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

by Craig Gabrysch

  Both of the Templars looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Beats me.”

  “I do not know his intentions, either,” Hatsuto said.

  Jacob went back to eating.

  Jacob breathed deep and knocked cautiously on the door to the abbot’s small office. It was nestled in one of the top corners of the monastery. Abbot Jean Marie Ouellet was the head of the Jesuit order in these parts. The Templars, for their part, weren’t necessarily part of the Catholic Church, but they did receive most of their funding from them. They operated out of this monastery, and the abbot was considered their caretaker of sorts. Like Congress does with the military, the Church controlled their purse strings. And, just like in the normal military, the chain of command could get foggy.

  “Entrez.”

  Jacob pushed the door open. The room was spacious in comparison to the monastic cells Jacob was accustomed to. The walls on all sides were hidden behind wooden bookshelves stacked with leather-bound tomes. Fur rugs covered the flagstone floor, making it feel more like a hunting cabin than an office.

  Abbot Jean Marie Ouellet sat behind his desk. He was a birdlike man, all frailty and sharp edges. Even his little bald head looked like an egg to Jacob, with its skin stretching tight over his fragile skull.

  “Jacob,” the abbot said, looking up at him through bifocal lenses, “thank you for coming. Allow me to complete this letter, and I will be right with you. Please sit.”

  In front of the desk were two wooden chairs. Jacob took the one on the left and crossed his legs, idly looking about to the rhythmic accompaniment of the abbot’s scratching quill.

  “I am concluding my letter to M. Bennett’s sister. It is customary to write such letters in the military, is it not?”

  Jacob had written plenty of letters like Ouellet’s during the war, though not as a commanding officer. Always as war buddies to a girl the man knew or loved, or thought he knew and loved. Sometimes to sisters, too. They gave a brief respite to some, but Jacob had never been glad to perform the duty. But that was duty’s definition, wasn’t it? Something you did despite its joylessness.

  “Thought that was the colonel’s responsibility?”

  “Oh, it is. My letter will accompany his. I feel it is my duty.”

  Jacob nodded absently and looked at the titles on the shelves. History texts mostly, but with treatises on mathematics, philosophy, and naturalism scattered throughout the collection.

  “It is a sad day when one must send such letters, do you not agree? I wrote of your involvement, and your returning of M. Bennett’s body to our care. It is good that he will be buried on sacred soil.”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “I would, if you feel comfortable, Jacob, like to ask about what happened in Tennessee.”

  “Yes sir,” Jacob said.

  The abbot put aside his quill and closed his inkwell’s lid. He folded his hands on his desk and looked at Jacob. Jacob looked back.

  “The colonel wrote his report based on what you told him of the events. What did you see at Kadath Estates?” the abbot asked, his lips pressed together in a distinct line.

  “A bunch of folks trying to cause the Apocalypse.”

  “Yet you halted it, did you not, by taking this DuBose’s life?”

  “Yes sir. I did.”

  “Are you fine with your decision? The colonel said you shot him without second thought.”

  “Yes sir, I did. I shot him in the back, too, if that makes a difference.”

  “Un peu,” the abbot said, making the gesture for a little bit with his right hand. “Do you feel guilt?”

  “I took a man’s life, Abbot. I’d never lie and say it was noble, shooting him the way I did, but I stopped him from doing the same all over the north.”

  “Perhaps all over the world. Any, how do you Americans say, second guessing?”

  Jacob thought about it. He hadn’t really considered it yet, so he figured he might as well just for the hell of it. He looked off to the side at all those books of history and their chronicles of a world which might have ceased existence if DuBose had finished his ritual.

  “Were I forced to relive it,” Jacob said, looking the Abbot in the eye, “I’d do it again. DuBose belonged in a sanitarium or in the ground, and I didn’t see no sanitarium around.”

  Jacob walked down the final flight of stairs to the floor of the monastery’s cellar that served as headquarters for the Knights Templar in America. The order covered as much of North America as they could from this small space, with Col. Winfred Hitchcock sending the knights to the four corners of the continent whenever there was something in need of being taken care of. The colonel, Col. Winnie to his men, served as their spiritual guide, as well as their commander, bringing the total of the Knights Templar membership to nine. Well, eight, since Henry Bennett had died in Tennessee.

  Jacob had only met a few of the other Templars: The colonel, Christopher Freeman, Hatsuto Watanabe, Henry Bennett, and Five Feathers. The other four were on distant missions, and generally stayed gone. Blake Hardy, a crazy mountain man from the sound of him, stayed in the Pacific Northwest hunting werewolves, werecats, windigos, sasquatch, and the like. Pedro Hernandez stayed in the Southwest, killing chupacabras, vampires, and such. Finally, there was an Irishman in New York named Conner and another Templar, Jean, in Quebec.

  Jacob walked down the dank, close-walled corridor to the colonel’s office. Water dripped somewhere in the labyrinth of dank halls. Damp and mildew filled Jacob’s nose and coated his skin. Gaslights burned on the walls, a recent addition, but they didn’t do much to ward off the sense of being entombed. Jacob stopped at the door to the office and knocked.

  “Enter,” Col. Winnie bellowed from the other side.

  Jacob puffed out his chest a little and opened the door. Maps made of vellum and books older than Jacob’s dead grandfather fought for the tiny space offered by the shelves and table tops. Towering over it all like a spectacle-wearing grizzly was Col. Winnie. He was stuffed into the scant space he’d set aside for his desk. He glanced up from the stack of letters spread in front of him.

  “Jacob,” he said, waving at a chair which a stack of books had won from the maps, “take a seat. I was just going over a letter from Mr. Hernandez.” Jacob looked warily at the plain chair, weighing whether it was worth trying to find places for all the amassed words just so he could sit. He looked back at Col. Winnie, who seemed engrossed.

  “My Spanish is far from impeccable, so this could take a moment,” Col. Winnie said without looking up from the letter. Jacob began moving the books from chair to shelves. He sat down when he was finished. “How went the interview with the abbot?”

  “Fine. Asked me about DuBose.”

  “What about that man?”

  “Whether I regretted shooting him or not.”

  “Do you?” the colonel asked, looking up from his letter for the briefest of moments.

  “No sir.”

  Col. Winnie pursed his lips and considered Jacob for a moment more before going back to his reading. More time passed.

  “Care for a drink?” Col. Winnie asked after a while, pulling open a side drawer and reaching in for a bottle of bourbon whiskey. He set the spirits on the desktop in front of Jacob.

  “Just crept past noon, sir.”

  “Asked if you cared for a drink, son, not the time of day.”

  “Reckon I’ll have one, then.”

  Winnie stuck his hand back in the drawer and grabbed two glasses. He set them next to the bottle. Jacob poured them each three fingers and took a sip of his. It was good. Smoky. The younger man took another sip. Winnie kept reading.

  Ten minutes passed. Col. Winnie sighed and took off his spectacles. His chair creaked as he leaned back. The colonel began to chew on the ear piece of his spectacles. He looked from his untouched glass of bourbon to Jacob. The young Templar was already beginning to show signs of the whiskey’s affection. Jacob poured himself another glass.

  Col
. Winnie sighed and looked at a bookshelf in the corner. It reached to the low ceiling and was so crammed full of books and tomes that any false pull may set off an avalanche.

  “See those books on that shelf, son?”

  Jacob turned and looked back at the shelf. “Yup.”

  “There is one on the second from the top shelf. Its spine is unmarked. Bring it here, please.”

  “Yes sir,” Jacob said, downing the last of his whiskey before standing. He walked shakily over to the bookshelf, knocking over a stack in the process, and pulled the book Col. Winnie had indicated. Luckily, no bookslide started.

  Jacob looked down at the plain, leather-bound book in his hands. He turned it over so he could see the back. There was no marking on the other side either. It was thin and old, but well cared for.

  “What’s this?”

  “The Annals of the Knights Templar.”

  “All the way back?”

  “Just from our reinstatement by Pope Pius in 1780. When our founder left from Europe to come to this monastery, he brought a copy. Our histories diverged from that point, you understand.”

  “Mind if I look at it? Still don’t know much about the order. Just, you know, the vision I had and what y’all have told me.”

  “It is your right.”

  Jacob opened the book at the beginning. It was filled with plain, cream-colored, unlined paper. There was no dedication on the first page, just a simple date at the top left, “4 March, 1780,” like a journal, followed by a long stream of florid script which swam and danced in Jacob’s vision. Jacob tried to read the first few words, but they wouldn’t connect.

  “God,” he said under his breath, “I’m drunk already.” He shut the book carefully and took it to Col. Winnie.

  “Feeling alright? You look a bit flustered, son,” the colonel said around the earpiece of his spectacles as he took the book from Jacob. Col. Winnie thumbed through it till he stopped on the first blank page he reached.

  “Yup. Well, no, not feeling so right. Whiskey of yours kicks like a mule.” He looked down at the colonel’s untouched glass, and back to his. He picked up his empty glass and smelled the remnants.

  There was bourbon and notes of something else, something slightly acrid. His eyes widened. Jacob sat down, barely catching the edge of the chair, his gaze still fixed on the bottom of the empty glass. He looked at Winnie again.

  “Feeling alright?” the colonel asked again, leaning forward with his fingers expectantly steepled at his chin.

  “You . . .” Jacob said, his tongue feeling like a bud of cotton. “Didn’t . . .” The words wouldn’t come. He closed his eyes and tried to force them out. If he could just get the damned thought out, he’d be fine. Jacob opened his eyes and attempted to speak again, but there was still nothing. Winnie blinked slowly.

  The room abruptly slanted to the left. Jacob grabbed hold of his own thighs in an attempt to stay seated. The young Templar struggled to stay upright, fighting the floor’s incessant tugging. He raised an accusatory finger at Winnie as his vision again lurched to the left.

  “You’ve plenty of fight, son,” Col. Winnie said, putting his spectacles back on. He took his pen from the desktop and began filling it from an inkwell. He began to write in the book.

  Jacob stood, but his legs couldn’t resist the spin of the room. He tried to maintain his footing in broken stamps and stomps, but the pull from his left was too much. Jacob tried to draw his pistol, but his arms were lead and unresponsive. He staggered backwards into the chair, knocking it over. He fell to the floor in a sitting position.

  “Stay down,” Col. Winnie said from behind his desk. Jacob heard the distant groan of the chair as the giant man stood and came around to hover above him. The younger man looked up at the older. Winnie still had that grim, tight-lipped look. “Only gonna make this harder on yourself if you try to get back up.”

  Jacob looked at the desk. He reached for the corner and tried to stand at the same time. He made it to his feet, but unable to get any purchase on the desk, toppled forward. He collided with the oak desk and slid to the ground. Jacob’s vision faded.

  “Told you to stay down, son.”

  “He’s coming to,” Christopher said. At least Jacob thought it was Christopher. His vision was still blurred. Jacob shook his head from side to side, trying to shake himself out of the fog. He was naked, almost completely submerged in some sort of liquid.

  “Let him have a bit more then,” said the colonel. “Only need him out for a bit longer.”

  “You sure, sir?”

  “Course I’m sure.”

  A figure moved in the darkness. It pushed a balled up rag over Jacob’s mouth. He held his breath. He tried to struggle, to thrash at his captors, but his arms felt weak as a foal. They grew weaker as he finally broke and inhaled from the rag.

  “Shhhh,” whispered Christopher as Jacob drifted back into the darkness. Jacob heard stone grind on stone. A dull thud followed.

  Jacob awoke again. Well, at least he reckoned he did. He floated in a vacuous world of nothing. He groped outward with his hands, trying to get a grip on the dimensions of his confinement. He touched something solid. Trying a different tack, Jacob felt at his own body, but he struck something soft, but firm and unyielding when he moved his arms more than a half-inch or so.

  “Hey,” he hollered, trying to kick and thrash, his voice echoing in the bleakness.

  Questions rolled through his mind. Why had his comrades done this? Why had the colonel poisoned him? Where was he? Was this because he’d let Henry Bennett die? Was it because he’d killed DuBose? Was this some sort of punishment?

  He tried to keep his breathing steady. Jacob didn’t know how much air there was.

  How long he stayed that way, just thinking and breathing, Jacob couldn’t say. With no sun or pocket watch, there was no point of reference to measure time. The same thoughts of reasons for his imprisonment rolled and rolled through his mind, till his thoughts seemed trivial. Eventually, because eventual was all he could think to call it, his trivial thoughts became nothingness. They simply ceased. His mind quieted. And then he was . . .

  . . . standing naked in a roughly hewed stone corridor. Air so hot it might as well have been from a steam engine rushed past Jacob, almost knocking him to the ground. He covered his nakedness with his hands as he looked around. Amber light emanated from strange lichen covering every surface and hanging from the ceiling in great clumps. Light came from ahead. Jacob looked behind him, but the tunnel wound around a corner and went out of sight. Confused, Jacob stumbled ahead, following after the beacon . . .

  “Hello?” Jacob called as he walked forward, gravel and sharp bits of stone digging into the soles of his bare feet. He followed the curve of the cave.

  “Christopher? Hatsuto?” No response but his echo. Jacob kept walking.

  The tunnel straightened out after thirty or forty paces. Jacob saw a great, white light emanating at the end. He looked behind him. He shielded his eyes and looked back into the light.

  “Anyone?” Jacob walked on, stepping into the light. It was as bright and warm as a summer day.

  “We made you,” said the voice. Jacob opened his eyes and looked around. He was strapped to a table of some sort in an impossibly white room.

  “Hello?” Jacob asked.

  “We made you.”

  The walls shimmered the same way windows do in a rainstorm. Out of the base of the walls around him came a legion of small beings, only a foot or so high. Hundreds of them, pooled together in a great crowd of dark eyes and featureless faces. They pressed near where Jacob lay on the table. They stopped and looked up at him. Jacob craned his head to each side and looked back down at them.

  “You will defend?” asked all the creatures together.

  “Defend? Defend what?”

  “Everything.”

  “Against what?”

  “That which would undo all we have wrought.”

  Jacob, his neck strained, relaxed and l
et his head thump against the table.

  “Yes,” he said to the ceiling, “I’ll defend.”

  “This is the Truth, Jacob Smith. We are the sophia of which your ancestors spoke.” Jacob looked back down at the featureless creatures. Each now held aloft a ball of distorted otherness which bent the light around it. “This is the logos of which your ancestors spoke. It is the Truth. Accept it.”

  Jacob blinked. When he opened his eyes he was fully clothed and girded in his helm and chain tunic. He stood in the center aisle of an empty chapel, the comfortable weight of his revolver and sword hanging from either hip. In front of him stood a giant of a knight clad from head to foot in green-tinted plate mail.

  The armor of the giant was inscribed with scrollwork and pictures of events and great battles depicted in a medieval style. His helmet was one of the old flat-topped pot helms which fully enclosed the wearer’s head and only had a thin opening to see through. The knight’s hands rested on the pommel of an enormous great sword, larger than any blade Jacob could ever lift.

  Jacob looked away from the knight and around at the empty chapel. Light shone in through a myriad of stained glass windows, each of them a single instance in the long history of the Knights Templar. He recognized the images from some of the books he’d looked through in Col. Winnie’s study.

  “Where am I?” Jacob asked quietly. His words did not echo in the silent chamber.

  “The Chapel of St. George, the heart of my order,” said the knight, his voice louder than a battery of cannons. “Who are you?”

  “I am Jacob Smith.”

  “Why have you come here? To join the Pauperes commilitones Christi Templique Solomonici?” Jacob hoped he didn’t have to fight this knight. One swing from the sword he carried would cut through an anvil, let alone Jacob.

  “You mean the Knights Templar?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then, I reckon so,” Jacob replied as he repositioned his feet to a fighting stance.

  “Prepare yourself, mortal.” Jacob drew his sword as the giant raised his own blade and began advancing with a lumbering gait. He covered the space in a few long strides, swinging his great sword in a horizontal arch at Jacob’s neck.