Shadows Beyond The Flames and Other Stories

By J.M. Tresaugue

Somewhere in the depths within us all we possess good & evil, honorable & shameful,ugly & beautiful. J.M. Tresaugue’s “Shadows Beyond the Flames & Other Stories” proves just that.Within each of us we have the power to do great good,& in the blink of an eye we can turn into a depraved,immoral human being.You find variations of these human characteristics within the contents of stories such as “The Manual” & “Sometimes Always”.However,within “Graphic Burn” we are given a glimpse of what being a better person truly means.There are stories that grip us,stories that shake us to our cores,& stories that inspire.The stories contained within this volume touch on a little of everything;from the macabre,to the hopeful,but mainly the darkness within us.You won’t be disappointed with the variety of science fiction,horror,fantasy,strange,unusual,& revenge thrown in for good measure in “Shadows Beyond the Flames & Other Stories”.J.M. Tresaugue’s crafting of a story is a brilliant exercise in literature.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.M. Tresaugue
• Release date: Jul 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465791153

J.M. Tresaugue

J. M. Tresaugue was raised in Yorba Linda, California, but eventually left the sunshine for the Pacific Northwest, where he lives with his wife and two daughters. He attended college in Northern California before enlisting in the United States Navy. Constant cleaning and night watches interfered with his writing, causing him to abandon the high seas after six years of service. He has since focused on raising his daughters, and writing two novels and numerous short stories.

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Shadows Beyond the Flames

and Other Stories

J. M. Tresaugue

Copyright © J. M. Tresaugue,

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

These selections are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This book is available at most online retailers.

Cover art by Chandra Tresaugue

Map by J. M. Tresaugue and Chandra Tresaugue

For Chandra Tresaugue

Acknowledgments

I am indebted to the keen insight of Chandra, Tim, and Atom, whose comments vastly improved each story. A debt of gratitude is due to my daughters for quietly playing while daddy was working.

Contents

Author’s Note I: You Really Should Read This First

Part One: The Long and The Short

The Manuel

Mad House

The Empty Kingdom

Failure to Meet Expectations

Shadows Beyond the Flames

The Final Vacancy

Part Two: Tales of the Kingdoms

Map of the Kingdoms

The Farmer’s Gift: A Tragic Parable of Love, Steel, and Greed

The Farmer’s Sons

Brog’s Dilemma

The Witch of Cosroy

Part Three: Flashes in the Dark

Graphic Burn

Girl in a Pink Dress

Sometimes Always

The Porcelain Coffin

The Groaning Attic

Victim

Author’s Note II: An Exercise in Pomposity

Author’s Note I:

You Really Should Read This First

My wife once asked, Could you write a story with a happy ending? She was reading the first draft of Victim at the time while I was scanning the pages of Asimov’s Science Fiction. After a moment of contemplation, I came to the conclusion that writing happy stories might be impossible for me. Shrugging, I answered her question the best I could. "Sometimes Always was supposed to be an uplifting story of a father reminiscing about his daughter." But even that story clings to its fair share of death and murder. I deserved every bit of eye rolling in regard to my lame defense. The Groaning Attic is perhaps the only story I’ve written that comes anywhere close to a happy resolution.

Many of the stories contained within this volume are filled with folks being maimed, dying, and having an all around frightening time. Yes, there is some humor, but don’t expect much. When I write, I tend to go to the dark places, the places that send me scrambling under the blankets late at night. Don’t ask why because I don’t have an answer for you. I’ll let you know once I figure it out for myself. I do know, however, I’m not alone in my desire to look into the darker side of life. The proliferation of horror and dark fantasy books, magazines, fanzines, and ezines are proof enough I’m in good company. So if you are timid or loath the ominous sounds in the night, then these stories are not for you. Don’t worry. This probably means you are well adjusted. (Hopefully you bought a paper copy so you can take it down to the used bookstore, and get something useful out of this volume.) If your passions are similar to mine, then you are about to embark on a series of adventures that will not disappoint. I enjoyed writing these stories, and I’m arrogant enough to say you will enjoy reading them.

A helpful hint for those who insist on continuing from here: The worse of the gore is found in the first short story, The Manual. Please proceed on from here as you see fit.

Part One:

The Long and The Short

The Manual

1

Gary arrowed through the lifeboat hatch, cushioned by zero gravity, as he towed Jonathan Johnson on a trailing tether. They cut through the air, mimicking the grace of swallows with clipped wings. Unknown to his savior, Jonathan was dead. If Gary had been aware he was handling a corpse, he was sure to have abandoned the body with the other limp and lifeless crewmembers of the doomed ship. The atmosphere venting like a life sucking geyser denied even the slimmest moment for checking vital signs. Grab and fly.

He hastily buckled Jonathan to the first bench they came across. Once that was done, Gary made use of hand holds to sail into the cramped cockpit. He eased himself into the navigation chair, swatted open a clear plastic case covering a thumb sized button, and jammed a digit against the red disk with enough force to induce pain. He shoved the throbbing finger in his mouth, wondering, as the lifeboat was ejected into space, if the thumb was broken.

The lifeboat’s initial trajectory was calculated with the standard near sightedness of the military. Ejection charges expeditiously thrust the craft beyond the hull of the cruiser without wasting a moment on such trivialities as battle debris. Gary’s eyes fixed upon the spread of star speckled black beyond the cockpit glass. Shrapnel like fragments of comfort worked into his thoughts with the realization the doomed ship served as a visual barrier between him and the Mars Liberation Front vessels.

That’s a laugh, Gary said to no one. Assuming MLF ships are not space worthy, then how the hell did they destroy my ship? ‘The pride of the fleet,’ according to Captain Wilkerson.

He glanced over a control console busy with toggle switches, push buttons, and thumbwheels. All available space beneath his hands was utilized; redundancy was the engineers’ solution for survival. Gary’s eyes sought out the radar screen, a simple display belonging to a primitive era of interstellar travel. He watched the blips representing the struggling ships slide down the screen. Palming the trackball, he maneuvered the cursor above the nearest contact. Fifteen kilometers of black already separated the lifeboat from the nearest enemy military vessel, but the distance was insignificant and therefore denying activation of the lifeboat distress beacon. A row of arterial red LEDs mounted above the radar screen depicted current speed. He moved his hands over the keyboard as his eyes shifted to a secondary display screen. A few command strokes, along with entering ship’s speed, provided an estimated time for safe transmission of the distress signal.

Two months, three days, and sixteen hours, Gary mumbled.

Again, his fingers tapped across the keyboard. An attempt to learn the required minimum distance from hostiles before the computer permitted activation of the Single Use Thruster. Or SUT as the acronym loving Interstellar Navy referred to the thruster.

That’s better news, he said through a wry smile. Only three hours to go. I just might make it if the MLF ships don’t change course. Gary puffed out a disparaging sigh intended for the engineers responsible for designing military lifeboats. Some aspects of the layout amazed him. Not a centimeter of wasted space existed on the bulkheads. The lifeboat was crammed with life saving equipment and supporting paraphernalia. Incongruities, however, still survived. Like programming the lifeboat to blindly launch into space once the ejection sequence was initiated, or how the navigation computer refused to engage the SUT until the craft was well beyond the reach of hostile ships. Never mind the risk of capture.

Gary typed another query for the computer to process, and was rewarded with the coordinates of Earth. He compared the figures to the current trajectory as he called up a self updating map of the solar system. This appeared on the touch screen. A few strokes across the keyboard allowed the radar to share its information with the star map, and place an icon of the lifeboat on the screen. Gary stuck his index finger into the icon, and drew a line from it to Earth, double clicking with his finger on the planet. A question mark popped up to ask him if the finger painted line matched his intended course.

You better believe it, he said to the screen as a finger tapped the green YES beneath the question mark.

The stars whorled to port as the maneuvering thrusters ignited to bring the lifeboat inline with his destination. He glanced at the touch screen, and read the estimated arrival time: 254.3 years.

I’m dead! A thoughtful silence fell over the cockpit It’s only the initial readout, he said in a comforting tone. Data from training quickly ran through his thoughts with greater confidence. The ejection charges are intended only for the lifeboat to clear the ship.

He reached under the console as he continued to speak encouragingly to himself. A groping hand found a thick volume attached to the underside with a lanyard. The manual was bound in a crisp, white paper cover. The crimson cockpit lighting gave the impression Gary was handling a book printed on paper dyed with blood. Right where you’re supposed to be! He briefly glanced over the thick title lettering before spreading the pages to reveal the table of contents. A finger lined down the chapter titles until finding the keywords he was searching for: Initial Escape Velocity. He quickly flipped to the cited page number, and began to read.

Good! I’m not dead! Garry lifted the thick volume to his face and kissed the pages. He swung the manual on its lanyard, sending it back beneath the console. He ignored the inconvenience of it bouncing between his legs and the under belly of the counter.

A glance at the radar screen informed him the lifeboat had yet to achieve minimum safe distance from the battle. Cutout circuitry inhibiting use of the SUT remained engaged.

As he watched, an icon disappeared from the radar screen. The position indicated the lost ship was more likely than not another Terran cruiser, breaking apart under enemy fire. He maneuvered the cursor over the nearest target while tracking the rapidly changing numbers of the readout. The size of the target, smaller than the average Terran vessel, left no doubt in Gary’s mind this was a Mars patrol ship. Little effort from the Mars vessel would be required to overtake his lifeboat, but, according to the LEDs incessantly clicking out the growing distance, the Mars ship was steadily moving away. The battle seemed to be vectoring off in the opposite direction as Mars defenders ushered the Terran vessels toward planetary defense platforms. Gary hoped this indicated the enemy’s electronic sensors interpreted his lifeboat as battle debris. Something was working in his favor.

According to the ship’s computer, he was confined to three hours of slowly floating through space before the SUT cutouts were released. With nothing more to keep him occupied in the cockpit, he disengaged himself from the chair, grabbing a first aid kit from the wall as he entered the main compartment. A switch on the bulkhead replaced the red emergency lights for institutional white. Only the cockpit remained in dreary shadows, which the dimmer red lights were incapable of banishing. Shoving off from the door frame, he floated down the length of the lifeboat, bringing his flight to an end above Jonathan as he reached out for a handhold.

Jonathan? He waited longer than necessary for a reply. Jonathan Johnson, are you okay? Still nothing.

Burn marks splashed across Jonathan’s chest and climbed up the left side of his face in waxy clumps of melted flesh. The unnatural way his body floated while pushing against the seat restraints did not help the image. Gary bent down for a closer examination, and saw the left eye had reached boiling temperatures before Jonathan’s flesh began to cool. Charred skull was visible between gaps around the eye and cheekbone. The left ear was missing entirely, now only a black lump of broiled skin.

Are you dead? Gary felt stupid after asking the question. Jonathan’s face and hands were blue, and ended with fingernails that had grown white in death. You are, aren’t you? He took a step back, tears filling his eyes. The stench of urine, feces, and scorched pork permeating Gary’s nose.

The first aid kit was forgotten, left to freely float about the compartment. Gary disregarded personal safety as he pulled himself over the benches and into the cockpit with spastically grasping hands and flailing legs. He slammed down the dogs once on the other side of the door.

2

He made use of the following hours to curl up on the pilot chair, netting the harness around shoulders and legs. He alternated between crying and starring dumbly at the cold expanse beyond the cockpit. He was unsure if the tears were a result of mourning for Jonathan, or a fear of being left alone.

Gary was eventually forced from his brooding due to the needs of his bladder. Even then, he was unwilling to enter the main compartment. Good old lifeless Jonathan Johnson was waiting to mock the attempted rescue. Besides, only thirty minutes remained until the computer released the SUT interlocks. So he waited

.

3

An alarm sounded, startling Gary from a fitful sleep, when the computer deemed the necessary safe distance from hostile vessels had been achieved. Gary tapped an alert window on the touch screen to silence the alarm. With the lifeboat manual spread across his lap, he ran through the initialization sequence. His confidence grew as the generators housed in the aft engine compartments hummed to life. The lifeboat smoothly accelerated, temporarily pulling Gary deep into the cushioned back of the chair. A high pitched whine, emanating from the generators, stabbed into the inner workings of his ear, but quickly died when the fuel burned away. He compared the radar screen with the data spread across the computer monitor, and arrived at a projected time of entry into orbit above Earth. The last bit of data clouded Gary’s processing abilities, allowing panic to touch his thoughts.

This can’t be right! He complained to the computer. He glanced at the flickering numbers of the LEDs. That has to be wrong!

He lifted a fist with the intention of slamming it against the computer monitor, but changed his mind at the last second to deliver the blow against the unforgiving metal of the console surface. He yelped with pain. Gary subdued the taunting rage through a stern refusal to lash out with a kick against the equipment. He settled for squeezing the throbbing hand under his other arm while grimacing through the pain. A loosely held serenity was forced over his emotions to aid in clearing the mind for another attempt at interpreting the data.

What does that mean? 6,480 hours? He called up the calculator on the touch screen, and entered the numbers spread across the various displays scattered about the cockpit. The solution banished the precariously held serenity in favor of rage, but this time he settled for flinging the manual on its lanyard rather than risk further harm to his throbbing fist. That’s wrong! I can’t be out here for 270 goddamned days. Might as well slit my throat now. He tapped through the numbers once more, coming up with the same answer. The computer must be wrong. He tasted the bitterness of denial the moment his mouth opened to speak. He glanced over the readout labeled Ship’s Speed, and gasped. That’s little better than the speed of the first space shuttles. Gary yanked on the lanyard to bring the manual back to his lap, and began flipping through the heavy pages with enough force to tear them from the volume. Eventually he found the subsection entitled Maximum Speeds. Gary mumbled as he read the first couple of sentence.

‘Survivors can expect a speedy escape of 11,000 to 14,000 meters per second. Speed is contingent upon payload and environmental conditions.’ Gary’s jaw fell slack as he stared at the words. Who the hell thinks that’s speedy? Goddamn military! And what environmental conditions are they talking about? He slammed the manual closed before reading the caution concerned with solar flares. Viciously he slung it under the console, and blindly kicked as the thick volume swung back to collide with his legs.

Releasing the harness, he flung himself from the chair. I have to take a piss! He said as though it were an accusation against the manual.

From the cockpit hatch, Jonathan’s corpse was glaringly visible as it rested along the aft benches on the port side. Refusing to look at the dead shipmate, Gary pushed off into the main compartment, crossing to the aft quarter with eyes set on the door closing off the head. He quickly locked himself in as a shiver ran through his body. Gary continued to stare at the door long after his business with the vacuum toilet was concluded.

What type of man am I? A self-deprecating laugh filled the small compartment. I guess not much of a man if I’m still here. He’s dead and there is nothing to be done about it. Nothing to be scared of. The dead can’t do anything except look creepy. He drew in a deep breath. Besides, I need food and water, and I can’t get those without going near him. Another deep breath . . . exhale. Gary tentatively eased himself into the main compartment with one hand still clutching at the door.

Hi, Jonathan. I just need to get some things, and then I’ll head back up to the cockpit. Hope you don’t have any problems with that. He waited for a reply that would never come. All right, so I guess I’ll get started.

He glided toward the row of benches opposite of Jonathan, and lifted the cushion. Beneath he found a compartment walled in to form a perfect cubic foot. The space was filled with emergency rations, bottled water, more first aid kits, and basic repair equipment and tools. A cocooning hammock was strapped into a corner. He unfolded the emergency bed, and stuffed it with food pouches and water bottles. With the use of hand holds, he propelled himself into the cockpit, towing the plunder along with him. He tied off the ends of the hammock to a coolant pipe in the overhead, successfully limiting the effects of air circulation on the weightless provisions.

He rifled through each bench compartment with the exception of the one beneath Jonathan’s body. Gary hesitantly drifted over his dead companion, waiting a few moments as he stared from above at the charred ruin of Jonathan’s face.

I’m going to move you, Jonathan. Nothing to worry about. There are some things I need, and they’re under your bench. So I’m going to put you over there. Gary hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the row of benches behind him. I’m going to move you now.

He unbuckled Jonathan and gave a shove. The body traveled a mere three feet before drawing the harness straps taut. A thin moment of understanding struck Gary as Jonathan’s body snapped back to collide with him. Drying blood had formed an adhesive bond between Jonathan’s coveralls and the nylon weave of the harness. With a scream, Gary shoved the corpse away while flailing across the bulkhead, increasing the distance between the living and the dead.

What the hell were you thinking?

He kicked at Jonathan’s head. Gary’s stomach turned as his steel-toed boot produced a sound much like stepping into macaroni. Glistening bits of Jonathan coated the waxy gloss of the boot. Gary retched.

You disgust me! You hear that? You-disgust-me! Morsels of undigested food and spittle sprayed from Gary’s mouth, and stuck to Jonathan’s uniform.

He wiped clean the toe of the fouled boot on a leg of Jonathan’s coveralls. With that done, he examined the head wound without getting too close. The fragmentation of bone surrounding the temple gave him reason to believe Jonathan’s skull was weakened well before the kick.

Did you get slammed against the gun mount during the attack? Or were you thrown against the deck? Gary choked back a second stream of vomit. Doesn’t matter. You’re dead and I’m alive.

Gary pried the harness straps from Jonathan’s chest, and gave the corpse a push, allowing it to float about the aft benches as he returned to the business of scavenging. He lifted the last remaining bench cushion to retrieve the stash of food and water Jonathan had been resting upon. Arms filled with the final haul of supplies, he turned toward the cockpit, pausing long enough to spit in Jonathan’s direction. You disgust me!

4

The inventory of food pouches and bottled water was disheartening to say the least. He found enough meals to feed twenty people for three days. Even by limiting his food intake to one meal a day, Gary could expect ninety days of starvation and dehydration to follow. Never did he believe the moment would arrive when he would begrudge failing to commit his full attention to survival training; not in the modern age of space travel, interplanetary colonization, and terraforming. Knowledge of minor facts, like how long he could survive without sustenance, eluded him.

He huffed. How was I supposed to know I’d actually go to war?

The lack of food was another mark of nurtured resentment reserved for the engineers. Speculation led Gary to believe their greatest concerned had been cramming the storage compartments with ancillary equipment. He assumed the engineers were under the misguided notion that the greatest hazard to military vessels was a breached hull. In addition, they were likely led to believe Terran patrol ships did not venture too far beyond Earth, ensuring a nominal time lapse between disaster and rescue.

That’s what happens when the military contracts with people who have no intention of traveling through the galaxy, Gary mumbled.

He suspended a second hammock above the pilot chair, and lined the interior netting with a wool blanket. Feeling no more tasks required his immediate attention, he tore into an emergency ration, the first from a finite supply. Boredom inspired Gary to work while choking through the meal of lukewarm scrambled eggs. He considered activating the nominal communications array to request assistance from whoever may pick up the transmission. The nearest vessel able to assist him was more likely than not aligned with the Mars Liberation Front. He embarked on a short dream of making contact, accepting rescue, and pledging service in the MLF military (such as it was). The fantasy of rising up in their ranks brought a smile to his face until whispers of reality crumpled the dream, like the vacuum of space had crumpled his cruiser. The truth was the MLF was bound to take him as a prisoner of war if they chose to rescue him at all. And then the interrogation. Rumors claimed the MLF incorporated flash exposure to the Martian atmosphere. Just long enough for pain and fear to help with the work.

With the notion of turning traitor crushed, he was left with starvation in the event the distress beacon failed to attract a friendly vessel. He found himself reaching for the manual once more, flipping to the section concerned with the beacon. He groaned as he read aloud the first paragraph beneath the thick letters of the chapter title.

"‘The distress beacon is programmed to remain inactive in the event hostile vessels are detected. The distress beacon cannot be activated until a minimum safe distance has been achieved. This is calculated by the ship’s computer. Only the Officer-in-Charge is permitted to activate the distress beacon before entering friendly space. A