, Anton hardly recognized his sister. Garcelle wore a low-cut black dress and black leather corset that revealed far more than he wanted to see.

  Garcelle’s eyes grew enormous, outlined in fierce black liner, her heavily enhanced lashes flicking dangerously up and down as her anger boiled over when she saw him. “Oh my God,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

  “Is that your little brother?” one of her friends asked. The other two giggled loudly.

  “Did you follow us?” Garcelle asked, scowling. “Have you gone mad? I am not speaking to you ever again.”

  “There’s no time for an argument,” Anton said. “Something’s happening. That’s why we’re here. There’s some kind of trouble.”

  “What trouble?” Garcelle said, looking around.

  People were starting to leave the tavern, heading outside to watch the fireworks and sing Auld Lang Syne to usher in the New Year at the stroke of midnight.

  “The only kind of trouble I see is the trouble you’re in,” Garcelle said. “Don’t think I’m going to let you off lightly for this. You, or your crazy friend,” she added, glaring at Smokey.

  But Smokey had his attention elsewhere. “Shh,” he said. “Listen.”

  “To what?” Garcelle said, but they could all hear it—shouts and screams from outside and the tinkle of glass being broken. “What the hell’s that?” she asked.

  As if in response to her question, the window of the pub shattered into a thousand pieces as a rock smashed through it from the street.

  One of Garcelle’s friends screamed.

  A young man wearing a black homburg, his face covered by a black-and-white checkered mask, jumped up and clambered through the empty window frame into the pub. In his right hand he gripped a thick wooden cudgel.

  Garcelle screamed.

  Anton moved instinctively in front of the others. The man with the mask turned to face him and advanced in his direction, picking his way between the empty chairs and tables of the pub. He paused to kick a table over, spilling drinks and glasses to the floor with a crash. He lashed out at another table, sweeping bottles away with his cudgel. Beyond him, in the street outside, people rushed past in all directions.

  The man came close to Anton, slapping the thick end of the club against his open palm. The mask largely hid his face, but it was obvious that he was white with blond hair shaved close to his skin. He wore black trousers, a white shirt, black boots and a black wool suit jacket.

  Garcelle and the girls pressed themselves against the back wall of the room.

  The masked man stood with his feet apart, his hand gripping the cudgel firmly. His eyes met Anton’s. “Time to get this party started,” he shouted.

  Anton watched the movement of the cudgel with horror, cringing every time it slapped against the man’s palm. He had nothing to defend himself with. He looked around for something that he could use. All he could see were chairs and tables. He moved a chair between himself and the masked man. Laughing, the man kicked it away and onto its side. He stepped into the space where the chair had been, lifting the club to strike.

  Smokey stepped in front of him. “Hey,” he said to the masked man. “Leave them alone. They’re just girls.”

  “He’s not,” the young man said, pointing the club at Anton. “You disease-carrying niggers don’t belong in New Orleans.”

  Smokey grabbed an empty beer bottle from a nearby table and smashed its end against the back of a chair. He held the jagged glass of the makeshift weapon out in front of him, its teeth pointing at the masked man. “Naw,” he said. “You’re the one who don’t belong here. Now get out.”

  The masked man sneered at them and lifted the cudgel higher. He spat on the floor then turned and ran, jumping back through the broken window he had come through.

  Anton’s hands were shaking. “This is insane,” he said. “We have to get away from here.”

  “We can’t go outside,” Garcelle said. “Not with people like that out there.”

  “But we can’t stop them coming in, either,” Anton said.

  Garcelle looked around the now-empty tavern. “There must be another way out.”

  Ava took hold of Anton’s arm. “Follow me. I saw another exit near the back.” She set off quickly, the others following closely behind.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  St. Bernard Avenue, Seventh Ward, New Year’s Eve, 11:48pm, full moon.

  Dabney was in the thick of it. There had been isolated incidents all evening, and constables had already made several arrests. His instructions were to crack down hard to prevent an escalation from disorder to full-blown riot. At first the strategy worked, but as midnight drew nearer, more and more white teens flooded onto the streets, many of them clearly looking for trouble.

  The young men had come prepared for violence, their faces hidden behind scarves or masks, hats pulled low; and they carried weapons, too. They chanted racist slogans as they marched along—“You will not replace us,” “Blood and soil,” and even “Niggers, go home to Niggerville!”—and quickly seized the opportunity to progress to physical violence.

  With so many people on the streets, the situation rapidly descended into chaos. Dozens of people filled the streets, rocking carriages and steam cars or climbing atop them, picking up bricks and bottles to hurl at the constables and smash the windows of shops as they went.

  A voice over a constable’s megaphone tried to calm the crowds, but it was already too late for that.

  One hooded teen stood on top of a carriage just a short distance away, throwing a small barrage of stones in Dabney’s direction. “Come and get some nigger!” he jeered.

  Dabney looked around to make sure no one was looking then flicked his unlit cigar into the face of the horse hitched to the carriage, causing the big beast to skip
backward. The carriage jerked and the teen fell off, landing on his buttocks with a dull thud.

  “Ow, my balls!” the teen wailed, clutching his groin as he fell over onto his side.

  One corner of Dabney’s mouth crept upward into a sly smile.

  Among the rioters, ordinary people were caught up in the trouble, fleeing in panic and adding to the overall confusion. A steam car had tried to wind its way through the melee, but had finally got stuck, coming to a halt as people pressed in from all sides. The driver and passengers cowered inside as a group of masked men surrounded them, rocking the car from side to side, laughing and jeering. Dabney locked eyes briefly with the driver of the car. It wasn’t hard to read the look of terror on his face.

  It was time to reclaim the streets.

  Dabney and his team fanned out across the street in a line, Ida next to him where he could keep a close watch on her. He and the constables in his squad wore full riot gear, provided by the Pinkerton Detective Agency for the Black Dispatches and any constables working with them—a brilliant public relations move by Allan Pinkerton. The gear was comprised of a thick leather vest that stopped mid-thigh, a hard leather helmet, circular iron shields, and maces that crackled with light blue electricity. Formidable, indeed, but Dabney held no illusion that their protective gear made them invulnerable. He looked around at his colleagues and wondered how many of them would end up in the hospital by the night’s end.

  Not Ida, though, he thought. Please, not Ida. She was as tough as constable or soldier he’d known, but something was wrong with her. She stood with hunched shoulders, as if in pain. Bright lights seemed to daze her. And her eyes looked more yellow than ever, glowing like candles in the dark. He’d asked her again to go home, but she’d stubbornly refused.

  He gave the constables the command to advance. A rain of stones and other missiles fell down on them, clattering against their shields and helmets. They would need to act soon, or the situation would spiral out of control entirely. One hooded man ran toward them with a beer bottle and let it fly through the air. The bottle shattered against Dabney’s shield.

  It was enough.

  The constables began to pound their batons against their shields. The shields also crackled with electricity then. They built up a rhythmic pulse that carried its own momentum, becoming faster and louder until it swept aside even the noise of the riot. The rhythm pounded in Dabney’s head, pushing away all fear, and leaving him with a sense of focus.

  “Go!” Dabney shouted.

  He and the constables marched forward eagerly, shields held like a wall of writhing lightning before them. The rioters fell back like a wave, and Dabney began to run at them, his hand wrapped tightly around his crackling and humming baton.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  North Villere Street, Seventh Ward, New Year’s Eve, 11:55pm, full moon.

  Robert stood with Virginia on the street, enjoying the feel of the cool night air. They were some distance from St. Bernard Avenue, but with his sharp eyesight he could make out the familiar form of the big burlesque cabarets, their floodlit facades picked out clearly against the darkened sky.

  “Look,” Virginia said. She pointed toward a dirigible hovering above the Mississippi River. Baby New Year—a honey-brown baby boy wearing a diaper, top hat and a sash that said “Happy New Year” across his chest—was painted on the airship’s side.

  Enormous crowds had gathered along the banks of the Mississippi, waiting for midnight and the fireworks that would be released from barges stationed along the river.

  But Robert and Virginia had not come for fireworks, or for the turn of the year. They had come to hunt. “When will the moon come out?” Robert asked.

  “Soon,” Virginia said. “Very soon.”

  Robert raised his gaze high above the heads of the crowd, above the airship, up toward the sky where clouds hid the moon. The hour had almost arrived, and the sky was still overcast, but it was thinning rapidly. It would not be long.

  Robert was glad they had stayed close to the river. Some kind of trouble was unfolding further west, judging from the number of constables that had started to converge on the area, and Robert wanted to stay well away from trouble. “What do you think is happening?” he asked Virginia.

  Virginia shrugged. “Nothing for us to worry about.”

  A cart carrying a dozen constables sped past. A fire cart followed. But the distraction was quickly replaced by the voice of the people joining together to count down toward midnight.

  “…three, two, one, Happy New Year!” the crowd shouted.

  The first fireworks rose into the sky, exploding in a flurry of sparks above New Orleans. All around, the crowd cheered.

  Robert looked on impatiently. The fireworks did nothing to satisfy him. He had not tasted human flesh for a full month. His whole body hungered for it. If the moon did not appear soon, he would not be able to restrain himself. He would be forced to kill… in human form.

  Virginia seemed to sense his frustration. She wrapped her ebony hand around Robert’s fingers. “Relax, Robert. There’s no hurry. Just stay calm and enjoy the show.”

  But Robert couldn’t concentrate on the fireworks. He looked, instead, at the crowds that lined the river bank. People by the hundreds stood nearby. He could taste their flesh on his lips, smell their blood as his nostrils flared, hear the wild pumping of their hearts within their frail bodies.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  St. Bernard Avenue, Seventh Ward, New Year morning, full moon.

  Ida couldn’t have chosen a worse night to return to work, but that gave her all the more reason to see it through. She huddled behind her riot shield, facing the crowd, glad, for once, of her shortness, which made her less of a target for bottles and other missiles. The aching in her limbs had returned as badly as before. Her light sensitivity was worsening too, and the bright artificial lights from the shops’ windows almost stunned her. Thick yellow mucus filled her eyes and she had to keep wiping it away with her thumb.

  “I am not a monster,” she whispered to herself.

  Dabney had told her to go home twice, but that had only made her more determined to stay. Her family needed her, yellow-eye sickness or not. Dabney, Wilguens and her father—they were her family now. She would not let them down, not like her father had let her down.

  Hunched over to protect herself from the blinding lights all round, she stood her ground, waiting for the order to charge, and when it came, she marched forward with her squad.

  “Keep close to me,” Dabney said.

  The front line of rioters broke and scattered as the constables charged, and Ida followed Dabney to the stranded steam car, looking to rescue its trapped passengers as her first objective. There were four people inside including the driver—two men and two women—and they were clearly terrified. Dabney reached the car ahead of her and banged on the windscreen. “Unlock the doors!” he called to the driver, but the man kept the car firmly sealed.

  The protesters had fallen back as the constables charged, but out of the crowd stepped more teens, hurling stones, bottles and glasses at the constables’ line.

  “Get out of the car!” Ida shouted, banging on the car door, but the occupants seemed too scared to move. She and the constables raised their shields to block the hail of missiles from the rioters, but several hit home, striking unprotected limbs and shoulders.

  A colleague next to her cried out as a red gash opened across his shoulder.

  The constable staggered away from the front line, blood dripping from his fingertips.

  Looters were pouring out of shops, leaving with goods tucked under their arms. The pavements were strewn with the detritus of broken glass and stones. The situation was deteriorating further and the constables dropped back under a sustained hail of missiles.

  Dabney and the constables regrouped in a line and prepared to charge a second time. Ida took up her place in the formation and readied herself for another assault. For a second time the street quivered to the so
und of electrically-charged maces against electrically charged iron shields.

  She ran forward again toward the car.

  A group of masked young men stood in her path, their faces shadowed by the brims of their hats, clutching bottles and makeshift weapons in their hands. They put up a show of defiance as Ida and the others ran at them, but quickly turned and fled like rats.

  Dabney reached the besieged car before Ida and pushed away the last stragglers with his shield. The young men screamed as a stunning jolt of electricity shot through them. He gave one of the teens a glancing blow with his mace as he went. The force from the electric shock caused the young man to stiffen then fall to the ground in a daze.

  Again, Dabney banged his fist against the windscreen of the car, shouting for the driver and passengers to get out. Still, they huddled inside.

  Ida lowered her face to the driver’s window. “Open the door!” she cried, but the man inside shook his head. She swore in frustration. The rioters had been driven back, but they were grouping again to attack. The people in the car would be overrun if they didn’t get out.

  A shout from Dabney alerted her to a new danger. “Ida! Look out!”

  At the front of the surging crowd, a young man had appeared, his face wrapped in a black scarf, a bottle in his plump, pinkish-ivory hand. The bottle flared bright in the night like a candle.

  An oil bomb.

  The young man took aim at Ida and threw the bottle as hard as he could.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  Bank of the Mississippi River, Seventh Ward, New Year morning, full moon.

  Robert stood mesmerized by the woman next to him. He could smell her sweet flesh, and hear the blood that rushed through her young body. The hunger that raged within him could not be denied. Every cell of his being strained to be unleashed.