Book 2 · Chapter 9

And now comes the weirdest part of my story. But, honestly, maybe it’s not so weird. I remember, clearly and vividly, everything I did that day, all the way until I was standing on top of Primrose Hill, crying and thanking God. And then I just... forget.

I learned later that I wasn't the first to figure out what happened to Mars. Actually, a few other people had already discovered it the night before. One guy - the first one - went to St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and while I was hiding out in a cab driver's shed, he managed to send a message to Paris.

Then the awesome news spread everywhere; tons of cities, totally freaked out, suddenly lit up with celebrations; they knew about it in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, Birmingham, right when I was standing at the edge of the pit.

Already, people were crying with joy, shouting, and stopping what they were doing to shake hands and cheer, organizing trains, even as far as Crewe, to head to London. Church bells that had been silent for two weeks suddenly started ringing, and all of England was celebrating.

Guys on bikes, looking exhausted, riding like crazy down every country road, shouting about this unbelievable rescue, yelling to pale, staring people who looked completely lost. And the food!

From across the Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, corn, bread, and meat were rushing to our rescue. It seemed like all the ships in the world were heading to London. But I don't remember any of this. I was just drifting - like a crazy person.

I woke up in a house with really kind people who had found me wandering, crying, and rambling through the streets of St. John’s Wood. They told me later that I was singing this ridiculous little song about "The Last Man Left Alive! Yay! The Last Man Left Alive!"

Even though they had their own problems, these people - whose names I can’t even mention, even though I’m so grateful to them - took care of me, gave me shelter, and protected me from myself. Apparently, they had pieced together some of my story from me during the days I was out of it.

Very gently, once my mind started to clear up, they told me what they had learned about what happened to Leatherhead. Just two days after I went missing, it was destroyed, with everyone in it, by a Martian.

He wiped it off the map, it seemed, without any reason, like a kid crushing an ant hill, just because he could. I was a lonely guy, and they were really nice to me. I was a lonely and sad guy, and they were patient with me. I stayed with them for four days after I started feeling better.

The whole time, I felt this growing need to see what was left of the happy, bright life I used to have. It was like I just wanted to wallow in my misery. They tried to talk me out of it. They did everything they could to distract me.

But I couldn't resist the urge any longer, and, promising to come back, and parting, I have to admit, with tears, from these four-day friends, I went back out into the streets that had recently been so dark and strange and empty.

Already, people were heading back home; some shops were even open, and I saw a drinking fountain with water running.

I remember how mockingly bright the day seemed as I headed back to that little house in Woking, feeling down. The streets were busy, and everything felt so alive. So many people were out and about, doing all kinds of things, that it seemed crazy to think so many people could have died.

But then I noticed how pale everyone’s skin was, how shaggy the guys' hair was, and how big and bright their eyes were. Plus, almost everyone was still wearing their dirty, old clothes.

Their faces mostly had two looks - like they were super excited and full of energy, or like they were determined to get through it. Aside from their faces, London felt like a city full of homeless people. The local community centers were handing out bread sent by the French government.

The few horses we saw were super skinny. Tired-looking special constables with white badges stood on every corner. I didn’t see much damage from the Martians until I got to Wellington Street, and then I saw that red weed climbing over the walls of Waterloo Bridge.

At the corner of the bridge, I saw one of the weirdest things from that time - a piece of paper stuck in a bunch of the red weed, held in place by a stick. It was a poster from the first newspaper to start publishing again - the Daily Mail. I bought a copy for a blackened coin I found in my pocket.

Most of it was blank, but the only person doing the printing had drawn some goofy ads on the back page. The news wasn’t quite back to normal yet, so it was all really emotional. I didn’t learn anything new except that, in just one week, they’d already figured out a lot about the Martian machines.

The article even said - and I didn’t believe it then - that they’d discovered "The Secret of Flying. At Waterloo, I found the free trains taking people home. The big rush was over. There weren’t many people on the train, and I wasn’t in the mood to chat.

I got a compartment to myself and just stared out the window at the sunlit destruction passing by. And just outside the station, the train bumped over some temporary tracks, and on either side of the railway, the houses were just blackened ruins.

All the way to Clapham Junction, London’s face was covered in the grey dust from the Black Smoke, even after two days of thunderstorms and rain.

And at Clapham Junction, the tracks were wrecked again; there were hundreds of unemployed office workers and shop assistants working alongside the usual construction workers, and we got jolted over a quick fix.

The whole way from there, the countryside looked bleak and unfamiliar; Wimbledon had really taken a beating. Walton, because of its unburned pine trees, seemed to be the least damaged place along the line.

The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream - they were all piled high with that red weed, looking like a mix of raw meat and pickled cabbage. But the Surrey pine woods were too dry for the weed to climb.

Beyond Wimbledon, within sight of the tracks, in some nurseries, were huge piles of dirt around the sixth cylinder. A bunch of people were standing around it, and some soldiers were busy working on it. A Union Jack was waving cheerfully above it in the morning breeze.

The nurseries were everywhere crimson with the weed - a huge area of sickly color cut with purple shadows, and really hard on the eyes. Your gaze would go from the scorched greys and sullen reds of the foreground to the blue-green softness of the hills to the east for some relief.

The line on the London side of Woking station was still being fixed up, so I got off at Byfleet station and took the road to Maybury. I passed the spot where the artilleryman and I had talked to the hussars, and then the place where the Martian had shown up to me during the thunderstorm.

I was curious, so I wandered off and found a wrecked dog cart tangled in red plants. The bones of the horse were scattered and chewed up. I stood there staring at the remains for a while.

Then I went back through the pine woods, where the red weed grew tall, to find that the landlord of the Spotted Dog had already been buried. I headed home, passing the College Arms. A guy standing in the doorway of an open cottage called out my name as I walked by.

I glanced at my house, feeling a quick flash of hope that disappeared right away. The door had been forced open; it was unlocked and slowly swinging open as I got closer. It slammed shut again.

The curtains in my study fluttered out of the open window where the artilleryman and I had watched the sunrise. No one had closed it since. The smashed bushes were just as I’d left them, almost four weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt empty.

The stair carpet was all messed up and discolored from where I’d crouched, soaked from the thunderstorm the night of the disaster. Our muddy footprints still went up the stairs.

I followed them to my study and found my sheet of work still lying on my writing table, with the selenite paperweight on top. It was the paper I’d left on the afternoon the cylinder opened. I stood there reading over my unfinished thoughts for a moment.

It was about how moral ideas would probably develop as society became more civilized; and the last sentence started a prophecy: "In about two hundred years," I’d written, "we may expect - - " The sentence just stopped.

I remembered how I couldn’t concentrate that morning, barely a month ago, and how I’d stopped working to grab my Daily Chronicle from the newsboy. I remembered going to the garden gate as he came along, and how I’d listened to his crazy story about "Men from Mars. I went into the dining room.

There was the mutton and the bread, both rotting now, and a beer bottle knocked over, just like the artilleryman and I had left them. My home felt deserted. I realized how silly I’d been to hold onto that little bit of hope for so long. And then something weird happened. "It’s no use," a voice said.

"The house is empty. No one’s been here for ten days. Don’t stay here to torture yourself. No one got out except you. I jumped. Had I said that out loud? I turned, and the French window was open behind me. I stepped toward it and looked out.

And there, amazed and scared, just like I was, were my cousin and my wife - my wife pale and without tears. She gave a small cry. "I came," she said. "I knew - knew - - " She put her hand to her throat - wavered. I stepped forward and caught her in my arms.