Upon seeing Henry’s leg again, Jacob felt a queasiness in his stomach. The sulfurous, sickly-sweet smell of the cooking flesh suddenly hit him, driving its way into his nostrils like a wagon train heading West. It coated the inside of his nose and mouth.
Before he could choke down the vomit, he’d doubled over and begun heaving. It had been a dry heave. Jacob suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten anything since a few bits of jerky on the ride to the plantation. The thought of food made his stomach churn again. He stood and, wiping saliva from his mouth, began searching the small hut.
“What do we have here?”
Across the firepit, next to the front door, hung Henry and Jacob’s gun-belts. On a nail next to the pistols someone had stored a hunting knife in its sheath. Their swords, still sheathed, were propped in the right hand corner. Opposite from the swords, a double-barreled shotgun leaned against the wall.
Jacob walked over and strapped the belts in a crisscross. He drew and reloaded his revolver, holstered it once more, before making sure that Henry’s was still fully loaded. Grabbing his sheathed blade, he slung it over his torso and tightened the belt. He checked to make sure he could draw the sword over his left shoulder. Satisfied, he took the hunting knife from the wall and stuffed it in the shaft of his right boot. He removed Henry’s leg from the fire and propped it against the wall. The queasiness set in again, but this time the heaves didn’t come. He picked up the shotgun and went back into the cell. Rifling through the pockets of the inbred’s corpse laying on the cell floor, he found four shotgun shells.
Better than nothing.
He stuffed them into his breast pocket and went back to the front door.
Jacob opened the door a crack and surveyed the area outside. The servant cabin they were in was set quite a ways back from the garden they’d walked through earlier on their way to the duel. Judging from where the house was in relation to him, he was on the south side of the plantation. And, considering the chanting and activity on the east side of the plantation, the ritual was somewhere in the general direction of the cemetery. He eased open the door, flattened himself against the wall of the house and crouched low till he was sure he was out of line of sight from the garden. He moved into the forest, careful to not make any more noise than he had to.
Between his wounded leg and the spiderwebs, thorns, bramble, low hanging trees, and deadfall trees, the trip through the woods was a slog. It seemed like everything tried to slow him down. Maybe it did.
The chant increased in tempo the closer Jacob got. Finally, he reached the edge of the clearing where the ritual had begun. The Templar gripped the shotgun tightly and surveyed the grounds.
The clearing was easily eighty feet across. The grass and brush had been cleared here and what remained had been stomped down by a multitude of feet. In the center was a bonfire that crackled and roared, with a tongue of flame reaching some fifteen feet into the night sky. Surrounding it were a group of figures clothed in grey and black robes. On the east side of the clearing to Jacob’s right was a stone altar that looked as black as DuBose’s soul. Flanking the altar were two demons similar to the one he and Henry fought in the cemetery.
Two. Jacob gripped his shotgun tighter. On the north edge, he could just make out a pair of wagons outfitted with prison bars. People were inside.
As he watched, one of the figures strode imperiously to the altar with a massive tome in its hands. It rested the book on the altar and took up position behind it, facing the bonfire. It drew back its hood. The figure was DuBose.
“CTHULHU SHADDUYA! ISHNIGARRAB IA! PH’NGLUI MGLW’NAFH CTHULHU R’LYEH WGAH’NAGL FHTAGN,” DuBose shouted at the crowd. The crowd responded in kind.
Jacob backed into the trees. He stayed low and circled around to the backside of the altar. “I should have just stayed at the monastery,” he whispered.
“PH’NGLUI MGLW’NAFH CTHULHU R’LYEH WGAH’NAGL FHTAGN.”
Jacob crouched and moved to the edge of the clearing. His leg throbbed in pain. He raised the shotgun and braced the stock against his right shoulder. He stood, took a deep breath, and limped into the clearing behind DuBose and his two things.
Whatever they chanted, it sure had their attention. Stopping fifteen feet from the trio, he turned to the thing on the right, aimed the shotgun at its head, and pulled the trigger. A load of buckshot erupted out of one barrel and tore a hole in the side of the creature’s head, black ichor spraying. It stumbled forward and to the right, black blood streaming down its backside, tentacles waving in the air.
Jacob didn’t wait to see the creature fall. He turned immediately to the left and hopped back a stride, favoring his good leg.
The other creature began turning to engage him.
The chant continued.
Jacob fired again, but only winged it. Pellets tore into the creature’s shoulder and shredded its face tentacles, but it only broke stride for a moment. He cracked open the shotgun and pulled the spent shell casings out, singeing his fingers. He reloaded and snapped it shut. The Templar took aim and fired again.
The creature’s face caved inward and the back of its head exploded. It toppled backwards, its body beginning to melt into greyish unidentifiable matter on the way down.
The chant grew louder, with all voices joining in.
Jacob took a hit to his right shoulder. The force of the blow sent him spinning into the air, flinging his shotgun away. Pain flared out from his shoulder as he landed facedown in the dirt. The Templar scrambled to his feet and turned to see a massive grey fist bearing down on him. Jacob flung himself to the right, regretting the decision immediately as he landed heavily on his hurt shoulder.
The first creature, its face distorted from the buckshot, connected with the empty ground. Jacob came out of the roll, almost losing his footing as his left leg nearly collapsed, and drew his sword.
With a curse, he hamstrung the thing like Henry had earlier in the evening, cutting swiftly across the exposed Achilles tendon of its left foot. He spun to the right, pivoting on his good leg, and hacked his broadsword into the right tendon. The creature crumbled.
Jacob clambered onto the creature’s back, sword held in both hands, and plunged the blade through the thing’s neck. He twisted the blade and rode the swiftly decomposing corpse to the ground. Ripping his sword free, he spun awkwardly to meet any oncoming foes.
They all kept on chanting. Jacob drew his pistol in his left hand and limped towards DuBose. He shouted over the crackling of flames and chanting, “DuBose. Stop the ritual or I’ll shoot.”
DuBose looked back over his shoulder at Jacob. “You’re too late, Templar. The ritual is almost complete. There ain’t nothing you can do now.” William DuBose pointed above the bonfire. “Look.”
Jacob looked up. A green and purple shimmer had started to form over the bonfire. As Jacob watched, a single tentacle slithered out from the gate. Another one appeared soon after, wrapping itself around the edge. They began pulling at the tear, widening it farther.
“Really? Well, shit.” Jacob raised his pistol and shot DuBose in the back of the head. The Tennessee gentlemen collapsed forward onto the altar.
The creature on the other side roared its disgruntlement as the rift closed with a moist pop. The chanting stopped abruptly. The bonfire continued to crackle.
“You know,” Jacob said to DuBose’s corpse, “that was a lot less morally troublesome than I thought it’d be.” He dragged the body off the altar and unceremoniously dropped it on the grass.
“Alright, ya’ll, fun’s over,” Jacob shouted to the crowd. “Get on out of here.”
A dozen sets of confused eyes turned towards him. “I said get!” Jacob raised his pistol and fired into the air. The group dispersed, running for the closest edge of the clearing. Just for good measure, Jacob fired over their heads.
When the area had cleared, Jacob looked down at the book on the altar. DuBose had opened the Necronomicon to a page covered in foreign, crimson sigils. He reached out a han
d to the vellum page, feeling the strange warmth and humming of the words. Something inside Jacob told him that this was even less like other books than he’d thought. He drew back.
He knelt down next to DuBose’s corpse and cut a large swatch from the black robe with the hunting knife he’d taken from the servant shack. The piece of fabric measured three feet on each side. He laid it down on the altar next to the Necronomicon, then used the knife’s edge to flip the book onto the cloth. Jacob wrapped it up, tucked it under his arm, and headed to the captives.
They were a pathetic lot that numbered a dozen or more. Jacob shot the locks off the prison wagons and released the captives. “Get on home now,” he told them. “And watch out for them folks in dark robes.”
The people stared at him from within their cages. Jacob just stared back. He shrugged and limped back to the mansion, wincing with each step. The group followed, not knowing where else to go.
Jacob had never been so happy to see such a ragged town. Chattanooga may as well have been New York City in the dawn’s early light. He stopped his horse and funeral sledge in front of the undertakers and removed what remained of Henry’s body. He explained to the man that they’d both been attacked by a bear, and that the undertaker should prepare the body and send it to Chicago immediately.
He left the address of the Templar abbey and went to purchase a ticket on the first steamboat leaving town for Chicago. Hopefully, the boat would leave before the undertaker could get around to telling any interesting stories.
Jacob went back to the room they’d rented on arrival. The ship home didn’t leave till that afternoon and Jacob figured he could at least get a few hours shuteye. He ordered the finest bottle of whiskey from the bar downstairs. He didn’t know if it was the finest in Chatanooga, but it sure was quality.
He tipped back a glass for Henry and one for himself before laying down on the bed. He closed his eyes, exhausted.
In his dreams, tentacles slithered out from a purple void into his vision. Jacob opened his eyes and sat upright, gasping. He looked over at the chest where he’d stored the Necronomicon. Nothing had changed since he’d put it there hours before.
He got up and walked over to where his sword hung. He took it down and retrieved his whetstone from his traveling bag. He went back over and sat down on the edge of the bed. He drew his sword and spat on the stone. With one eye on the chest, he began sharpening his blade.
He’d sleep on the way home. Failing that, there was always the monastery outside Chicago.
Back to Contents
The Renaissance of Jacob Smith
The purplish-grey tentacles grabbed hold of Jacob Smith’s leg and began pulling him closer to the mass of swirling, gnashing teeth at the portal opening. Acrid fluid burned through the leg of his trouser and shaft of his boot . The chant of CHOGTHATHA CHOGTHA CHOGTHA reverberated in his ears and vibrated his sinuses, as a steady back beat began: pound pound pound.
Jacob, eyes wide, sat upright in bed. The sheets and his long johns were both drenched through with cool sweat. His eyes tracked around the unadorned stone walls across from him, looking for whatever had invaded his dreams.
He breathed deep. He was back in the monastery, miles and miles away from the graveyard of Kadath Plantation. The pounding at the door started again, bang bang bang, barely keeping pace with his heart.
“Jacob, open up,” someone said through the door.
“Hold your damn horses,” Jacob yelled back. “Let me get some clothes on.”
He tossed the thin covers and sheets off and got out of bed. He shivered as his bare feet touched the flagstone floor. Damn, it was cold for spring. He grabbed his trousers and shirt from the back of the room’s only chair and dressed. Clothed, he padded across the room and opened the door.
Christopher Freeman stood, leaning against the door’s frame, arms crossed.
Jacob let the door swing open and walked back to the chair to pull on his boots.
“We kept some vittles on the table.”
Jacob wondered if he’d been screaming in the waking world. He’d had complaints from some of the other passengers on the steamer trip from Tennessee.
“Thanks.” Jacob began tugging on the first of his old boots.
“How was it coming back?”
“Lonesome,” Jacob said, pulling on the next boot. He sighed and stayed seated in his chair.
“Yep,” Christopher said, entering the room. He leaned back against the wall and recrossed his arms. “Know that feeling. It’s painful to lose a comrade.” He leveled his gaze at Jacob.
“Yup.” Jacob returned Christopher’s look. After a moment, Jacob stood and walked over to the empty water basin. He poured some fresh water in and splashed his face. He toweled off and looked back over his shoulder at the other man. “What’d they fix for breakfast?”
“Sausage and grits.”
Jacob went over to where his holster and sword-belt hung from a wall peg . He pulled both down and began to strap them on.
“Coffee?”
“Hatsuto made sure they left a cup.”
“Good man,” Jacob said, cinching his belts tight. Christopher walked out into the hallway and Jacob followed. “When did Mr. Bennett arrive?” he asked Christopher as he shut the door to his cell.
“Few days ago,” Christopher replied. They walked down the hallway to a set of spiral stairs at the end.
“Had a service yet?”
“Not yet. Didn’t seem right without you here.”
“Why? Ain’t like I knew him all that well.”
“Guess you didn’t,” Christopher said, scratching at his beard. “But you were with him when he fell. Figured you got some words to say.” Christopher led the way down the stairs.
“I reckon so.” Jacob followed after Christopher. “How many of the others are here?” They entered the corridor which led to the dining hall.
“We got Hatsuto and the colonel.”
“And the book’s safe?”
“Put in the vault as soon as you delivered it.”
“Good.”
Ahead, the dining hall’s double doors stood open. Monks sat quietly breaking their fast. Jacob and Christopher walked in and headed for the back corner reserved for the Templars. The colonel and Hatsuto were both already there, their plates cleaned of any food morsel. They sipped tea and spoke to each other in low voices. As Jacob and Christopher approached, the other two men stopped talking and stood.
“Jacob, sir, it’s good to have you back,” Col. Winnie said, offering his bear paw of a hand.
“It’s good to be here, sir,” Jacob replied, taking his hand. He turned to the Japanese man, Hatsuto, and bowed. Hatsuto bowed in turn and offered his hand. They shook. All four sat at the table. The three others focused their attention on Jacob.
“Did Henry go down fighting?” the colonel asked.
Jacob hesitated a moment. “Yes sir.”
“Good. The thought of him falling from his horse and breaking his neck, or some other variety of needless death, wouldn’t have sat well with him. Henry was a proud man.”
“He got me out alive.”
“And that damnable Necronomicon is safely in the vault as well.”
“What are we going to do with it? Return it to Miskatonic University?”
“No,” Col. Winnie said, patting the table for emphasis, “a replica will be made and sent in its place. Mark my words, men, I’ll not again risk having that tome fall into the wrong hands.”
There was a round of nods around the table.
“You men eat your breakfast,” Col. Winnie said, standing. “Jacob, when you’re finished eating, go see the abbot, then come down to my office. I’d like to discuss our next move.”
“Our next move, sir?” Jacob asked, looking up at the colonel.
“Certainly, son,” Col. Winnie said, putting a reassuring hand on Jacob’s shoulder. “We must rally the troops.”
The older man excused himself and left the room, heading back thro
ugh the double doors to the corridor. None of the monks watched him go, their gazes remained fixed on their plates.
“Rally the troops?” Christopher asked. “For what?”
“What is ‘rally the troops’?” Hatsuto asked, a bushy eyebrow raised.
“Means to bring all your soldiers together,” Jacob said as a monk brought over a plate each for Christopher and him.
“Ah,” Hatsuto said, taking a sip from his mug of tea. He made a face. He still hadn’t gotten used to black tea, but they could rarely find green anywhere in Chicago.
“Why do you think he said that?” Christopher asked before he started digging into his food.
“Reckon DuBose, the man we took the Necronomicon back from, wasn’t acting alone? Maybe there’s other rebels like him that are stockpiling artifacts?” Jacob asked, digging into his own plate. He was starving.
“Maybe,” Christopher said around a mouthful of food. “Wouldn’t put it past ‘em, what with the way they tried to hold on.”
“If a man picks up arms and fights another man,” Hatsuto said, setting his mug down, “do not expect him to stop fighting when beaten one time.”
“But we whooped ‘em good,” Jacob said. “Sherman marched right through there.”
“The Union whooped ‘em,” Christopher said. “We ain’t got nothing to do with it. May have been a boy in blue before, but you ain’t now.”
“Fine,” Jacob said. “The Union did it. Figured they wouldn’t have much fight left in ‘em, that’s all.”
“I think Hatsuto’s right. South thinks the North is telling ‘em how to live still. That’s what the rebellion was always about, the South thinking they was fine to buy and sell my people and them not wanting no lip from the other side. Sherman marching to the sea ain’t likely to have made ‘em anymore willing to take to it. I think we’re gonna see more like that DuBose.”
“Reckon so?”
“Yep. Bet my poke on it.”
“Likely right.” Jacob forked a link of sausage and bit into it. “What do you think Col. Winnie wants to talk to me for?”
The New Orleans Zombie Riot of 1866: And Other Jacob Smith Stories Page 3