Trade paperback and ebook version (art by John Teehan)
The Wannoshay Cycle takes place in a world where terrorism has spread to America in the form of repeated bombings and violent attacks. Adding to the chaos and paranoia, three dozen alien ships crash-land in the middle of a blizzard, landing in the Midwest of America and Canada.
Almost miraculously, in spite of the paranoia of the people who encounter them, the aliens known as the Wannoshay begin to integrate slowly into human society. The transition is interrupted, however, when a series of mysterious explosions occur, and the “Wantas” are blamed.
The aliens are placed into internment camps, “for their protection and our own,” according to human leaders. An unlikely group of humans, led by a Catholic priest, converge around the alien Mother Ship in Iowa City, where the Wannoshay are inexplicably dying.
The humans soon discover the “true history” of the aliens, a secret that explains their epidemic sickness and forces the humans to make painful choices about how to help these immigrants to our world, choices that will take them away from the lives they once knew.
Hardcover version (art by Alan M. Grant)
- Buy a PDF directly from UnWrecked Press.
- Digital versions also available at Weightless Books, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, DriveThruFiction, Google Play, and Smashwords.
- Trade paperback available at Merry Blacksmith Press and Amazon.
- Hardcover available at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and IndieBound (while supplies last!).
The Stories Behind the Novel
The novel is an expansion of some of my stories that have been published already. Here are the published stories that started it all:
Drinker (a prequel story, set before the novel!)- Redemption, Drawing Near
- Explosions
- Back to the Old Neighborhood
- Wantaviewer
- Crossing the Camp
- Mud and Salt
Excerpt — from Chapter One
"Johndo" by Edward Noon
For the second time that week, a group of armed soldiers filled the alcove at the back of Father Joshua McDowell’s church.
As he went through the familiar, almost unconscious movements of the morning Mass, Joshua did his best to ignore them. The soldiers’ shadows drifted in and out of focus between the two tall, wooden confessionals carved with tired crosses and the worn faces of saints. The four soldiers were nearly invisible to his old eyes, thanks to their nano-fiber camouflage fatigues.
Taking a deep breath, he continued with that day’s reading: “But when you see Jerusalem surrounded by armies, then know that its desolation has come. Look up and raise your heads, people, because your redemption is drawing near.”
As if on cue, the lead soldier stepped forward out of the shimmering air in front of the church’s new security arch, her black pulse gun the same color as the hull of the ships that had crashed to Earth barely a month earlier.
She wanted to make sure Joshua saw them there. All of them. He turned his gaze back on his meager congregation, the same dozen elderly men and women he saw daily, all of them lifelong Chicago residents, and hoped the soldiers hadn’t come for him.
"Nonami" by Martin Gruelle
At the end of Mass he watched the slow departure of his few remaining people. Back in January, this Mass would have been packed with parishioners. That had been after the bombings and the ships, but before the riots and the bands of cultists. Now it was March, and winter threatened to linger on for another season.
As soon as he was back in the rectory, Joshua shed his heavy outer robe and musty-smelling vestments. His hands shaking, he arranged his gray hair in an attempt to hide his bald spot, feeling his fifty-eight years mostly inside his chest. His heart attack had been less than three months ago, and the now-familiar ache worsened on cold days.
“They don’t know about the colonel,” he told his reflection. “If they did, they would’ve taken you in right away. Have faith, McDowell.”
Picking up his Bible, he returned to the church. His shoes echoed down the main aisle and kicked up dust lit by the three dozen stained-glass windows reinforced with safety glass. A bittersweet mix of ozone and gun oil filled the air at the back of the church.
“So,” he said to the young woman standing in the alcove, after a glance at her nametag, “Sergeant Murphy. What brings you back here again? It’s not every church that has an armed guard, you know.”
The female soldier looked at him from behind a pair of wide, gray-lensed glasses. Above the three stripes affixed to her helmet was a blue badge decorated with an old-fashioned rifle and a silver wreath. By the time he looked back at her face, her glasses had turned transparent. Light blue eyes now looked out at him, slightly magnified.
"Mud and Salt" by Jayson Doolittle
“We’ve gotten more reports about some recent sightings of … ah, undesirable groups in the area, sir. Anti-military protesters, possible new-religion types, and the like.”
He stifled a bitter smile at the soldier’s description of the cults. Calling what they practiced a new religion was as close to a slap in the face to his work as a person could get without raising a hand.
“With the criminal activity that’s taken place here recently, we were ordered to check in on you, sir. Just trying to prevent a repeat of things like the firebombing from down the street. It’s not every street that’s had such a run of bad luck as yours,” the soldier added.
He winced at the memory of the burning apartment complex, followed by the riots only a few weeks ago that had resulted in the destruction of the church’s organ and the installation of the new security system. The police and the soldiers with their pulse guns had arrived just in time that night, stopping the band of wild-eyed cultists on their way to the altar.
“Sorry,” Sergeant Murphy said a moment later. “That came out wrong, sir.”
Joshua nodded, looking away from her at the white metal of the security arch in front of the outer door. The soldiers had turned it off, silencing its low hum. The female soldier moved closer and put two gloved fingers in front of the tiny mike attached to her cheek.
“World’s been different since January, sir,” she whispered. “Everything’s changed. We gotta stick together, y’know?”
He looked at the female soldier with her black cheek mike and ear buds, her tiny blue forehead sensors, her shifting gray camouflage uniform, her blue-black pulse rifle, and her opaqued glasses.
“Yes,” he said after Sergeant Murphy had removed her hand from her mike. “The world has changed. Too much.”
Continued…
