Book 1 · Chapter 13

After getting that sudden lesson in how powerful Earth weapons were, the Martians went back to their original spot on Horsell Common. And in their rush, weighed down by the wreckage of their destroyed friend, they probably didn't notice someone like me - a stray and easy target.

If they’d just left their buddy and kept going, there was nothing between them and London except batteries of twelve-pounder guns.

They would’ve definitely reached the capital before anyone even knew they were coming - their arrival would have been as sudden, terrifying, and destructive as the earthquake that destroyed Lisbon a century ago. But they weren’t in a hurry.

Cylinder after cylinder made its way through space; every twenty-four hours brought them more reinforcements. Meanwhile, the military and naval authorities, now totally aware of how powerful their enemies were, worked with incredible speed.

Every minute, a new gun was set up until, before sunset, every little grove of trees, every row of suburban houses on the hills around Kingston and Richmond, hid an anxious, black barrel.

And through the burned-out and devastated area - maybe twenty square miles total - that surrounded the Martian camp on Horsell Common, through charred and ruined villages among the green trees, through the blackened and smoking ruins that had been pine woods just a day before, crawled the dedicated scouts with the heliographs that would soon warn the gunners of the Martian advance.

But the Martians now understood our command of artillery and the danger of getting too close, and not a single person dared to go within a mile of either cylinder, except at the cost of their lives.

It seems these giants spent the earlier part of the afternoon moving things around, transferring everything from the second and third cylinders - the second at Addlestone Golf Links and the third at Pyrford - to their original pit on Horsell Common.

Above that, above the blackened heather and ruined buildings that stretched far and wide, stood one as a lookout, while the rest abandoned their huge fighting machines and went down into the pit.

They were working hard there well into the night, and the tall pillar of thick, green smoke rising from it could be seen from the hills around Merrow, and even, people said, from Banstead and Epsom Downs.

And while the Martians behind me were getting ready for their next attack, and in front of me Humanity was gathering for battle, I made my way with incredible effort and pain from the fire and smoke of burning Weybridge towards London.

I saw an abandoned boat, small and far away, drifting down the river, and taking off most of my soaked clothes, I went after it, caught up to it, and escaped from that destruction.

There were no oars in the boat, but I managed to paddle, as well as my parched hands would allow, down the river towards Halliford and Walton, going very slowly and constantly looking behind me, as you can imagine.

I followed the river because I thought the water gave me the best chance of escaping if these giants came back. The hot water from the Martian's destruction floated downstream with me, so for almost a mile I could barely see either bank.

Once, though, I spotted a line of black figures hurrying across the meadows from the direction of Weybridge. Halliford seemed deserted, and several of the houses facing the river were on fire.

It was strange to see the place so quiet, so empty under the hot, blue sky, with the smoke and little flickers of flame going straight up into the heat of the afternoon. I’d never seen houses burning without a crowd getting in the way.

A little farther on, the dry reeds along the bank were smoking and glowing, and a line of fire inland was steadily moving across a late field of hay.

I was totally drained and exhausted after everything that happened, and the heat on the water was intense, so I drifted for a while. Then, my fears kicked in again, and I started paddling. The sun was scorching my bare back.

Finally, as I spotted the bridge at Walton around the bend, my fever and weakness overwhelmed my worries, and I landed on the Middlesex bank and collapsed, feeling really sick, in the tall grass. I guess it was around four or five o’clock.

I got up a bit later, walked maybe half a mile without seeing anyone, and then lay down again in the shade of a hedge. I think I remember talking to myself, kind of rambling, during that last stretch. I was also super thirsty, and I seriously regretted not drinking more water.

It's weird, I felt angry with my wife, I don't even know why, but being so desperate to get to Leatherhead was stressing me out big time. I don’t really remember the curate showing up, so I probably dozed off.

I noticed him as a guy sitting there in a soot-smudged shirt, staring with his clean-shaven, upturned face at a faint flicker dancing across the sky. The sky looked like what they call a mackerel sky - rows and rows of faint, wispy clouds, just tinted with the colors of the midsummer sunset.

I sat up, and at the sound of my movement, he looked at me quickly. "Do you have any water? I asked abruptly. He shook his head. "You’ve been asking for water for the last hour," he said. We were silent for a moment, checking each other out.

I’m sure I looked like a strange sight - naked except for my water-soaked pants and socks, burned, and my face and shoulders blackened by smoke.

His face was kind of weak, his chin tucked in, and his hair was in crisp, almost blonde curls on his low forehead; his eyes were pretty big, pale blue, and just staring blankly. He spoke abruptly, looking off into the distance. "What does it mean?" he said. "What do all these things mean?"

I stared at him and didn’t answer. He stretched out a thin, white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone. "Why are these things happening? What have we done wrong? I was walking through the streets to clear my head for the afternoon, and then - fire, earthquake, death!"

It was like Sodom and Gomorrah! All our hard work undone, all the work - - What are these Martians? What are we? I asked, clearing my throat. He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For about half a minute, he just stared silently.

"I was walking through the streets to clear my head," he said. "And suddenly - fire, earthquake, death! He went quiet again, his chin sunk almost to his knees. Then he started waving his hand. "All the work - all the Sunday schools - What have we done - what has Weybridge done?"

"Everything’s gone - everything’s destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it just three years ago. Gone! Wiped out! Why? Another pause, and he burst out again like he was losing it. "The smoke of her burning goes up forever and ever!" he shouted.

His eyes were blazing, and he pointed a skinny finger in the direction of Weybridge. By this point, I was starting to figure him out. The huge tragedy he’d been through - it was clear he’d escaped from Weybridge - had pushed him to the edge of sanity.

"How far are we from Sunbury?" I asked, trying to sound normal. "What are we supposed to do?" he asked. "Are these creatures everywhere? Has the whole Earth been handed over to them?" "How far are we from Sunbury?"

"Just this morning I led the early service - - " "Things have changed," I said quietly. "You need to stay calm. There’s still hope. "Hope? "Yeah. Plenty of hope - even with all this destruction! I started explaining how I saw our situation.

He listened at first, but as I talked, the interest in his eyes faded, and they went back to that blank stare, and he stopped paying attention to me.

"This has to be it - the beginning of the end," he said, cutting me off. "The end! The big, terrible day of the Lord! When people will scream at mountains and rocks to fall on them and hide them - hide them from the one sitting on the throne! I started to get what was going on.

I stopped trying to make sense of it all, pushed myself to my feet, and stood over him, putting my hand on his shoulder. Get a grip! I said. You’re totally freaked out! What’s the point of religion if it falls apart when things get tough?

"Think about what earthquakes and floods, wars and volcanoes have done to people before! Did you think God was skipping Weybridge? He’s not an insurance agent. He sat there, totally silent for a while. "But how do we get out of this?" he asked suddenly. "They’re unstoppable, they’re heartless."

"Not necessarily either one," I answered. "And the stronger they are, the smarter and more careful we need to be. One of them got taken out over there not three hours ago. "Taken out!" he said, looking around. "How can God’s messengers get taken out? "I saw it happen. I told him.

We just happened to stumble into the thick of it, I said, that’s all. What’s that flicker in the sky? he asked abruptly. I told him it was the heliograph sending a signal - that it was a sign of human help and effort in the sky. We’re in the middle of it, I said, as quiet as it is.

"That flicker tells of the storm coming. Over there are the Martians, and towards London, where those hills rise around Richmond and Kingston and the trees offer cover, they’re building defenses and setting up guns. Soon the Martians will be coming this way again."

And even as I spoke, he jumped to his feet and stopped me with a wave. "Listen!" he said. From beyond the low hills across the water came the muffled boom of distant guns and a far-off, strange crying. Then everything went quiet. A beetle buzzed over the hedge and past us.

High in the west, the crescent moon hung faint and pale above the smoke of Weybridge and Shepperton and the hot, still beauty of the sunset. "We should follow this path," I said, "northward."