Prince Connor Wrath is beyond bored with his royal lifestyle. Receiving nothing but the most mundane tasks in the name of his kingly father, and even less respect than the court jester, he dreams of a life beyond the land of Lynnwood. There’s only one catch: The gods of old have forbade travel past the harbors and inlets of the only land he’s ever known. Who are these gods, where have they gone, and why would they insist on such a questionable boundary? Connor is determined to be the first who defies the laws of the disappeared deities.

What follows is IP of Gonzo Wolf Productions LLC & Chad Cloud-Miller

Also, I’m releasing this novel, novella, or whatever it’s going to end up being absolutely free. If you enjoyed what you’ve read, I’d ask you to consider dropping off a little something at my PayPal @howlgrowlsnarl. Coffee is getting ridiculous!

Wrath’s Lament

by Rev. Dare Cloud

Chapter Seven

2.0

            Rankin Smithee shuffled through the main hall of the conference wing with urgency. An employee of Ellen Air Base for nearly a decade, he couldn’t help but be fashionably late to anything dealing with the higher ups. His hourly warehouse position made him feel like he belonged to the greasers rather than the socs, to put a seventh-grade spin on it.

            To be honest, this line of thought was none of his own. The high and mighty salary slave drivers made damned sure he and his hourly paid cohorts felt the sting of financial indifference every chance they got. The parking lot with the fancy cars, the lunchroom with their corporate bully tables, and the constant, degrading busy work they’d be made to perform was insulting. In the end, what could anyone do other than find new employment?

            The separation began somewhere in the vicinity of high school, and it had yet to end. The rich, jock douchebags of his hometown suckled the family tit and went off to college. It wasn’t that they were any more intelligent than the thuggish, mullet metal heads who were always more interested in finding a safe bathroom to smoke cigarettes than education, but college wouldn’t fail you most times if you paid your tuition and showed up to class. Rankin couldn’t remember where he first heard it, but he always quoted some barroom scholars by saying all medical procedures were a craps-shoot. The doctor could’ve passed medical school with ninety-nine, or he could’ve skated by at seventy. No one would truly know beyond the lawsuit. He still had trouble believing that cigarettes and hair metal had made such a strong comeback.

            Ellen Air Base was the only place to be gainfully employed within a fifty-mile radius of his hometown of Twin Oaks, and commuting to the larger city of Dallas was out of the question. Granted, Twin Oaks had grown quite a bit since his childhood but there still weren’t many opportunities other than some minimum wage nightmares at a fast-food joint or on a motel cleaning crew. A new turnpike was constructed years ago; bringing traffic from the bustling interstate and into the more rural areas. Those weary travelers needed places to eat and sleep, didn’t they? Absolutely, and Twin Oaks became a “gas and go” town overnight. It was just difficult to lead any type of lucrative life performing those types of work. So, he stopped smoking pot for a month and landed a warehouse job at the only real gig in town. He’d die there for sure.

He found his seat after purposely rubbing his denim clad ass into the faces of the suit-types half a dozen times. To them, it was an inconvenient misplacement of manners which could’ve been avoided if the bearer of such ass were more careful. To Rankin, it was cleverly disguised payback. If only he’d been able to muster up a good biscuit before choosing his seat mid row. Wasted opportunities. At least he’d be able to concoct a decent “price of gas” joke for all his buddies after work at the American Legion bar.

            Rankin, or “Rank” to his friends, finally planted himself firmly into the first empty chair and performed a quick left-to-right scan of his surroundings. Unfortunately, he failed to recognize a soul from his union brethren, so he couldn’t perform the awkward name-call and yell-back from across the room. No, everyone in attendance was sporting a tie, leaving him to be the only hourly employee who’d been invited to the party. This was odd, indeed. Whenever he was assigned to any type of corporate work detail, there were always at least a team of ten hourly slaves along for the ride. Why was he the only one? Oh well; certainly, he’d find out soon enough.

It didn’t make him feel the slightest bit special. Instead, it lingered on the border of cruel and unusual punishment. Were all these suits moving offices into the new building constructed on the far north end of the airfield, and he’d somehow drawn the short straw to assemble all their new desk chairs? If so, he planned on gassing all of them just as soon as the bastards turned their overfed, chubby heads.

The other thing bothering him to high Hell and back was the fact none of these assholes were talking among themselves to figure out what was going on. There were no whispers, no laughter, and no stealth attempts at “buddy-buddy-grab-ass” among the salary dogs. Did these guys not know how to have any fun? Perhaps the big city commute they all chose to take every morning, and afternoon, took all the play out of them. That had to be excruciating, Rank thought. There was nothing better than living five minutes away from the shit hole he called a job. At least he was always moments from a cold beer, a mediocre girl, and a friend’s shoulder. These other guys appeared as though they’d never met before in their lives, knowing damn well they’d been toiling side-by-side for years. If this was what growing up a rich kid and attending college did to a person, Rank was glad he grew up dirt-poor. This was no way to live.

The lights darkened, and an electronic ping chimed three times as a signal to reveal the presentation’s start. There was a bit of whispering coming from behind the curtain as though the main speaker was hesitating to reveal his presence. Finally, the drapes parted to reveal a fully uniformed Air Force officer, carrying nothing but a smoothly shaved butt-chin and notebook. Rank didn’t know his rank (ironically) because he’d never seen such a display of brass. This was surely one of the top dogs from the military division of Ellen Air Base. He suddenly became unusually nervous.

“Good morning, everyone. To those not in the know, I am Major General Mike Constantine with the United States Air Force. I’d like to thank everyone in attendance for their cooperation on such short notice, and their hospitality.”

Major General Mike Constantine? Rankin remembered hearing that name on the news while half passed out in his living room recliner. He was always too spent to open his eyes and recognize a face on television, but echoes of that name were whispered at work. He never watched the news but was sometimes a little too smashed to care enough to change the channel. Constantine was top brass, to be sure, and Rank wasn’t much of a fan of where this impromptu meeting could lead. Were they closing the airfield? This town would dry up like a burn victim’s blind date!

“Hello, free taco bar; here I come,” Rankin mouthed, receiving no attention from those sitting nearby.

            “As you all know, climate change has affected the entire planet at an alarming rate due to our government’s ignorance throughout the decades. The ice caps have all but melted and the weather patterns have been an increasing danger since most of us were children. What none of you know is the fact that it’s too late to do anything about it. Government officials and the military are doing their best to keep this unfortunate fact a secret for the past twenty years to prevent mass hysteria within the public…”

Rank’s mind faded away as others around him gasped and texted messages into their phones. Sure, the military did its best to keep it all a big secret for the sake of mass hysteria, but this idiot just managed to create a microcell of madness within a tiny room. It didn’t hurt Rank in the slightest, though. He knew. He’d always known. It didn’t take a genius to figure out F5 tornadoes blazing through the state monthly were what his ancestors would’ve called “normalcy”. Conspiracy theory podcasts, the internet, and an attic full of his grandfather’s old Farmer’s Almanacs were enough to keep him on edge in adulthood. All he needed was that one person with the balls to tell the truth and make him believe he’d been right from the start. The world was indeed dying, and it would more than likely be doing so within his own lifetime. It was a good thing no woman found him attractive enough to assist with spitting out a child or two. That was a torture no one deserved. Both the raising of children and being devoured by a planet who hates your guts.

Oddly enough, no one was asking this official any questions as though they’d been instructed not to do so by their superiors. They were just letting him ramble on into the morning with talk of death and destruction like they’d all welcome it when it chose to arrive. Maybe they had some kind of special bunker built beneath the air base for them to live like a crooked Noah’s Ark. Something told Rank they wouldn’t care about rounding up a bunch of animals this time. The current world insisted it would be every individual for themselves. Maybe they could organize fights to the death to see who would lead the rag-tag cave full of corporates, who’d all be dead within the year. Some of these guys probably didn’t even wipe their own butts!

This really didn’t change Rank’s world all that much. All his family were either dead or lived too far away to care. They never even spoke to one another on the phone, so he wasn’t about to ring them up in a fit of craziness to tell them the world was ending. The bastards would find out soon enough. The planet shaking humanity off like the unwanted pests they all were was par for the course. Many lonely nights had come and gone in his life leading him to the brink of taking his own life anyway. The approaching last days would be no different than any other. He’d just plan on getting wasted and drift off into nothingness. He’d came to know those as “Tuesday’s”.

There were only a handful of things in his life he’d yet to experience and, according to the great and powerful Mike Constantine still spitting the apocalypse, it was damn near time to try them all. Rankin never made a list or anything, but he knew the ones he’d get out of the way when the time came.

More sex, for instance, was something he’d placed at the top. No, not with another AI doll, but with a woman. Nothing against toys, especially in 2042, but he was a “heavier” dude. There was always the risk of really leaning into it and breaking Barbie’s head mid-release. There are just some visions one can’t live with. The handful of partners he’d met since high school were one hundred percent ‘Captain Save-A-Ho’ mattress fodder. It was synthetic or heartache. That choice was simple.

The other was murder. Rank wasn’t much of a fighter when it came to confrontations, and he hated hunting, because he didn’t want to inflict pain upon any innocent creatures. Killing another man always sparked his curiosity, though. Mankind, who was indeed responsible for bringing on their current predicament, was the monster to top all monsters. Humanity deserved whatever was coming their way, but Rankin wanted to make sure he felt the pleasure of someone gasping for their breath beneath strained hands. Preferably a man, if he were offered a choice, because he didn’t think he could go all the way with a girl or child. Hell, maybe even one of the men in this room! He looked around quickly to see if anyone in his vicinity sparked interest. No one yet, but there was always tomorrow…until there wasn’t.

“But it appears as though we may have found a solution,” the general interrupted Rank’s perverted thoughts.

The speaker paused momentarily. It was a shame because he was just getting into it. Dreams of sex, murder, or perhaps both in succession would have to wait because the man with the busy uniform said it might not happen after all. He’d be lying to himself if he wasn’t just the slightest bit disappointed, even without the chance to play butt-bongos and wreak havoc. Major General Mike Constantine now had his undivided attention.

“I’m sure most of you have been briefed on the Roswell crash nearly one hundred years ago when you were initially employed with Ellen. I believe it is part of your welcome packet. Is there anyone who doesn’t know the details of…”

Wait. Rankin Smithee never received any kind of alien conspiracy briefing when he first entered the work force, and he’d never heard another discussing it in his presence. Was this another one of those salary bastard perks he wasn’t quite privy to? Why had he been invited to this meeting in the first place? He was clearly the only hourly employee who’d stumbled into the rich kids’ club in the first place, and now he had all types of privileged information. Some of it was supposed to somehow keep the North Pole from melting, or some other science-fiction fantasy he didn’t understand. All he wanted to do was get back to deep thoughts about stabbing someone in the neck.

“Within that crash in the New Mexico desert were the bodies of several alien species who didn’t survive more than forty-eight hours after impact. Granted, I’m sure a few of our own men had a little something to do with that, but I won’t tell if you won’t! I mean, accidents do happen after all…”

Major General Constantine talked to the side of his hand as though he was humorously passing on a naughty secret. The gesture caused several of the men in attendance to laugh aloud bringing Rankin to attention. He couldn’t believe that any of these stiff bastards had a sense of humor in the first place, but laughter caused by the government ordering the termination of visitors from another world? Potentially, the only cool thing that’d happened to this worthless rock since the dinosaurs took its fateful nap as well. No, he didn’t find that funny at all. No wonder the creatures stuck to the shadows, causing basement nerds to spray their tightie-whities whenever someone snapped a picture of a discarded hubcap mid-flight. The laughter ceased and the General continued his tale of intergalactic death.

“The spaceship and its content were towed to an abandoned power plant in our nearby town of Rainy Day, while a decoy truck carrying the ship’s only cargo was forwarded on to what was known as Area 51 in the Nevada desert. For years, scientists, tech junkies, and linguists tried their best to decipher the language of the creature’s complex machinery inside the “crate” from the wreckage, but it was all to no avail. Our brightest minds couldn’t solve the puzzle. At that point, we just tucked it away somewhere, and pretty much forgot…”

As a kid, Rankin remembered the 90’s tales of Area 51 told by his father and grandfather. Apparently, some idiots tried to storm the place right around the time he was born but it’d already been closed, abandoned, and completely discarded by the Air Force. Those keyboard commandos never stood a chance. Illegal marijuana must’ve been a bitch before federal legalization in 2028. All hail King Garcia!

“Then, about two weeks ago, some YouTuber – that old video sharing service that kept the elderly entertained in nursing homes – and his young son were searching for endangered animals on the shores of the lake near the old Rainy Day power plant. The crate was brought back here by mistake, some kind of logistics faux pas, when the military uprooted the entire operation, and the guy’s little kid thought it was a type of retro puzzle. The brainiac little bastard managed to bypass what a century’s worth of scientists could not. He solved the great mystery of the Roswell crate and revealed this message I’m going to play for all of you. What you’re about to see may be disturbing, but I’d ask you to be brave for the sake of our planet. We need to see this through.”

Now Rank was one hundred percent in the game. Whether his invitation was a total accident or purposely drafted by someone who had a little too much faith in his hacking skills, there was no way he would turn down the upcoming mission. A chance to be in the presence of alien technology? Most of his nerd-herd would give their left testicle for a chance like that! Also, the old men on the bar stools at the American Legion would die from heart attacks when he told them the great Ellen Air Base secrets! Most of them worked there at one time in their lives and just never found the courage to leave. Not only would he be a local hero, but Rankin Smithee would have enough information to sell to an aerospace competitor for a decent price. The possibilities were endless now, and he loved where this all could lead. Corporate espionage was way more exciting than sex or murder when much of your collective income came from hacking.

The holographic monitor between Rank and the Major General came to life with the crackle normally accompanying older transmissions. He was certain the techies didn’t bother trying to clean it up out of fear of accidental erasure. Then, an unusual being stepped into frame, causing a few of the suits to make a run for the doors in terror. It didn’t matter that the Air Force official offered them warnings or begged them to remain in their seats. Rank guessed that suddenly discovering you weren’t alone in the universe was enough to make some peoples’ bowels pay a visit to trouser-town without advanced tickets. Hearing about this shit in a briefing packet was fine and dandy, but seeing it with your own eyes? Two different scenarios.

The creature’s height was impossible to determine from a holographic projection, but most human men didn’t stretch the entire band of a recording field unless they were zoomed. To boot, the cloaked freak of someone else’s planetary nature had no mouth or nose, revealing nothing but a smooth facial appearance to rival the slickest of baby’s bottoms. Really, the only distinguishing feature to be found were the black, reflective pools which sat where a typical pair of eyes belonged. The final straw in Rank’s haystack of hellish visions came when the creature started speaking without the use of a mouth or any other visible device.

“Greetings, my friends from across the vast oceans of space and time. We managed to stumble across your civilization hundreds of your planetary years ago and have watched you closely since. You’ll have to excuse our discretion, but we felt no choice. Your earlier colonies were never too keen on our interactions so, out of safety, we chose to keep our distance. Unfortunately, your kind are headed in a dire direction too perilous for me and my kind to ignore. Therefore, after much debate, my fellow travelers and I have decided to offer our assistance to help save your world from inevitable destruction.”

Rank did his best to hold back laughter among the straits, but he wasn’t too sure how much longer he’d contain himself. If he were gathering facts correctly, the Roswell crash was the result of a distant civilization offering assistance to save mankind from its own demise. Rather than accepting the gift, the American government chose to terminate the messengers and stow away what could possibly be the most important discovery ever to exist atop this rotating rock he and his fellow fleas called Earth. The irony of all ironies.

“If you manage to follow the provided instructions within the container correctly, this one-of-a-kind machine will have the ability to clean your skies and oceans, decontaminate the soils beneath your feet, and even lessen the harshest of weather patterns created by your ignorance and planetary punishment. Of course, I mean no offense when stating such things, but facts are facts. You and your kind haven’t been nice to your blue world since the beginning of your industrial age, and this is impossible without our interference. We know this because we, too, have suffered the loss of our home planet under similar circumstances, and don’t want you to endure the same fate. After all, you have yet to unwind the secrets of intergalactic travel. Your ability to escape your own filth would be impossible by this point of no return. Also, it is imperative that you do not lose the instructions found within…”

With that, the holographic program ceased to be transmitted, and the lights in the room were brought to full capacity. At first, Rankin believed someone from the A/V department managed to cut the message off before the full broadcast could be enjoyed, but a possibility existed that it was nothing more than a partial transmission caused by age, impact, or the elements. Whatever the true answer to the mystery, Rankin knew the important parts of the extraterrestrial’s speech were shown to the “tops”. Whatever followed was useless filler. The planet was in danger, mankind was a bunch of irresponsible turds, and this other-worldly species gifted them a way to fix it. Finally, after several moments of guessing games and self-reflection in the otherwise silent room, the military official returned to the podium.

“Crazy, huh?” Constantine joked, bringing a bit more uncomfortable laughter into the packed room. “After all these years of wasted effort, wasted money, and wasted lives, we had the ability to reverse the effects of extreme climate change all this time stuffed away in a snake infested, mold filled, abandoned hydro-electric plant!”

The laughter among the suit-clad straits roared to a crescendo throughout the room as though the stiff, brass-wearing bastard managed to spit out the mother of all dirty jokes. Were none of these people even taking this seriously? Rank knew deep down at that very moment why he’d been chosen to attend the meeting with the likes of such irresponsible cretons. The device would need to be stored, secured, and guarded while final deciphering and preparation of the lifesaving mechanism took place. Even though his life as a scooter-jockeying warehouse monkey seemed insignificant to the others in attendance, he promised he’d compose himself with the utmost professionalism a man could offer when placed in such a precarious situation. He was the new guardian to his planet’s future, and he was damned proud. He’d also be damned proud to be the first to hack this device and upload its contents to the dark web’s highest bidder.

Then, Major General Mike Constantine spoke the ten most important words humanity ever heard. The ones at the end of it all.

“By any chance is a Rankin Smithee in the room?”