X.

von H. G. Wells

IN THE STORM

Leatherhead was about twelve miles from Maybury Hill. The air was fragrant with the scent of hay as we passed through the lush meadows near Pyrford, and the hedges on either side were vibrant with clusters of dog-roses. The heavy gunfire that had erupted while we were driving down Maybury Hill stopped as suddenly as it had started, leaving the evening calm and serene. We arrived in Leatherhead without incident around nine o'clock, and I took the opportunity to have supper with my cousins while the horse rested for an hour. I entrusted my wife to their care.

Throughout the drive, my wife was unusually quiet, weighed down by a sense of foreboding. I tried to reassure her, pointing out that the Martians were trapped in the pit and could barely crawl out. But she responded only with short, clipped answers. If it hadn't been for my promise to the innkeeper, I think she would have insisted that we stay in Leatherhead for the night. Looking back, I wish we had. I remember her face was pale as we said our goodbyes.

As for me, I had been buzzing with excitement all day. A kind of war fever had taken hold of me, and deep down, I wasn't too upset about returning to Maybury that night. Part of me even hoped that the last gunfire I had heard signaled the end of our Martian invaders. I can best describe my state of mind by saying that I wanted to be there when it all went down.

I set off for home just before eleven. The night was unexpectedly dark; stepping out from the well-lit doorway of my cousins’ house, it felt like I was walking into a thick black curtain. The air was hot and stifling, and the clouds raced overhead, though not a single breeze stirred the shrubs around us. My cousins’ servant lit both lamps on the dog cart. Thankfully, I knew the road well. My wife stood in the doorway, watching me until I climbed into the cart. Then, without a word, she turned and went inside, leaving my cousins to wish me good luck.

At first, I felt a bit down, catching my wife’s anxiety, but soon my thoughts shifted back to the Martians. I was completely in the dark about the evening's fighting; I didn't even know what had sparked the conflict. As I passed through Ockham—taking that route instead of going through Send and Old Woking—I noticed a blood-red glow on the western horizon, which grew brighter as I approached. The storm clouds mingled with thick black and red smoke.

Ripley Street was deserted, and aside from a few lit windows, the village seemed lifeless. I narrowly avoided an accident at the corner leading to Pyrford, where a group of people stood with their backs to me. They said nothing as I passed. I had no idea what they knew about the events unfolding beyond the hill, nor could I tell if the silent houses I passed were filled with sleeping families, abandoned, or anxiously waiting for the terror of the night.

From Ripley until I reached Pyrford, I was in the valley of the Wey, and the red glow was hidden from view. As I climbed the small hill beyond Pyrford Church, the glow reappeared, and the trees around me trembled with the first signs of the approaching storm. Then I heard the midnight bells ringing from Pyrford Church behind me, and I caught sight of Maybury Hill, its treetops and rooftops stark against the crimson sky.

Just as I took this in, a sickly green light illuminated the road around me, revealing the distant woods toward Addlestone. I felt a tug at the reins. The storm clouds had been pierced by a streak of green fire, suddenly illuminating the chaos and falling into the field to my left. It was the third falling star!

Almost immediately, and blindingly violet in contrast, the first lightning of the storm flashed across the sky, followed by a thunderclap that exploded overhead. The horse took the bit between its teeth and bolted.

A gentle slope led down to the foot of Maybury Hill, and we raced down it. Once the lightning began, it came in rapid succession, more flashes than I had ever seen. The thunderclaps followed one after another, accompanied by a strange crackling sound that felt more like the workings of a massive electric machine than the usual booming reverberations. The flickering light was disorienting, and a sharp hail began to pelt my face as I drove down the slope.

At first, I focused solely on the road ahead of me, but then something caught my eye, moving quickly down the slope of Maybury Hill. At first, I thought it was just the wet roof of a house, but a series of flashes revealed it to be something far more dynamic. It was a fleeting image—a moment of disorienting darkness, and then, in a flash of light, the red buildings of the Orphanage at the top of the hill, the green tops of the pine trees, and that mysterious object became clear and distinct.

What I saw was astonishing. It was a gigantic tripod, towering above the houses, striding over the young pine trees and crushing them underfoot. It was a walking machine made of gleaming metal, moving across the heather with an unsettling grace. Long, flexible steel cables dangled from it, and the noise of its movement blended with the roar of the thunder. With another flash, it appeared vividly, tilting to one side with two legs raised, only to vanish and reappear, seemingly a hundred yards closer with the next burst of light. Imagine a milking stool tipped over and rolling violently across the ground—that was the impression those quick flashes created. But instead of a milking stool, it was a massive machine on a tripod.

Suddenly, the trees in the pine wood ahead of me were torn apart, like brittle reeds pushed aside by a man forcing his way through. They snapped and fell, and then a second enormous tripod appeared, charging toward me. I was galloping hard to meet it! The sight of this second monster completely shattered my nerves. Without a second thought, I yanked the horse’s head hard to the right, and in an instant, the dog cart tipped over onto the horse. The shafts broke with a loud crack, and I was thrown sideways, landing heavily in a shallow puddle.

I crawled out almost immediately, crouching with my feet still in the water beneath a clump of furze. The horse lay still, its neck broken—poor creature! In the flashes of lightning, I could see the dark shape of the overturned dog cart and the silhouette of a wheel still spinning slowly. Moments later, the colossal machine strode past me, heading uphill toward Pyrford.

Up close, the Thing was astonishingly bizarre. It was no mere mindless machine; it moved with a ringing metallic rhythm, and long, flexible, shiny appendages swung and rattled around its strange body, one of which gripped a young pine tree. It chose its path as it marched along, and the metallic hood on top swayed back and forth, suggesting a head scanning its surroundings. Behind the main body was a massive white structure resembling a giant fishing basket, and puffs of green smoke erupted from the joints of its limbs as it swept by. And just like that, it was gone.

I caught all of this in a blur, illuminated by the flickering lightning, in stark highlights and deep shadows.

As it passed, it unleashed a triumphant, deafening howl that drowned out the thunder—“Aloo! Aloo!”—and within a minute, it was alongside its companion, half a mile away, bent over something in the field. I had no doubt that this Thing was the third of the ten cylinders they had fired at us from Mars.

For several minutes, I lay there in the rain and darkness, watching these monstrous metal beings moving in the distance above the hedges. A thin hail began to fall, and as it came and went, their figures grew hazy, only to flash back into focus. Occasionally, a gap in the lightning would swallow them up entirely.

I was drenched from the hail above and soaked from the puddle below. It took a while for my stunned disbelief to wear off enough for me to struggle up the bank to a drier spot or even consider the danger I was in.

Not far from me stood a small, one-room squatter’s hut made of wood, surrounded by a patch of potato garden. Finally, I managed to get to my feet, crouching low and using every bit of cover I could find, and I made a run for it. I pounded on the door, but I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, and after a while, I gave up. Using a ditch for cover, I managed to crawl, unnoticed by those monstrous machines, into the pine woods leading toward Maybury.

Under the cover of the trees, I pressed on, wet and shivering, toward my own house. I wandered among the trees, trying to find the footpath. It was incredibly dark in the woods now, with the lightning becoming less frequent and the hail pouring down in torrents, falling in columns through the gaps in the thick foliage.

If I had truly understood everything I had witnessed, I would have made my way through Byfleet to Street Cobham and returned to my wife at Leatherhead right away. But that night, the bizarre events surrounding me, combined with my physical exhaustion, held me back. I was bruised, drenched, deafened, and blinded by the storm.

I had a vague notion of heading home, and that was my only motivation. I stumbled through the trees, fell into a ditch, and banged my knees against a plank before finally splashing out onto the lane that led down from the College Arms. I say "splashing" because the stormwater was sweeping the sand down the hill in a muddy torrent. In the darkness, a man collided with me, sending me reeling.

He let out a terrified cry, jumped sideways, and rushed past me before I could gather my thoughts enough to say anything. The storm was so fierce at that moment that it took all my effort to make my way up the hill. I moved close to the fence on my left, navigating along its palings.

Near the top, I stumbled over something soft. A flash of lightning illuminated a heap of black broadcloth and a pair of boots at my feet. Before I could clearly see how the man was lying, the light flickered away. I stood over him, waiting for the next flash. When it came, I realized he was a sturdy man, dressed cheaply but not poorly. His head was bent under his body, and he lay crumpled against the fence, as if he had been violently thrown there.

Overcoming the natural repulsion of someone who had never touched a dead body, I bent down to check for a heartbeat. He was completely lifeless. It looked like his neck had been broken. The lightning flashed again, and his face was suddenly illuminated. I jumped back to my feet. It was the landlord of the Spotted Dog, the very man whose vehicle I had taken.

I carefully stepped over him and continued up the hill. I made my way past the police station and the College Arms toward my house. Nothing was burning on the hillside, though a red glow and a rolling wave of smoke still billowed up from the common, mixing with the torrential rain. As far as I could see in the flashes of light, the houses around me appeared mostly unharmed. Near the College Arms, a dark heap lay in the road.

Down the road toward Maybury Bridge, I could hear voices and footsteps, but I lacked the courage to call out or approach them. I let myself in with my latchkey, closed, locked, and bolted the door behind me, then staggered to the foot of the staircase and sat down. My mind was filled with images of those monstrous metallic creatures and the lifeless body crumpled against the fence.

I huddled at the bottom of the staircase, my back against the wall, trembling uncontrollably.