The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866
And Other Jacob Smith Stories
By
Craig Gabrysch
New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866
And Other Jacob Smith Stories
Copyright © 2012 by Craig Gabrysch
Published by Twit Publishing LLC
The author retains copyright to the works of fiction contained herein.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address: Twit Publishing PO Box 720453 Dallas, Texas 75206.
The following works are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For Jill, my loving fiancee. You didn't want Jacob Smith dead, so now he ain't.
Publisher's Note
The first three stories of this collection were originally printed elsewhere. The text has been updated slightly, though the plot has not.
Table of Contents
Hillbilly Hell
The Renaissance of Jacob Smith
Grace
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866
Afterword
Hillbilly Hell
Jacob Smith and Henry Bennett stood on the top deck of the steamboat Lackadaisical Belle passing a bottle of rotgut whiskey between them. They were Knights Templar. They had work to do.
Chattanooga slowly came into view as they rounded the bend of the Tennessee River. The skyline looked sparse.
“Mind telling me why we’re headed for Chattanooga, Mr. Bennett?”
“Not at all, Jacob. We’re here to recover a stolen book,” Henry said, taking a drink of the whiskey. He handed the bottle to Jacob.
“Must be one precious book to send us all the way down here.”
“It is.”
“Oh.” Jacob took a big swallow of whiskey and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He offered the bottle back to Henry. “How did the forces of Hell manage to lay hands on this book, anyways?”
“A Confederate spy just weeks before the war’s end. He absconded with it from Miskatonic University in Arkham, Massachusetts. I positively shudder when I consider what the Confederates would have been capable of if they’d only had the opportunity to unleash its power. Fortunately for the Union, it was stolen en route to General Lee by a rogue Confederate general named William Bedford Forrest. Unfortunately, it has yet to be recovered. Nevertheless, the is certain the book resides in this region of the country, though it is uncertain as to the exact location. It will be soon, though.” Henry looked down at the bottle and the last finger of liquor for a long moment. Before Jacob could protest, Henry hurled it into the Tennessee River. The older man turned and looked at Jacob, a crooked smile on his lips.
“We’re working. I’ll buy you a bottle of the finest whiskey in Chattanooga when this is finished. And, believe me, you’ll need it. Now, grab your gear. We’ll be docking soon, and we still need to find a place to lay our weary heads.”
They managed to find a room in one of Chattanooga’s only buildings of whole construction. Years before, the Confederates had lain siege to Union-occupied Chattanooga for the winter. The battle had resulted in an important victory for the Union, but not before the besieged armies tore down the riverside city for firewood and fortifications. Luckily, their hotel had been constructed primarily of brick.
A few days before he’d left Chicago, the order’s armory had issued Jacob his full armor and a new shooting iron. The armor looked to be straight out of the Hundred Years’ War, with a shirt of chainmail and a solid breastplate, but was as new and polished as if it had been made yesterday. Which it had.
The shooting iron was a custom made revolver. It held bullets with no need for percussion caps or paper cartridges, and the cylinder swung out on a sturdy hinge. During the war, Jacob had seen guns like this, but had never been able to afford one. He’d spent the trip down the river getting a handle on maintenance and reloading. It wasn’t much different from his previous revolver, but the mechanics of physically loading only one item into the cylinder was paradoxically confounding Jacob as he has sat on the edge of his bed fiddling with it.
Henry entered as Jacob swung the revolver’s chamber back into place for the hundredth time.
“Hello, hello, young Mr. Smith,” he said, shutting the door. “Col. Winifred’s telegram was waiting for us at the agent. He’s given us our objective.”
Jacob grunted as he reopened the cylinder and emptied the bullets into his hand.
“I know I didn’t ask many questions on the trip down,” Jacob said, slowly feeding bullets back into the chambers. “But, what book is it exactly that we’re looking for?”
“It’s the Necronomicon.”
“Necro-what?”
“Nomicon. The Book of the Names of the Dead. Supposedly it was written in human blood by some mad Arab named Abdul Alhazred and bound in human skin. Supposedly. Whomever the author, it is, in fact, a tome of unspeakable power and evil. And we’re going to take it back from the forces of Hell. As an aside, Jacob, let me tell you of the importance of loading only five shells in that revolver. The hammer is a bit fidgety and lends to misfires if the pistol is not kept on an empty chamber.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Jacob removed one of the shells from the cylinder. He closed it.
“Are you confident on reloading with the newer cartridges?”
“Yes sir. I figure they’re a lot faster than the old ball and cap, even if I fumble around with them like I’ve got rheumy fingers.”
“Good show, then. Our destination is a day’s ride away, so this is your last opportunity to practice with the new weaponry. Have you sharpened your sword already?”
“Yes sir.”
“Excellent. We should arrive at the DuBose plantation shortly before nightfall if we leave within the hour.”
“DuBose? William DuBose?” Jacob asked.
“Yes. Why?”
“Recognize the name, is all. I heard stories of him during the war. He was a tough man, hard on his soldiers. Worse than Quantrill. Executed Union prisoners. Left their heads on stakes. Hung an entire Negro battalion he’d captured, and so on. Had some interesting beliefs, too, if the stories are true.”
“Yes. From your description, he’s certainly the man we seek. How quickly can you don your armor?”
“Ten minutes if you squire. We’re riding in our full getup?”
“The arrival of two Knights Templar in shining armor loses a certain something if they both stop outside your front gate to put everything on.”
Jacob holstered his pistol in the gun-belt that hung at the head of his rented bed.
The ride was long and chafing. True, the war had accustomed Jacob to long rides in poor conditions, but not to ones in poor conditions while wearing a suit of chain mail and a steel breastplate. The two Templars sounded like an entire company of soldiers to Jacob’s ears, even while riding without speaking.
Henry broke the silence. “I believe we’ve been dancing around the subject, Jacob, but we’ve never truly touched on the heart of the matter,” Henry said. “Why did you join up with the Templars?”
“The war.”
“Did the gentleman grace the winning or losing side?�
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“Winning, I guess.” After a moment he went on. “I was a Jayhawker. Left the farm to join up and fight Bushwhackers in Missouri.”
“Volunteer or draft?”
“Volunteer.”
“How old?”
“Seventeen.”
“What about your parents?” Henry asked. “Did they care?”
“Both dead. Pa died in Bleeding Kansas, back in ‘56.”
“Your mother?”
“Kicked in the head by our horse. Died just before I left.”
“For how long did you serve?”
“Just over three years.”
“A lot of blood on your hands, then.”
“Yes sir,” Jacob said, taking his eyes off the bend ahead for a brief moment. “And what’s your story? What brought you to the order, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“Not at all. The usual story for Templars. I’m English, as you may have surmised. I was a gentleman of sorts back in the homeland, so I went off to the Far East and to the Opium War. I fought in China for two long years. But, all that ravaging and shedding of the sick man’s blood finally wore its way on me. Realized I didn’t have much stomach for killing peasants for the Queen and Tea Company. So I ran. Rather, in interest of exactness, I sailed away on the first ship out of Hong Kong that would take me aboard. Couldn’t give two shakes where I was headed, so long as it wasn’t for England. Not that I don’t love my Queen Victoria. I am, after all, a fine Englishman of excellent breeding and disposition. Except for the deserting part, of course.
“I ended up in California. Stayed there for awhile, until I realized that all the good land was owned by a handful of cattle baron families. So I shipped off for lands further afield. Texas, this time. Still Mexican controlled, but with some white settlers that actually spoke English.
“Then independence broke out there, and war found me again. I was offered land by Mr. Stephen Austin and Mr. Samuel Houston if I’d fight and help gain sovereignty for the good white folk. And before you ask, no, I was not at the Alamo. Most everyone there died. I did know a number of men involved in the fight, though. God rest their souls, even if each death was a sad waste.
“I stayed and helped them fight for slavery, though I didn’t realize it at the time. And, to put your conscience at ease, I never owned slaves. One night, just after the Battle of San Jacinto, the battle at which Sam Houston managed a coup by capturing Santa Anna, I watched an officer whipping his supposed property and realized of what I had been part. The next morning I deserted the Texas Army and left for the border.”
“Wait. You mean to tell me that you ran to Mexico of all places? Why not the States?”
“Not entirely certain, facts be told. It just seemed like a smashing idea at the time,” Henry said, shrugging. “But, good idea or bad, I fell into a monastery. Had the same vision all Templars seem to have, with someone we murdered in war telling us how we could atone. It was a Chinese boy from years back. And now, some couple decades later, here I am riding down a backwoods trail to a plantation with you.”
“That’s definitely one hell of a story. Mine’s more or less the same, but with less years in it and no desertion.”
“I mean no offense by asking, but who did you see?”
“I saw a girl I shot in Missouri. She was young. I snatched the life out of her without even thinking before I pulled the trigger. Just saw a movement, aimed, fired. She forgave me in the vision. Gave me my mission. Said I’d gain absolution that way, so that God would forgive me, too.”
He turned in the saddle towards Jacob. “It never gets easier, by the way. Never think it will. But the self-loathing becomes more bearable with time. Just remember that you’re finally in the good fight. And never forget that neither she nor God would have given you a chance at absolution if you were beyond forgiveness. People like that are the people we hunt. Things like that are what we hunt. They have no remorse. Our guilt separates us from them. Keep it in mind as we ride into Hell itself.”
“Thought we were riding to a plantation, sir?” Jacob asked, a slight smile curling on his lips.
“A figure of speech. Just a figure of speech.”
Evening fell as the two Templars turned down the path towards the DuBose plantation. Oak trees towered over the path, filtering the weak light coming from the west.
“They haven’t grated this road in years,” Jacob said as his horse avoided a particularly troublesome looking spot.
“Probably had too many people fighting and dying over it to worry about land-grating,” Henry replied. Jacob just wiped sweat from his brow.“Besides,” Henry continued, “the man of the house was away at war.”
“Tell that excuse to my horse when I put him down for a broken ankle.”
Ahead, a wrought-iron gate guarded the plantation. It had been left open. “Kadath Estates” was sculpted into a metal arch over the pathway.
“Better than ‘Abandon Hope,’” Henry muttered as the pair rode onto the grounds, pushing through the overgrown oak limbs that hung over the path.
On the other side of the gate, the plantation grounds spread out before them. The once fine lawn looked like a field left fallow, the grass having grown several feet tall.
“Man of the house, away or not,” Jacob said as they rode onto the decrepit plantation, “this ain’t no way to keep your homestead.”
“I agree. Something about this place is most unsettling. Keep your shooting hand free and your wits about you.”
Ancient, dying oaks lined the central road leading toward the mansion. Withered and tired leaves hung from the sickened trees. The mansion across the lawn was a sprawling six-pillared Georgian-style building that, in better times, would have been a whitewashed wonder. Now it was as sad as the trees, its paint yellow and peeling. A carriage road ran past the front door in a circle around a central fountain and continued back towards the gate. Mud and leaves choked the fountain; the brackish water in it now only good for spawning mosquitoes.
The pair rode down the path, Henry ahead and to the left. Someone, or something, moved in the trees on either side of the Templars. Neither man glanced away from the road. They circled the fountain and drew their horses to a halt in front of the mansion. They both shifted in their saddles. Jacob looked at Henry expectantly.
Henry cleared his throat and cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “My name is Henry Bennett of the Knights Templar. I’ve come for the book which you stole, DuBose.” Henry put his hands down and looked at Jacob. Neither men detected movement within the house. Jacob shrugged. Henry drew his pistol and aimed it into the air. “DuBose, you can’t ignore us.” He pulled the trigger. The pistol shot’s report echoed back in the stillness. “We are honor bound to hunt you till the end of your days.”
Still nothing.
Jacob removed his wide-brimmed hat and wiped sweat from his brow. He slicked his hair back and replaced the hat back. “Think we should go and check the place out?”
Henry sighed. “I suppose so. We have scant available courses of action at this point, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’d say so.”
“Well, I suspect that we should get to it then,” Henry said as he dismounted. He left his shield strapped to the horse, taking only his sword and pistol. Jacob followed suit. They climbed the front stairs cautiously, taking each one with care. The steps creaked in protest as their boot heels knocked heavily against the wood. They approached the door. The lock clicked.
The door creaked open. A tall, emaciated man with greying skin, a dark mustache, and white hair stood in the doorway. He wore the well-pressed, thoroughly cleaned suit of a gentleman landowner, but reeked of grave soil and death, as if the omnipresent odor over the estate came from him. Henry and Jacob stepped back and leveled their pistols.
The man raised his hands, palm facing the Templars.
“Are you Mr. William DuBose?” Henry asked.
“Yes, I certainly am. I presume that you, sir, are Mr. Henry Bennett?”
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nbsp; “Your presumption would be correct.”
“And who is this?” DuBose asked, gesturing towards Jacob with a flip of his wrist.
“Jacob Smith,” Jacob said.
“We’ve come for the book.”
“Pray tell, Mr. Bennett, which book would that be?”
“The Necronomicon.”
“Oh,” DuBose replied, a tight-lipped smile on his face. “That book. So, you intend to steal it?”
“No. Our intention is to return it to its rightful owners.”
“My family is, far as I am concerned, the rightful owners. It was removed from our possession some fifty years ago and placed in a Yankee university. Have you come to return it to them?”
“No, not precisely.”
“Then you do intend to steal it from me? And for someone other than those Yankee dogs?”
Henry cocked his revolver. DuBose raised his hands a little higher.
“And shoot an unarmed gentleman in the process?”
“If slaying an enemy of the Lord could possibly be considered shooting an unarmed gentleman, then yes.”
“Still,” DuBose said, his lips widening to a yellow-tooth-filled grin, “that does seem a mite un-Christian. I propose a more honorable solution to you two good sirs of the knightly order. I challenge you to a duel.”
“When’ll this duel be happening?” Jacob asked.
“Just after sunset, of course. I would not dare consider forcing you off my land, only to have you return in the morning. It would not be gentlemanly. And, with the current circumstances as they stand, I hope you understand if I do not offer my hospitality this evening. That would just be dimwitted. So we duel after nightfall.”
“What do you think, Jacob?” Henry asked, revolver still cocked.
“I think we either trust the word of this man or gun him down. Neither sounds like a good idea, but at least we don’t shoot an unarmed man if we do the first.”
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