From the Pen of Adam Lance Garcia, Book 1: Testament

by Adam Lance Garcia

FROM THE PEN OF ADAM LANCE GARCIA:

  TESTAMENT

  by Adam Lance Garcia

  Published by Pro Se Press

  Part of the SINGLE SHOTS SIGNATURE line

  This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters in this publication are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental. No part or whole of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2015 Adam Lance Garcia

  All rights reserved

  These words must write themselves. If they will be legible or form some kind of coherence, I shall never know. My eyes will never stray to the page, never read the words my hand rushes to inscribe, for they shall be my last.

  It was in the year of Our Lord eighteen hundred and eighty eight that I was employed at Carrington & Sons General Store. Not more than fifteen, I had procured the job thanks in large part to my father. A handshake, a slap on the back, and I was employed as assistant to Mister Wilson Carrington, the third of his name. The elder Mister Carrington, a hunched back, ornery man who was more wont to dribble spittle out his slack-jawed mouth than say a kind word, had long given up the day-to-day management of the shop, so it was up to the younger Carrington and myself to make sure the shelves were fully stocked, the customers content.

  I will allow that it was not my most ideal profession. I had dreams of becoming a peripatetic artist, traveling from town to town with a canvas, oils, and brushes, painting up portraits for the fine families willing to pay me coin. But my father, with his hard line and jaw so square it could have been used as a straight edge, would hear none of it; telling me I would make a better fist working a real job if I wasn’t planning on going to work the fields. Thankfully the hours were easy, the younger Carrington a decent man, giving me an extra nickel a week when he reckoned I had earned it. He even employed a Negro to work the stock rooms, a fine old man we called Franklin, though I do not believe that was his true Christian name. He had formerly been a slave somewhere in Alabama, though he never said where. He was quiet and kind, his eyes rarely looking up from the floor. After hours he would sometimes sneak me a sip of the gin he carried in his flask.

  The women who frequented the store would smile at me, especially the older women who never forgot what it was to be young and driven by the passion of their loins. I would smile back, say sweet things, if only to secure a penny in my palm at the end of the sale. But I would always save my broadest smile for Florence Wright. Most would consider her a plain girl, fair of skin and hair, but I always thought her beautiful. She would meet my eyes, and the corner of her lips would curl up when she said my name. My stomach fluttered and my cheeks turned red, and I would go about getting her order with a grin on my face.

  Whatever money I earned that did not go toward necessities I saved for my paintings. I was able to afford a number of small canvasses, and the younger Carrington allowed me to order paints from our supplies, deducting the cost from my pay—though he always took less than he was owed. Some nights I would sit up by candle light and work on portraits of our clientele, but mostly of Florence.

  I look back on those times with warmth. They were good.

  They did not last long enough.

  It was the beginning of March and the late winter snowstorms blanketed the town, when Franklin stopped coming to work. Living so many miles outside of town, this was not much of a surprise. The roads were nearly impassable and even I struggled daily to make it home with all my toes intact. But when the ice thawed in April and Franklin was nowhere to be found the younger Carrington grew concerned. He planned to venture out to check on Franklin when the elder Carrington pressed him not to, saying “no nigger was worth his time.” He then wiped the spittle from his lips before crawling back into his narrow office at the back of the store. After he had gone the younger Carrington shook his head and placed a broad, callused hand on my shoulder, and asked me to work the stock room until he could find an extra hand. He would pay me an extra twenty cents a week for my troubles.

  The stockroom sat directly beneath the store, dug out by the first Carrington just after Independence. The ground and the southern wall were still simply packed dirt that was damp to the touch no matter the season. Two small windows on either side of the northern stone wall let the barest amount of light in. One of the windows had blown out during one of the many winter storms, a mound of snow piled up beneath. Franklin would have shoveled it out had he returned, but the younger Carrington said to simply wait for the warmer weather and let it melt; he still needed me to help up in the store and couldn’t spare me for an undertaking like that.

  Overall, the additional work wasn’t so difficult, lifting a box here, placing it there. I found by the end of the first month my arms had gotten larger and stronger, which seemed to make Florence’s smile wider when next she saw me. There was the frequent skittering of rat’s feet against the dirt, a chattering of teeth as they tried to gnaw their way through our stores. It was nothing I hadn’t heard on the farm yet it managed to send chills down my spine. I often found myself rushing in and out of the cellar, the hairs standing on the back of my neck.

  On the third week, the snow in the cellar had retreated enough to reveal a small jar of strawberry preserves that had shattered some time during the winter, the jam flecked with glass and small pieces of ice. Were it not for the gash I opened up on my palm while picking out the shattered glass I would have called it beautiful. I would have painted it.

  The days grew steadily warmer and the snows that buried our town melted away bit by bit. The mound of snow in the cellar took longer due to the chill of the surrounding earth, but slowly it receded. On the first truly warm day in late April, the snow mound melted by inches at a time, leaving the dirt floor muddy, forcing me to scrape my shoes clean every time I had to retrieve an item from below. On my fourth trip down that day—in this instance, retrieving some cured meats for old Mrs. Ambers—I noticed something dark protruding from the mound. In my haste I ignored it, believing it to be a trick of shadow, or perhaps a twig that had fallen in during the storm. There were many scattered across the muddy ground. It wasn’t until I was stocking a shipment of jarred olives later that afternoon that I finally saw what the branch really was. The snow mound had receded even further, like the glaciers of old. My curiosity finally getting the better of me, I moved closer to investigate. My shoes sloshed through the thick mud of the floor and as my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw the diminishing snow had revealed the twig to be a finger, old and callused, bent as if beckoning me forward.

  And attached to that, a hand, still somewhat plump from life, only now beginning to shrivel from death.

  My stomach turned over and the blood in my veins seemed to freeze in an instant. I must have stumbled back, as my head knocked against one of the shelves, sending sparks bursting behind my eyes. I did not scream; my voice had left me sniveling and shaking. My feet were planted to muddy ground as if they had taken root. The only utterance I could manage was a high-pitched moan. The younger Carrington must have heard my moan—or perhaps was curious as to my extended delay—as he was rushing down the steps not more than two minutes later. He saw me first, my face so pale I must have looked a specter. He asked me something, but he sounded muffled and distant, so I simply moaned in reply. His eyes followed my gaze until they fell upon the clenched hand protruding from the snow mound. The younger Carrington
let out a small noise of disappointment and sadness. He closed his eyes in pain and said Franklin’s name. The name took me by surprise; in my terror I hadn’t the competence to deduce the obvious.

  The younger Carrington rushed over to the snow mound. He fell to his knees, splattering mud into the air as he clawed at the wet snow until he had revealed Franklin’s terror stricken visage. One of his eyes was glassy and opaque, the other missing entirely, three long gashes ran down his right cheek. His jaw hung open, trapped in a scream; the left side partially detached, the flesh shredded. His throat had been ripped open. In the dim light I could make out the white of his neck bones. The younger Carrington fell backward onto his rump, too horrified to say a word. I cannot say how long we both sat there frozen in horror, perhaps only minutes but the clock seemed to have slowed down, the seconds lasting hours. When we finally were able to free ourselves from our stupor, neither of us could find the wherewithal to speak. Instead, we both inched forward and began the slow, painful task of unearthing our friend. By the time we were finished both of our hands were red and numb from the melting snow.

  There was