III.

by H. G. Wells

**The Days of Imprisonment**

The arrival of a second fighting machine forced us to retreat from our little peephole into the scullery. We were terrified that the Martian, from his elevated position, might spot us hiding behind our makeshift barrier. Over time, we grew less fearful of their gaze; to an eye blinded by the bright sunlight outside, our refuge must have appeared as nothing but a dark void. But at first, even the slightest hint of danger sent us scrambling back into the scullery, our hearts racing.

Despite the peril we faced—caught between starvation and an even worse fate—the urge to peek outside was irresistible. I remember feeling a strange mix of wonder and desperation as we fought for that dreadful privilege of sight. We would dart across the kitchen, caught between eagerness and the fear of making noise, shoving and kicking at each other, all while remaining just inches from exposure.

The truth was, our personalities clashed in every possible way, and the danger of our situation only highlighted our differences. Back in Halliford, I had already grown to despise the curate’s helpless exclamations and his rigid way of thinking. His constant muttering disrupted any plans I tried to formulate, pushing me closer to the brink of madness. He was as uncontrolled as a child, weeping for hours, convinced that his tears somehow made a difference. I would sit in the darkness, unable to escape his incessant pleas for comfort. He ate more than I did, and no matter how often I pointed out that our only chance of survival was to stay hidden until the Martians finished their work, he would indulge himself in heavy meals at irregular intervals. He hardly slept.

As the days dragged on, his utter disregard for our situation intensified my distress and danger. Reluctantly, I resorted to threats and, eventually, to blows. This brought him to his senses for a while, but he was one of those weak souls, devoid of pride and courage, full of cunning yet unable to face either God or man—or even himself.

It’s uncomfortable for me to recall these moments, but I write them down so my story remains complete. Those who have never faced the darker sides of life may easily judge my brutality and my moments of rage during our final tragedy. They understand what is wrong, but they cannot grasp what is possible for tormented individuals. However, those who have lived under the shadow of despair will likely have a broader understanding.

While we fought our silent battles within—whispering, snatching food and drink, grappling with each other—outside, under the relentless June sun, the Martians carried on with their strange routines in the pit. I remember my first experiences of those days. After a while, I mustered the courage to return to the peephole, only to find that the newcomers had been joined by the occupants of three additional fighting machines. These machines had brought with them new equipment, arranged neatly around the cylinder.

The second handling machine was now operational, busy with one of the strange devices the larger machine had delivered. It resembled a milk can, topped with a pear-shaped receptacle from which a stream of white powder flowed into a circular basin below.

One of the handling machine's tentacles moved in a rhythmic motion, digging out and tossing masses of clay into the pear-shaped receptacle above. Another arm periodically opened a door to remove rusty, blackened clinkers from the machine’s interior. A third, steely tentacle directed the powder from the basin along a ribbed channel toward a receiver hidden behind a mound of bluish dust. From this unseen receiver, a thin thread of green smoke rose steadily into the still air.

As I watched, the handling machine extended one of its tentacles, transforming what had been a blunt projection into a long, telescopic arm, until its end disappeared behind the mound of clay. In the next moment, it lifted a bar of white aluminum into view—untarnished and gleaming—and placed it on a growing stack of bars beside the pit. Between sunset and starlight, that dexterous machine must have produced more than a hundred such bars from the raw clay, and the mound of bluish dust continued to rise, steadily topping the edge of the pit.

The stark contrast between the swift, intricate movements of the machines and the heavy, awkward panting of their operators was striking. For days, I had to remind myself that the humans were the living beings in this scenario.

The curate was at the slit when the first men were brought to the pit. I was huddled below, listening intently. Suddenly, he jerked back, and fear gripped me, making me crouch down in terror. He slid down the debris and crept beside me in the darkness, his movements frantic and his gestures wild. For a moment, I felt his panic. His actions seemed to indicate that he was giving up on the slit. After a while, curiosity overcame my fear, and I stood up, stepped over him, and climbed up to the opening.

At first, I couldn’t understand why he was so agitated. Twilight had settled in, the stars were faint, but the pit was lit by the flickering green flames from the aluminum-making process. The scene was a chaotic mix of green glimmers and shifting shadows, unsettling to the eyes. Bats flitted through the air, completely indifferent to the spectacle below. The Martians were hidden from view, buried beneath a mound of blue-green powder, and a fighting machine, its legs folded and crumpled, stood in the corner of the pit. Amid the clamor of machinery, I thought I heard human voices, a suspicion I initially dismissed.

I crouched, studying the fighting machine closely, finally convinced that a Martian was indeed inside. As the green flames flickered, I caught a glimpse of its oily skin and the brightness of its eyes. Suddenly, a scream pierced the air, and I saw a long tentacle reach over the machine's shoulder to the small cage perched on its back. Something was lifted high against the sky, a dark, indistinct shape against the starlight. As it came down again, I realized, illuminated by the green glow, that it was a man. For a brief moment, he was visible—a stout, ruddy man in decent clothes. Just three days earlier, he must have been going about his life, a man of some importance. I could see the panic in his eyes and the glint of his cufflinks and watch chain. He disappeared behind the mound, and silence fell for a moment, only to be broken by the Martians’ shrill cries and gleeful hooting.

I scrambled down the debris, got to my feet, covered my ears, and dashed into the scullery. The curate, who had been crouching silently with his arms over his head, looked up as I rushed past, shouting in surprise at my abandonment of him, and hurried after me.

That night, as we hid in the scullery, caught between horror and the morbid fascination of what we had witnessed, I felt a desperate need to act but struggled to devise a plan for escape. By the second day, however, I was able to think clearly about our situation. The curate, I realized, was utterly incapable of rational thought; the horrific events had stripped him of any semblance of reason. He had almost regressed to an animal state. But I steeled myself. Once I faced the reality of our predicament, I understood that, as dire as it was, there was still no reason for complete despair. Our best chance lay in the possibility that the Martians would treat the pit as a temporary base. Even if they decided to keep it permanently, they might not feel the need to guard it closely, giving us a potential opportunity to escape.

I also considered the option of digging our way out in a direction away from the pit, but the risk of emerging in sight of a sentinel fighting machine seemed too great. Besides, I would have to do all the digging myself; I couldn’t count on the curate to help.

On the third day, if I remember correctly, I witnessed a boy being killed. It was the only time I actually saw the Martians feed. After that, I avoided the hole in the wall for most of the day. I went into the scullery, removed the door, and spent hours trying to dig quietly with my hatchet. But when I had made a hole about two feet deep, the loose earth collapsed loudly, and I didn’t dare continue. I lost my resolve and lay down on the scullery floor for a long time, too drained to move. After that, I completely abandoned the idea of escaping through digging.

It says a lot about the impression the Martians had made on me that I initially had little hope of escaping through any human effort against them. But on the fourth or fifth night, I heard a sound like heavy guns.

It was late at night, and the moon hung high in the sky, casting a bright glow over everything. The Martians had taken their excavating machine, leaving the area mostly empty. The only things remaining were a fighting machine positioned at the far edge of the pit and a handling machine hidden away in a corner, just out of sight from where I was peering.

The pit was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint light from the handling machine and patches of moonlight. Aside from the soft clinking of the handling machine, the night was eerily quiet. It was a beautiful night, serene and still, with the moon reigning over the sky, save for one distant planet.

Suddenly, I heard a dog howling, a sound that pulled my attention. Then, cutting through the silence, I heard a series of booming noises that reminded me of distant cannon fire. I counted six distinct reports, followed by a long pause, then six more. And just like that, the night returned to its stillness.