IX.

by H. G. Wells

WRECKAGE

And now comes the strangest part of my story. Yet, perhaps, it’s not so strange after all. I remember everything I did that day, clearly and vividly, right up until I found myself weeping and praising God on the top of Primrose Hill. And then, everything goes blank.

I have no memory of the next three days. I’ve learned since that I wasn’t the first to discover the Martian defeat; several others like me had already figured it out the night before. One man—the first—had made his way to St. Martin’s-le-Grand, and while I was sheltering in a cabmen’s hut, he managed to send a telegram to Paris. From there, the joyful news spread across the globe. Cities that had been gripped by fear suddenly burst into celebration. They knew about it in Dublin, Edinburgh, Manchester, and Birmingham, just as I stood on the edge of despair.

Men were weeping with joy, shouting and stopping their work to shake hands and cheer. They were organizing trains, even from as close as Crewe, to head to London. The church bells, which had fallen silent for two weeks, suddenly rang out across England. Cyclists, gaunt and wild-eyed, raced along country lanes, shouting of unexpected deliverance to the hollow-eyed figures of despair. And food! Across the Channel, across the Irish Sea, across the Atlantic, supplies of corn, bread, and meat rushed to our aid. It felt like every ship in the world was heading to London during those days. But I have no memory of any of this. I was adrift—like a madman.

I found myself in the home of some kind people who had discovered me on the third day, wandering, crying, and raving through the streets of St. John’s Wood. They later told me that I had been singing some nonsensical tune about “The Last Man Left Alive! Hurrah! The Last Man Left Alive!” Despite their own troubles, these people—whose names I wish I could express my gratitude to—took me in, sheltered me, and protected me from myself. They had pieced together bits of my story from my ramblings during those days of confusion.

When my mind began to clear, they gently shared what they had learned about Leatherhead. Two days after I had been imprisoned, it was destroyed, every soul in it wiped out by a Martian. It had been obliterated, it seemed, without any reason—like a child crushing an ant hill, simply out of a desire to exert power.

I was a lonely man, and they were very kind to me. I was sad, and they bore with my sorrow. I stayed with them for four days after I recovered. During that time, I felt an overwhelming urge to see whatever remained of the little life that had once seemed so bright and happy. It was a hopeless desire, a longing to wallow in my own misery. They tried their best to distract me from this dark impulse. But eventually, I couldn’t resist any longer. I promised to return to them and, I confess, I parted from these newfound friends with tears in my eyes as I stepped back out into the streets that had recently felt so dark and strange.

The streets were already bustling with returning people; in some places, shops had reopened, and I even saw a drinking fountain with running water.

I remember how mockingly bright the day felt as I retraced my melancholy path to the little house in Woking. The streets were alive with activity, and it seemed unbelievable that a significant portion of the population could have been lost. But then I noticed the yellowed skin of the people I passed, the unkempt hair of the men, the wide, bright eyes, and how many still wore tattered rags. Their faces bore one of two expressions—either a wild exultation and energy or a grim determination. Aside from those expressions, London felt like a city of tramps.

The local councils were handing out bread sent by the French government. The ribs of the few horses I saw were painfully visible. Haggard special constables with white badges stood at every street corner. I didn’t see much of the destruction caused by the Martians until I reached Wellington Street, where I saw the red weed climbing over the supports of Waterloo Bridge.

At the edge of the bridge, I spotted a striking contrast typical of these bizarre times—a sheet of paper flapping against a tangle of red weed, pinned down by a stick. It was the first newspaper to resume publication, the *Daily Mail*. I fished a charred shilling from my pocket and bought a copy. Most of the pages were blank, but the lone compositor had entertained himself by creating a bizarre advertisement layout on the back. The content was emotional; the news organization hadn’t yet found its footing. I didn’t learn anything new, except that in just one week, the examination of the Martian machines had produced astonishing results. Among other claims, the article assured me—though I didn’t believe it at the time—that the “Secret of Flying” had been discovered.

At Waterloo, I found the free trains taking people back to their homes. The initial rush had already passed, and the train was mostly empty. I wasn’t in the mood for small talk, so I settled into a compartment by myself, arms crossed, gazing at the sunlit devastation rolling by outside the window. Just beyond the station, the train jolted over makeshift tracks, and on either side of the railway, the houses stood as blackened ruins.

As we approached Clapham Junction, the face of London was grimy with the residue of Black Smoke, despite two days of thunderstorms and rain. At Clapham Junction, the line was wrecked again; hundreds of unemployed clerks and shopkeepers were working alongside the usual laborers, and we jolted over a hastily repaired track.

From there, the landscape was stark and unfamiliar; Wimbledon had particularly suffered. Walton, with its untouched pine woods, seemed the least affected. The Wandle, the Mole, every little stream was choked with red weed, resembling a grotesque mix of butcher’s meat and pickled cabbage. The Surrey pine woods were too dry for the red vines to thrive. Beyond Wimbledon, near the tracks, I spotted the mounds of earth surrounding the sixth cylinder. A crowd had gathered, with some sappers busy at work. A Union Jack waved cheerfully in the morning breeze above the scene. The nursery grounds were a vivid crimson, a painful sight marked by deep purple shadows, and my eyes found relief in the soft blue-green of the hills in the distance.

The line on the London side of Woking station was still under repair, so I got off at Byfleet station and walked toward Maybury, passing the spot where the artilleryman and I had spoken to the hussars, and where the Martian had first appeared to me during the storm. Curiosity compelled me to veer off the path to find, tangled in the red fronds, the warped and broken dog cart, with the horse’s bones scattered and gnawed. I stood for a moment, contemplating these remnants.

I then made my way back through the pine woods, where the red weed towered over me in places, and discovered that the landlord of the Spotted Dog had already been buried. I returned home past the College Arms. A man standing at an open cottage door greeted me by name as I walked by.

As I approached my house, a quick flash of hope surged within me, only to fade instantly. The door had been forced open; it swung slowly as I neared.

It slammed shut again. The curtains in my study fluttered out of the open window from which the artilleryman and I had watched the dawn. No one had closed it since. The battered bushes were just as I had left them nearly four weeks ago. I stumbled into the hall, and the house felt hollow. The stair carpet was ruffled and stained where I had crouched, drenched from the storm on the night of the catastrophe. Our muddy footprints still marked the stairs.

I followed them to my study and found the sheet of work I had left on my writing table, still there under the selenite paperweight. For a moment, I stood reading my unfinished arguments. It was a paper on the likely evolution of moral ideas alongside the civilizing process, and the last sentence began a prophecy: “In about two hundred years,” I had written, “we may expect——” The sentence ended abruptly. I recalled my struggle to concentrate that morning, not long ago, and how I had broken off to grab my *Daily Chronicle* from the newsboy. I remembered walking to the garden gate as he approached and listening to his strange tale of “Men from Mars.”

I descended the stairs and entered the dining room. The mutton and bread lay there, both spoiled and decayed, and a beer bottle was tipped over, just as the artilleryman and I had left it. My home felt empty and desolate. I realized how foolish my lingering hope had been.

Then, something strange happened. “It’s no use,” a voice said. “The house is abandoned. No one has been here for ten days. Don’t stay here to torture yourself. You’re the only one who made it out.”

I was taken aback. Had I voiced my thoughts? I turned around, and the French window was open behind me. I stepped toward it and looked outside.

And there, both astonished and terrified, just as I was, stood my cousin and my wife—my wife, pale and without tears. She let out a soft cry.

“I came,” she said. “I knew—knew—”

She touched her throat and swayed. I rushed forward and caught her in my arms.