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

Author:Gabrysch, Craig [Gabrysch, Craig]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, mobi
Publisher: Twit Publishing LLC
Published: 2014-01-16T05:00:00+00:00

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July 27th, 1866

Jacob played out the deck on his game of solitaire. He tossed his cards on the bed with a sigh. “Goddammit.”

“Mme. Laveau’ll find something,” Christopher said. He stood looking out the window of their small hotel room.

“Hope so,” Jacob said. “I just hate the idea of waiting for Potestas to make his move. Hate sitting.”

“Can’t go stumbling around like blind men.”

“Know that too. But sitting here on our hands don’t help neither.”

“No. It don’t. But patience, you know. That’s a virtue same as bravery and all the others.”

Jacob grunted.

“Also, we can’t be traipsing around in the daytime. Potestas has more men than us, and that means he’s more eyes, too.”

Jacob grunted again. He got up and began pacing the room.

“Why don’t you go grab some chow downstairs? Get out of my hair for a minute.”

“Fine. You want anything?”

Christopher shook his head and kept staring out the window.

Jacob went down to the dining area. He sat at the counter and ordered gumbo from the little Creole proprietor. He shook his head at the offer of coffee. Jacob asked for the daily broadsheet and the man brought him a copy of the Picayune.

The paper’s headline read “Friends of Freedom Rally Tonight.” Some of the delegates to the Constitutional Convention promised to come together and drum up awareness and support for their gathering, according to the article, even though the legality of the convention itself was still in dispute.

Jacob flipped through the paper. He found a mention of the sinking of the Isabella the day before. The police and newspaper blamed a boiler explosion as the culprit. Jacob grunted again. The yellow fever had returned, read another article. The previous two seasons hadn’t been bad, but the rich folk were still leaving for the country. Of course, there weren’t too many rich anymore. Most of their assets had been emancipated by President Lincoln.

The little creole man came back bearing a big, steaming bowl of sausage gumbo and a loaf of french-styled bread. The proprietor was a small, neatly dressed man.

“Y’all men gonna be staying much longer?” he asked as he set the plate down.

“Maybe. Don’t know for sure. Still have business in the city. Staying till it’s done.”

“I see that girl you brought in. She’s a pretty thing now.”

“Reckon so. Hey, mister?”

“Yah?”

“Keep your eyes to yourself. We’ll tell you when we’re leaving.”

The little proprietor wandered off, to propriet or something. Jacob didn’t know and didn’t care. He ate the steaming gumbo and continued to search the paper for signs of Potestas.

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