XII.

von H. G. Wells

As dawn broke, we stepped away from the window where we had been watching the Martians and quietly made our way downstairs.

The artilleryman agreed that staying in the house was a bad idea. He suggested heading toward London to rejoin his battery—No. 12 of the Horse Artillery. My plan was to return to Leatherhead immediately. The sheer power of the Martians had left a lasting impression on me, and I was determined to take my wife to Newhaven and leave the country as soon as possible. I could see clearly that the area around London was bound to become the site of a catastrophic battle before these creatures could be defeated.

However, between us and Leatherhead lay the third cylinder, guarded by its monstrous sentinels. If I had been alone, I might have taken my chances and crossed the countryside. But the artilleryman advised against it. “It’s no kindness to a good wife,” he said, “to make her a widow.” In the end, I agreed to accompany him through the woods, heading north toward Cobham before we parted ways. From there, I would take a longer route through Epsom to reach Leatherhead.

I wanted to leave immediately, but my companion, having been in active service, knew better. He insisted I search the house for a flask, which he filled with whisky. We stuffed our pockets with biscuits and slices of meat. Then we slipped out of the house and hurried down the poorly maintained road I had traveled the night before. The houses appeared abandoned. In the road, we came across three charred bodies huddled together, victims of the Heat-Ray. Scattered around were items people had dropped in their haste—a clock, a slipper, a silver spoon, and other meager possessions. At the corner leading to the post office, a small cart, filled with boxes and furniture, had tipped over on a broken wheel. A cash box lay smashed open, its contents strewn beneath the debris.

Aside from the lodge at the Orphanage, which was still ablaze, the other houses seemed to have escaped significant damage. The Heat-Ray had singed the tops of the chimneys but had moved on. Yet, apart from us, there didn’t seem to be a single living soul on Maybury Hill. Most of the residents must have fled via the Old Woking road—the same route I had taken to Leatherhead—or they had hidden away.

We continued down the lane, passing the body of a man in black, now soaked from the overnight hail, and entered the woods at the foot of the hill. We pushed through the trees toward the railway, encountering no one. The woods across the line were nothing but charred remnants; most of the trees had fallen, while a few stood like dismal gray sentinels, their dark brown leaves a stark contrast to the vibrant green that once was.

On our side, the fire had only scorched the nearby trees; it hadn’t taken hold. In one spot, woodmen had been working just the previous Saturday; freshly cut trees lay in a clearing, surrounded by heaps of sawdust and a sawing machine that now stood idle. Nearby was a temporary hut, abandoned. The morning was eerily still; not a breath of wind stirred the air. Even the birds were silent, and as we hurried along, the artilleryman and I spoke in hushed tones, glancing over our shoulders every so often. We paused a couple of times to listen.

Eventually, we neared the road, and as we did, we heard the sound of hooves. Through the trees, we spotted three cavalry soldiers riding slowly toward Woking. We called out to them, and they stopped as we rushed forward. It was a lieutenant and two privates from the 8th Hussars, carrying a device that the artilleryman identified as a heliograph.

“You’re the first men I’ve seen coming this way this morning,” the lieutenant said, his voice eager. The men behind him looked on with curiosity. The artilleryman jumped down the bank into the road and saluted.

“Gun destroyed last night, sir. We’ve been hiding. Trying to rejoin my battery, sir. You’ll probably see the Martians about half a mile down this road.”

“What the hell are they like?” the lieutenant asked.

“Giants in armor, sir. A hundred feet tall. Three legs and a body like aluminum, with a massive head in a hood, sir.”

“Get out!” the lieutenant exclaimed. “What nonsense!”

“You’ll see, sir. They carry a kind of box that shoots fire and kills you instantly.”

“What do you mean—a gun?”

“No, sir,” and the artilleryman launched into a vivid description of the Heat-Ray. Halfway through, the lieutenant interrupted and turned to me. I was still standing on the bank beside the road.

“It’s perfectly true,” I said.

“Well,” the lieutenant said, “I suppose it’s my job to check it out too. Listen”—he turned to the artilleryman—“we’re here to help clear people out of their homes. You should go report to Brigadier-General Marvin and tell him everything you know. He’s at Weybridge. Do you know the way?”

“I do,” I replied, and he turned his horse southward again.

“Half a mile, you say?” he asked.

“At most,” I answered, pointing over the treetops to the south. He thanked me and rode on, and we didn’t see him again.

As we continued, we came across three women and two children in the road, busy clearing out a laborer’s cottage. They had a little hand truck and were piling it high with dirty bundles and worn-out furniture. They were so focused on their task that they didn’t even look up as we passed.

By Byfleet station, we emerged from the pine trees and found the countryside calm and peaceful under the morning sun. We were far beyond the reach of the Heat-Ray, and if it hadn’t been for the silent abandonment of some houses and the hurried packing in others, along with a group of soldiers standing on the bridge over the railway, staring down the line toward Woking, the day could have easily been mistaken for any other Sunday.

Several farm wagons and carts creaked along the road to Addlestone, and suddenly, through a field gate, we spotted six twelve-pounders lined up neatly at equal distances, all aimed toward Woking. The gunners stood by their guns, waiting, while the ammunition wagons were parked at a safe distance. The men stood almost as if they were being inspected.

“That’s good!” I said. “At least they’ll get one fair shot.”

The artilleryman hesitated at the gate.

“I’ll keep going,” he said.

Further along toward Weybridge, just over the bridge, we saw a group of men in white fatigue jackets building a long rampart, with more guns positioned behind them.

“It’s bows and arrows against lightning, anyway,” the artilleryman remarked. “They haven’t seen that fire-beam yet.”

The officers who weren’t actively engaged stood staring over the treetops to the southwest, while the men digging would occasionally pause to look in the same direction.

Byfleet was in chaos; people were packing, and a score of hussars—some on horseback, some dismounted—were trying to manage the crowd. Several black government wagons, marked with white crosses, and an old omnibus were being loaded in the village street. There were dozens of people, many of them dressed in their best clothes for the Sabbath. The soldiers struggled to make them understand the seriousness of their situation. I noticed one frail old man with a large box and a bunch of flower pots filled with orchids, arguing angrily with a corporal who insisted he had to leave them behind. I stopped and grabbed his arm.

“Do you know what’s over there?” I asked, pointing toward the pine tops that concealed the Martians.

“Eh?” he replied, turning to me. “I was just explaining how valuable these are.”

“Death!” I shouted. “Death is coming! Death!” I left him to process that, if he could, and hurried after the artilleryman. At the corner, I looked back. The soldier had left him, and he was still standing by his box, with the pots of orchids on top, staring blankly over the trees.

No one in Weybridge could tell us where the headquarters were; the entire place was in a state of confusion I had never witnessed before. Carts and carriages filled the streets, a bizarre mix of vehicles and horses. The respectable residents—men in golf and boating attire, women dressed nicely—were packing up, while riverside loafers helped energetically, and children were excited, mostly delighted by this unexpected twist to their Sunday routine. In the midst of it all, the brave vicar was holding an early service, his bell ringing out above the commotion.

The artilleryman and I sat on the step of a drinking fountain, making a decent meal from what we had brought. Patrols of soldiers—no longer hussars but grenadiers in white—were warning people to move now or take refuge in their cellars as soon as the firing began. As we crossed the railway bridge, we saw a growing crowd gathered at the railway station, the platform piled high with boxes and packages. Regular traffic had been halted, I believe, to allow troops and guns to pass through to Chertsey, and I later heard that a fierce struggle broke out for places on the special trains that were put on later.

We stayed in Weybridge until noon, and by that time, we found ourselves at the spot near Shepperton Lock where the Wey and Thames rivers meet. We spent part of our time helping two elderly women load a small cart. The Wey has three mouths, and at this point, you can rent boats, and there’s a ferry across the river. On the Shepperton side, there was an inn with a lawn, and beyond that, the tower of Shepperton Church—now replaced by a spire—rose above the trees.

Here, we encountered a lively and noisy crowd of people fleeing. Although panic hadn’t fully set in yet, there were already far more people than the boats could carry. We saw couples struggling under heavy loads; one husband and wife were even carrying a small outhouse door between them, piled high with their belongings. One man mentioned he was going to try to escape from Shepperton station.

There was a lot of shouting, and one man even made a joke. The general feeling among the crowd seemed to be that the Martians were just powerful beings who might attack and plunder the town, but would ultimately be defeated. Every so often, people would glance nervously across the Wey towards Chertsey, but everything over there remained still.

Across the Thames, except for the area where the boats landed, everything was quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos on the Surrey side. The people disembarking from the boats trudged down the lane. The large ferryboat had just returned from a trip. A few soldiers stood on the inn's lawn, watching and joking about the fleeing crowd, but they didn’t offer any help. The inn was closed, as it was now past the allowed hours.

“What’s that?” shouted a boatman, and a man nearby snapped at a barking dog, “Shut up, you fool!” Then we heard it again, this time from the direction of Chertsey—a muffled thud—the sound of a gun.

The fighting was starting. Almost immediately, unseen artillery across the river to our right, hidden by trees, joined in, firing heavily one after the other. A woman screamed. Everyone froze at the sudden onset of battle, close yet invisible. All we could see were flat meadows, cows grazing peacefully, and silvery pollard willows standing still in the warm sunlight.

“The soldiers will stop them,” a woman beside me said uncertainly. A haze began to rise over the treetops.

Then, suddenly, we saw a plume of smoke far up the river, a puff that shot into the air and lingered. The ground shook beneath us, and a heavy explosion rattled the air, shattering a few windows in nearby houses, leaving us stunned.

“Here they are!” shouted a man in a blue jersey. “Look! Over there! Do you see them?”

One after another, four armored Martians appeared in the distance, towering over the trees, striding quickly across the flat meadows toward the river. At first, they looked like small, cloaked figures, moving with a rolling gait, almost as fast as birds in flight.

Then, coming toward us at an angle, was a fifth Martian. Their armored bodies glinted in the sunlight as they advanced swiftly toward the guns, growing larger as they approached. One on the far left raised a massive case high into the air, and the terrifying Heat-Ray I had seen on Friday night shot toward Chertsey, striking the town.

At the sight of these strange, swift, and fearsome creatures, the crowd by the water’s edge seemed momentarily frozen in horror. There were no screams or shouts, just silence. Then a low murmur spread through the crowd, and people began to move, splashing into the water. A man, too frightened to drop the suitcase he carried on his shoulder, turned and knocked me back with a swing of his burden. A woman shoved past me, her hand brushing against me as she rushed away. I turned with the tide of people, but I wasn’t too terrified to think. The dreadful Heat-Ray was on my mind. Get under water! That was the answer!

“Get under water!” I shouted, but no one paid me any attention.

I turned around and sprinted toward the approaching Martian, racing down the gravelly beach and plunging into the water. Others followed suit. A boat filled with people trying to escape leaped out as I rushed past. The stones beneath my feet were muddy and slippery, and the river was so low that I could run nearly twenty feet without the water reaching my waist. Just as the Martian loomed overhead, only a couple of hundred yards away, I dove beneath the surface. The splashes from the people jumping into the river sounded like thunder in my ears.

People were scrambling to land on both sides of the river, but the Martian machine paid no more attention to the chaos than a person would to ants scurrying around after accidentally kicking their nest. When I finally surfaced, gasping for air, I saw the Martian’s hood aimed at the batteries still firing across the river. As it advanced, it swung loose what must have been the generator for the Heat-Ray.

In an instant, it was on the bank, wading halfway across. The knees of its front legs bent at the far bank, and in another moment, it had raised itself to its full height, looming over the village of Shepperton. Suddenly, six hidden guns, concealed behind the outskirts of the village, fired simultaneously. The deafening explosions made my heart race. The monster was already lifting the Heat-Ray generator as the first shell exploded just six yards above its hood.

I let out a cry of astonishment. I barely noticed the other four Martian machines; my focus was entirely on what was happening right in front of me. At the same time, two more shells detonated in the air near the creature, and the hood twisted just in time to take the brunt of the fourth shell.

The shell exploded directly in the face of the beast. The hood bulged, flashed, and shattered into a dozen tattered pieces of red flesh and gleaming metal.

“Hit!” I shouted, a mix of a scream and a cheer.

I heard the excited shouts from the people around me in the water. I felt like I could leap out of the river with sheer exhilaration.

The decapitated giant swayed like a drunken man but somehow managed to stay upright. It regained its balance against all odds, no longer paying attention to its steps, and with the Heat-Ray camera held rigidly above it, it stumbled swiftly toward Shepperton. The Martian inside the hood was dead, scattered to the winds, and the machine had become nothing more than a complex piece of metal careening toward destruction. It barreled forward in a straight line, completely out of control. It crashed into the tower of Shepperton Church, demolishing it as if it were a battering ram, swerved, and then collapsed with tremendous force into the river, disappearing from my view.

A violent explosion shook the air, sending a massive spout of water, steam, mud, and shattered metal soaring into the sky. As the Heat-Ray camera hit the water, it instantly turned to steam. Moments later, a huge wave, like a muddy tidal bore but scaldingly hot, swept around the bend upstream. I saw people struggling to reach the shore, their screams faintly piercing through the roar of the Martian’s collapse.

For a moment, I ignored the heat, forgetting the urgent need to save myself. I splashed through the chaotic water, pushing aside a man in black to get through, until I could see around the bend. Half a dozen abandoned boats bobbed aimlessly in the turbulent waves. The fallen Martian came into view downstream, lying across the river, mostly submerged.

Thick clouds of steam billowed off the wreckage, and through the swirling wisps, I could intermittently see the massive limbs thrashing in the water, sending sprays of mud and foam into the air. The tentacles moved as if they were alive, striking out in a desperate struggle, and it was as if some wounded creature was fighting for its life amid the waves. A large quantity of a reddish-brown fluid erupted noisily from the machine.

My attention was drawn away from this chaotic scene by a furious yelling, reminiscent of a siren in our factories. A man, knee-deep near the towing path, shouted silently at me and pointed. Looking back, I saw the other Martians advancing with enormous strides down the riverbank from the direction of Chertsey. The Shepperton guns fired again, but this time, it was futile.

In that moment, I ducked under the water, holding my breath until it felt like agony, and painfully blundered ahead beneath the surface for as long as I could. The water churned around me, growing hotter by the second.

As I lifted my head to catch my breath, shaking the water and hair from my eyes, I was engulfed in a swirling white fog. At first, it concealed the Martians entirely. The noise was overwhelming. Gradually, I began to see them through the mist—massive, shadowy figures of gray. They had moved past me, and two of them were bent over the chaotic remains of their fallen comrade.

The third and fourth stood in the water, one about two hundred yards away from me, the other closer to Laleham. Their Heat-Ray generators loomed high, sending out hissing beams that struck down in all directions.

The air was filled with a cacophony of sounds—a deafening clash of noises: the clamor of the Martians, the crash of collapsing buildings, the thud of trees and fences, and the roar of flames as sheds ignited. Thick black smoke surged up, mixing with the steam rising from the river. As the Heat-Ray swept over Weybridge, its impact was marked by flashes of blinding white light, quickly replaced by a swirling dance of fiery flames. The nearby houses stood intact, waiting for their fate, ghostly and pale in the steam, with the fire flickering behind them.

For a moment, I stood there, waist-deep in the nearly boiling water, stunned by my situation and feeling hopeless. Through the haze, I could see the people who had been with me in the river scrambling out through the reeds, like little frogs darting through grass to escape a predator, or running in panic along the towpath.

Then, suddenly, the white flashes of the Heat-Ray shot toward me. Houses crumbled as the Ray touched them, bursting into flames; trees ignited with a deafening roar. The Ray flickered along the towpath, incinerating anyone who tried to flee, and came down to the water’s edge less than fifty yards from where I stood. It swept across the river toward Shepperton, boiling the water in its wake, creating a crest of steam. I turned toward the shore.

In an instant, a massive wave, nearly at boiling point, surged toward me. I screamed, scalded and half-blinded, I staggered through the hissing water toward the shore. If I had stumbled, it would have been the end. I fell helplessly onto the broad, bare gravel spit that marked the angle of the Wey and Thames. I braced myself for death.

I have a faint memory of a Martian’s foot crashing down within a few yards of my head, driving straight into the loose gravel, sending it flying in all directions. There was a moment of suspended time, and then I saw the four Martians carrying the debris of their comrade between them, now clear and then fading behind a veil of smoke, receding endlessly across the vast expanse of river and meadow. Slowly, I began to realize that, by some miracle, I had escaped.