[Original Short Story] Hillbilly Hell by Craig Gabrysch

Well, original enough that you've probably never read it. This was a short story I wrote several years back, which ended up being part of a larger collection of stories following Jacob Smith, a Knight Templar active during the post-American Civil War period, better known as Reconstruction.

I have several other stories in this universe, which I'll be publishing here over the coming days and weeks, and handful of other fiction works that, quite frankly, I have no idea what to do with.

Enjoy!

Hillbilly Hell

by Craig Gabrysch

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?”

“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 stagnant 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?”

“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.”

“Sadly, I think you’re correct. We accept, Mr. DuBose,” Henry said, uncocking his revolver and holstering it.

“Excellent. I’ll prepare my champion.”

“Hold on just one second. Champion?” Jacob asked as he holstered his own pistol.

“Correct. I may choose a champion to stand in. It is my right.”

“He’s correct,” Henry said.

“Now, gentlemen, as night is falling across the valley, I propose we make our preparations. If you will give me only a few moments, I will meet you at the rear of the house and we can begin.”

Henry narrowed his eyes at DuBose. The Templars returned to their horses and remounted.

“I don’t like this one bit, sir.”

“Neither do I. But you were both right. We couldn’t just kill an unarmed man and steal the book, corrupted by evil or not. We play this game his way, no matter what the outcome, simply because we gave our word.”

“I agree completely.”

The pair circled around the south side of the mansion. The sun gave its final bit of light to the plantation as they rode. An overgrown, mismanaged garden sprawled out behind the mansion. A sparse forest of oak saplings and wild cotton plants surrounded the estate on all sides. Ahead of them, vague shapes moved in the dark yard. They met DuBose and his servant on the rear steps of the house. DuBose’s servant held a lantern aloft and its light made DuBose’s face look more sickly. The servant was aged somewhere between thirty and sixty years, white, and hunched over with a series of near-crippling deformities. His nose was flat, his eyes set wide apart, and his forehead entirely too large. He was unsettlingly disproportionate. The younger Templar fought the urge to stare.

“My champion will be meeting us at the family plot, gentlemen,” DuBose said.

“Family plot?” Jacob asked.

“We’ll be playing out our duel in the cemetery. I prefer ambiance when I watch a fight to the death. Now, if you’ll be polite enough to dismount, my servant will take your horses.”

“What?” Henry asked again. “No slave?”

“Slavery is illegal, Mr. Bennett, in case you had not heard. Martin here is an indentured servant. His great-great-great-great-grandfather gave the souls of his lineage to my family going on two centuries ago.”

Jacob sucked in air through clenched teeth. Henry caught Jacob’s gaze and shook his head.

“If you’d be kind enough to follow me, gentlemen.”

The Templars dismounted, Henry taking his shield. DuBose took the lantern from Martin and the “servant” took the reins of the horses. DuBose led the way through the garden paths.

“If you look to the left, gentlemen,” DuBose said, pointing as he walked, “you’ll see the pristine farmland that has made the DuBose family such an economic force these past forty years, with the gracious help of Martin’s relatives of course.”

Jacob followed his gesture but saw nothing except unploughed fields slowly being taken over by the Tennessee forest. He did notice a poorly constructed house on the edges of the garden, though, lit by a series of torches coming from the front door. The greying wood and darkness of evening had camouflaged the squat structure when he looked the first time. Now the new torchlight illuminated it perfectly. He looked to his right and slightly behind him and noticed more buildings like the first. Torches streamed from their doors, filling the garden with a soft, yellow-orange light.

“Mr. Bennett, are you seeing this?”

“Yes, I am. It’s a tad bit disconcerting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes sir, I would say as much.”

As they neared the stand of trees at the edge of the garden, Jacob turned his head and looked at the crowd following them. They all shared the same flat nose, incomprehensibly large forehead, and close-set empty eyes of Martin the servant. DuBose led the Templars through the stand of oaks and into the cemetery’s center. Granite headstones dotted the landscape.

“You stated earlier that your champion would be waiting, DuBose.”

“He should be somewhere around here, Mr. Bennett. I shall return once I’ve collected him.”

Jacob and Henry stood in the center of the cemetery as the silent torch-bearing men and women shuffled in. They formed a loose semicircle behind the Templars, blocking them from the plantation mansion. The two men drew their pistols and checked them over.

“I don’t like this.”

“You’ll grow accustomed to the feeling over the years. When you stop being afraid, you generally embark upon being dead.” Henry smiled ruefully.

A low rumble began amongst the crowd, almost a bass hum that collectively emitted from the chests of the men and women gathered.

DuBose’s angular form approached through the headstones, one hand holding a chain draped over his right shoulder. A hulking form lumbered behind him. They stopped fifty feet away from the Templar Knights.
“I apologize for the wait, gentlemen. Wyatt, here, was bit by the wanderlust bug and got off his tether. I had to retrieve him.” DuBose led Wyatt into the light. Wyatt was ugly; downright hideous. He, or it, stood at least nine feet tall and wore the tattered clothing of a servant. The skull of its bald and bulbous head seemed distended and far out of proportion from the rest of its features. The thing’s giant, black eyes bulged from its face. They possessed no properties of the eyes of man or beast. Twitching and thrashing tentacles sprouted from where there should have been a mouth. Its arms were of normal proportion to the rest of its body, except for the razor-sharp talons at the end. Powerful muscles rippled beneath its thick, grey hide.

Yeah, it was ugly by Jacob Smith’s reckoning, even for a demon. Of course, it was the first demon he’d ever seen, so he really didn’t have much point of reference.

“That a demon?”

“Not like any I’ve ever seen. But it’s certainly not from our world.”

“That’s for sure. Think we can take it down?”

As they spoke, DuBose reached up, brushed aside the tentacles, and undid the neck shackle to which the chain connected.

Jacob watched Henry size the creature up. “My experience has been that most things, extra-planar or not, capitulate when one properly applies enough of the correct kind of physical force. So, yes, I do think we can take it down.”

“Gentlemen, are you ready?” DuBose called across the graveyard.

“We are,” Henry called back.

“Then let the duel begin. Wyatt, go on and kill now.”

The Templars both drew weapons, a sword for the elder and a revolver for the younger.

Henry Bennett drew a line in the Tennessean dirt with the point of his broadsword. Jacob Smith cocked his revolver. Jacob made the sign of the cross. The demon recoiled.

The thing recovered and began to close the twenty paces of cemetery headstones to the two armored men.
“Is this what I signed on for?” Jacob asked Henry as the demon came at them with deliberation, shoving over headstones in its path.

“You signed up for the Templars, didn’t you?”

“Suppose you’re right on that count.”

“Cover me. Don’t close in on it unless you absolutely must.”

“Yes sir.”

Henry raised his shield enough to cover his mailed torso. He kept his sword’s blade out and to the side, giving him free range of motion in case the demon tackled him. Demons liked to grapple, that much Jacob had been taught in training. He’d never been taught just how damn ugly they were, though. That was a revision to the manuals Jacob would mention when next he spoke to the abbot.

“Hell-spawn,” Henry barked, advancing towards the demon. “Come at me, you beastly thing.”

Wyatt’s tentacles flared from its face, the tips flailing and grasping at air. The creature uprooted a tombstone from the moist soil and hurled the hunk of etched granite at Henry. Henry stepped aside from the granite missile’s trajectory with grace belying his age.

“Put in a bit of effort on the next toss, Wyatt.” Henry shook sweat soaked hair from his eyes. “Let’s make this interesting.”

The tentacled thing stooped to the ground and ripped another headstone from the ground, a five-foot-tall obelisk topped with an ornate cross. It hefted the weight in its right hand, gave the makeshift club a test swing, and continued advancing towards Henry.

“I believe that’s a slight improvement. Jacob?”

“Yup?”

“Is there a reason you’re not shooting?”

“I was just . . . I apologize, sir.” Jacob leveled his revolver at the thing’s torso and pulled the trigger. The revolver roared and leapt in Jacob’s hand. The demon took the bullet squarely in the chest and recoiled a step. Black spread on the yellowing buttoned-up shirt. Jacob fired three more bullets. It took more steps back. Wyatt turned and focused on Jacob, hefting its obelisk turned club. It advanced, closing the distance with long-legged strides. “Sir, I don’t reckon bullets are working as well as we’d hoped.”

“Not a concern. Perchance, could you endeavor to shoot it in the head next time?”

“Yes sir.” He adjusted his aim slightly upward and fired again. A fine mist of black ichor sprayed into the air as the demon’s head snapped back violently. It stumbled backwards two steps, its club swinging out and away from its torso as it lost balance. A collective wail like the howling of ravenous wolves welled up from the crowd.

Henry took the opening and charged the demon with a roar that would’ve put Johnny Reb to shame. He slashed across the demon’s belly with the outer edge of the blade, ending the cut with his broadsword raised and ready. More of the brackish ichor welled out of the thing’s gut. Henry struck again, this time at its exposed left limb. The demon backpedaled, but Henry matched each of its lumbering steps with two of his own. He hacked at the right leg. The demon swung the obelisk, but the Templar met the stone club’s base with his shield and absorbed the impact.

Henry kept up the assault, chopping at the demon’s right wrist. The demon’s hand severed with a sickening plop and an otherworldly scream that sent its tentacles flaring. Ichor sprayed from the stump, leaving Henry’s breast plate with a shimmering patina of black slime. Henry danced out of the falling obelisk’s path and skirted around the creature to its rear.He sliced across the demon’s left Achilles tendon, hamstringing the demon with a practiced barbarism that produced another wail. It collapsed to its left knee, its head falling forward.

Henry huffed and completed his circle, moving to the demon’s right side. Jacob glanced furtively around at the now quiet crowd. “Jacob,would you care to do the honors, or shall I?”

“I wouldn’t presume to steal your glory on the battlefield, Mr. Bennett. You go right on with that beheading.”

“You certainly have my gratitude,” Henry said as he raised his blade. With a roar, the Templar swung the blade down at the demon’s neck. A gunshot rang out just before Henry’s swing connected. Henry stumbled backward, stunned. The broadsword tumbled from his shattered right hand. The Templar went to his knees, the color drained from his face.

“Drop your firearm, Templar,” a raspy voice said from the other end of the cemetery. “Or I end Mr. Bennett’s life at this very moment.”

Jacob swung his revolver towards the shadowy source some thirty paces away.

“Consider the course of events you are about to set in motion, Mr. Smith. I know you have already fired six shots at Wyatt. Which leaves your pistol empty, if I am not mistaken, and you surrounded with only a sword for defense. Bennett, handless as he is, will be of no help in this fight,” William DuBose said as he stepped from the shadows, a tightly held revolver pointed at Jacob. Jacob pointed his own revolver back at DuBose’s angular, pallid form.

“Wrong, DuBose, I only fired five shots,” Jacob said and pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty cylinder. “Shit,” Jacob cursed, closing his eyes. He never should have taken Henry’s advice. He dropped the pistol at his feet. “Thought this was supposed to be a fair duel for the book, DuBose. Us verses your thing there,” Jacob said, gesturing at the grey demon on its knees.

“I lied, Mr. Smith.” Grey lips twisted and curled on DuBose’s drawn face. “Take him,” he snarled at the crowd. “We’ll use them for the ritual tonight.”

Martin’s kinfolk obeyed with gusto. The circle closed in on Jacob.

Consciousness came back to Jacob Smith. He lay on a dirt floor. His head felt like he’d tried to catch a six-pounder’s cannonball in the teeth. His left leg felt like it’d taken a kick from a horse’s hindquarters. It reeked awfully strong wherever he’d awakened. Jacob smelled something sickly sweet. Cooking pork, maybe? Below that was body odor and sweat. Not the most appetizing of fragrant combinations. Jacob kept his eyes closed, just hoping this would all go away. He groaned.

“Quiet, Jacob,” Henry whispered.

“Mr. Bennett? You’re still kicking?”

“Yes, barely,” Henry replied, his voice jagged and full of rasp. “I’m still alive. My thoughts are that being well is another matter entirely. Now stay quiet. Our jailers don’t know you’re awake yet. I’d prefer it remained that way.”

Jacob opened his eyes and turned his head to look in Henry’s direction. The movement ratcheted up the pain. He winced. They were in a filthy cell. Henry sat propped against the metal bars in the corner opposite Jacob. Dirt, blood, and Wyatt’s foreign ichor covered his armor and clothing. Henry wheezed with each breath, his face was pale white. Bloodshot eyes, sunken, with deep, black circles beneath, gave the impression of a raccoon rather than an English gentlemen. He cradled his shattered right hand, swaddled in yellowish gauze, to his chest. The space below the elder Templar’s left knee was empty. They hadn’t even bothered to dress the wound, they’d simply seared it at the stump.

Jacob shuddered.“What did they do to you?”

“It’s not nearly as bad as it looks. Keep that upper lip stiff. How are you faring?”

“Fine. Headache from hell, and my left leg is injured, but manageable. But, you . . .”

“Quiet, Jacob. Understand that I don’t have much longer. Do you smell that cooking? I can’t be certain,” Henry said, coughing weakly, “but that may very well be my leg. You have been out for over an hour and—”

“We gotta get you to a surgeon or doc—”

“No,” Henry said. The hissing severity shut Jacob right up. “DuBose came into gloat earlier. They’re starting a ritual tonight, a ritual you must stop. They’re tearing a hole into some place other than Hell. I won’t live much longer, whether or not you can drag me back to Chattanooga. You’ve seen wounds like this as often as I, and you know that oftentimes they prove fatal. So be a good chap and shut the fuck up. I have a plan to help you escape, boy. After that, it’s up to you to stop DuBose. That ritual must not be completed.”

Jacob sighed. “Yes sir. Wait. Did you just cuss?”

Henry just smiled and laid back his head against the cell bars.

After ten minutes, or maybe five, or even twenty, one of Martin’s cousins, brothers, or uncles came to the cell door. Jacob couldn’t see them, he kept his eyes closed, but he could tell it was one of the inbreds from their shuffling, shambling steps they all seemed to have in common. Keys jingled, someone fumbled with the lock, and there followed a neat click as the key turned the tumblers.

“Hello, mate. Come to take my hand? Quite the feast your kinfolk seem to be having this evening.”

“Leg,” the Martin replied.

“Sure you wouldn’t want my arm instead?”

“Leg.”

“Fine, fine. But you’ll have to fight me for it.”

There was a soft thump and the sound of something heavy landing on the dirt floor, followed immediately by a horrendous howl. Jacob’s eyes snapped open. The servant was hunched over, clutching his privates. A heavy, rusted meat cleaver lay on the floor in front of Henry. Jacob clambered to his feet, his bad leg almost giving way. He braced himself and stomped on the right side of the Martin’s knee.

A satisfying crunch sounded and the inbred crumpled, his yowls reaching a crescendo.

“Jacob.” Henry handed the meat cleaver to Jacob.

Jacob took it quickly. He grabbed a handful of the Martin’s greasy hair and pulled the distorted head back, exposing the throat just like he’d done to cattle on his grandfather’s farm. The man’s eyes went wide with terror. Jacob chopped the cleaver, sinking it as far into the exposed throat as possible. Blood welled up from the Martin’s mouth and around the blade. The blood ran down the servant’s worn shirt, pasting it to the skin.

“Hurry, there may be more coming.”

Jacob began desperately wrenching the cleaver’s blade from the inbred’s neck. Jacob hoped there weren’t any more of Martin’s kinfolk as he worked the blade back and forth. He finally yanked the cleaver free.
Jacob hefted the cleaver in his right hand and exited the cell. He walked the short distance to the corner. He couldn’t hear anything, but he couldn’t be for sure. Jacob drew himself up against the wall and took a half-step back from the corner and steadied his breathing.

Nothing. Just a room with a firepit in the middle and Henry’s leg roasting slowly on a spit. Jacob shuddered, then turned and went back to the cell.

“Mr. Bennett? Still with me?”

No response. Henry stayed against the bars, unmoving. The older Templar’s head leaned forward, his chin resting on his breast. Jacob’s stomach sank. He walked forward and put a hand below his nose. No feel of breath on his fingertips. Jacob sighed. He hunkered down next to the older Templar.

“Mr. Bennett,” he began in a low voice, “I’ve really appreciated our time together. It’s awful we couldn’t get to know each other better. I’ll tell the abbot of your valiance and sacrifice when I get back to Chicago.”

Standing, Jacob turned and walked over to where his hat lay on the ground. He picked it up and went back to Henry’s body. He laid it over the Englishman’s face. He made the sign of the cross, whispered a short prayer for Henry’s soul, and left the cell.

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 hand 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.