VI.

von H. G. Wells

**The Work of Fifteen Days**

For a while, I stood unsteadily on the mound, oblivious to my own safety. Emerging from that foul place, I had been consumed with thoughts of our immediate survival. I hadn’t grasped what had happened to the world outside, nor had I anticipated this shocking view of strange and unfamiliar sights. I had expected to see Sheen in ruins, but instead, I found myself surrounded by a bizarre and vivid landscape that felt like another planet.

In that moment, I experienced an emotion that transcended the ordinary—a feeling that the helpless creatures we dominate understand all too well. I felt like a rabbit returning to its burrow only to find a group of workers digging the foundation for a house. A realization began to dawn on me, one that would weigh heavily on my mind for days to come: I was no longer in control; I was just another animal among animals, under the Martian heel. Our existence would mirror theirs, filled with lurking and hiding; the fear and dominion of humanity had vanished.

But as soon as I recognized this strangeness, it faded, and my primary concern shifted to the gnawing hunger that had plagued me during my long, grim fast. In the direction away from the pit, I spotted a patch of garden ground peeking out from behind a red-covered wall. This sparked an idea, and I plunged into the thick, red weed, sometimes up to my neck. The density of the vegetation provided a comforting sense of concealment. The wall stood about six feet high, and when I tried to climb it, I found I couldn’t lift my feet to the top. So, I followed the wall until I reached a corner with some rocks that allowed me to scramble over and tumble into the garden I longed for.

There, I discovered some young onions, a couple of gladiolus bulbs, and a handful of immature carrots, all of which I quickly gathered. Clambering over a crumbling wall, I continued through a surreal landscape of scarlet and crimson trees toward Kew—it felt like walking through an avenue of enormous blood drops—driven by two thoughts: to find more food and to escape this cursed, otherworldly pit as soon as my strength allowed.

A little further on, I found a grassy patch dotted with mushrooms, which I devoured. Then, I stumbled upon a shallow, flowing sheet of brown water where meadows used to be. These meager bits of nourishment only intensified my hunger. At first, I was surprised to see water in such a hot, dry summer, but soon I realized it was a result of the rampant growth of the red weed. As soon as this extraordinary plant encountered water, it exploded in size and vitality. Its seeds had poured into the waters of the Wey and Thames, and its rapidly growing, gigantic fronds quickly choked both rivers.

Later, I would see that at Putney, the bridge was nearly lost in a tangle of this weed. At Richmond, the Thames spread out in a broad, shallow stream across the meadows of Hampton and Twickenham. As the water expanded, the weed followed, swallowing the ruined villas of the Thames valley in a red swamp, obscuring much of the devastation the Martians had wrought.

In the end, the red weed succumbed almost as quickly as it had spread. A blighting disease, likely caused by certain bacteria, soon took hold. Unlike native plants, which have developed resistance to bacterial infections and fight back fiercely, the red weed withered as if it were already dead. Its fronds turned pale, shriveled, and brittle, breaking off at the slightest touch, while the waters that had once nourished its growth carried its last remnants out to sea.

When I first reached this water, my instinct was to quench my thirst. I drank deeply and, on a whim, nibbled on some fronds of red weed, but they were watery and had a sickly, metallic taste. The water was shallow enough for me to wade through safely, though the red weed made it a bit tricky. However, the flood seemed to deepen as I approached the river, so I turned back toward Mortlake. I managed to navigate the remnants of the road, marked by the occasional ruins of villas, fences, and street lamps, and eventually found my way out of the flood. I climbed the hill toward Roehampton and emerged onto Putney Common.

The scenery shifted from the bizarre and unfamiliar to the wreckage of what once was. Patches of ground showed the aftermath of a cyclone, while just a short distance away, I stumbled upon untouched areas—houses with their blinds neatly drawn and doors closed, as if the owners had just stepped out for a day or were simply sleeping inside. The red weed was less prevalent here; the tall trees lining the lane stood free of the creeping red vines. I searched among the trees for food but found nothing. I also raided a couple of silent houses, but they had already been broken into and stripped bare. Exhausted and weakened, I decided to rest in a nearby thicket for the remainder of the daylight.

Throughout this time, I saw no other humans and no signs of the Martians. I did encounter a couple of hungry-looking dogs, but they quickly darted away from my approach. Near Roehampton, I had spotted two human skeletons—not bodies, just bones, picked clean. In the woods nearby, I found the crushed and scattered remains of several cats and rabbits, along with the skull of a sheep. I tried gnawing on some of these bones, but there was nothing to be had.

After sunset, I pressed on along the road toward Putney, where I suspected the Heat-Ray had been unleashed for some unknown reason. In a garden just beyond Roehampton, I discovered a stash of immature potatoes, enough to satisfy my hunger for the moment. From that garden, I could look down upon Putney and the river. The scene in the dusk was hauntingly desolate: blackened trees, charred ruins, and the flooded river below, tinged red with the weed. And over it all—silence. A deep, indescribable terror gripped me as I realized how swiftly this devastation had come about.

For a while, I believed humanity had been wiped from existence, leaving me standing there as the last man alive. Near the top of Putney Hill, I stumbled upon another skeleton, its arms dislocated and lying several yards away from the rest of the body. The more I walked, the more convinced I became that the extermination of mankind had been completed in this part of the world, save for stragglers like me. I imagined the Martians had moved on, leaving the country in ruins, perhaps seeking food elsewhere. Maybe even now, they were wreaking havoc in Berlin or Paris, or perhaps they had headed north.