War of the Worlds

by Adam J. Whitlatch

  “The Chavezes took me in. They clothed me, fed me, gave me an education. The sheriff taught me everything the schools couldn’t. How to ride. How to shoot. How to be a man.”

  “One night, he took me riding in the desert. When we made camp, I asked him something that had been nagging me for years. I asked him why he didn’t run like the others, why he stood his ground against the Martians.

  “The sheriff didn’t say anything for a while… just sat there staring into the fire. Finally he said that when he had been sworn in as sheriff, he had taken an oath to protect the people of Albuquerque, and no matter what the cost, a real man honors his oath. Then he said something that chilled me to the bone.”

  “What did he say?” Byrnes asked.

  Gracen looked up at the stars. “He said, ‘One day, they will return.’”

  Byrnes nodded.

  “After I graduated high school,” Gracen continued, “I went to the recruitment office and enlisted in A.R.E.S. The night before my deployment to New York, Maria and I climbed to the top of the mesa and watched the stars. Mars burned bright red. It looked so close… too close. That’s when I knew I’d made the right decision. Maria never tried to change my mind, never begged me not to leave. She just… kissed me.”

  Byrnes grinned.

  “I thought those six months of basic training would kill me,” Gracen said.

  Byrnes nodded and laughed. “You and me both.”

  “But I made it, and I swore the oath,” Gracen continued. “After graduation, I came back to New Mexico and asked Maria to be my wife. I thought the sheriff was going to shoot me dead.”

  Byrnes laughed.

  “But he didn’t.” Gracen shook his head. “No, that stone-faced old cowboy actually shed a tear when I asked for his blessing.”

  Byrnes leaned over and prodded Gracen’s arm with his elbow. “I’m invited to the wedding, right?”

  “Are you kidding?” Gracen said. “I couldn’t do that to poor Mrs. Chavez! You’ll eat everything in sight.”

  They laughed.

  A bright, fiery orange glow lit up the sky to the east, and both men shielded their eyes with their arms. A deafening roar shook the base, and a second later, the shockwave struck. Gracen and Byrnes were thrown to the floor of the watchtower. When they looked up, the explosion was beginning to subside. Slowly, the fire faded away.

  Gracen gaped at the empty patch of sky. “What the hell?”

  Byrnes opened the radio box and keyed the receiver. “Watch tower to comm… Watch tower to comm….” He waited. “Nothin’.”

  Gracen lifted the hatch in the floor and stepped onto the ladder. “Come on. Let’s get down there and see what’s going on.”

  They scrambled down the ladder. Byrnes’ boots brushed Gracen’s shoulders in their haste to descend. They ran side by side down the winding corridor until they reached the communications room. The door opened onto a seemingly solid wall of sound as the technicians inside bellowed at each other.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “My station’s gone dead!”

  “Mine, too!”

  The single electric bulb hanging from the ceiling flickered, dimmed, and died. Darkness engulfed the room and the technicians’ panic reached a fever pitch. Somebody bumped into Gracen and then ran straight into Byrnes, cursing in a manner only time in an A.R.E.S. barracks could teach a man.

  A small flame pierced the darkness and the sharp smell of sulfur filled the air as somebody struck a match. A kerosene lamp illuminated the stern, chiseled face of the station commander, Lieutenant Eastman.

  “All right, shut up!” Eastman bellowed.

  The technicians fell silent. All eyes fell on the lieutenant.

  Eastman shook out the flame and dropped the smoking matchstick. “Report,” he said.

  “Sir,” a young man at the far end of the room said, “radar is down.”

  “Short wave, too, sir,” said another. “I’ve got nothing.”

  Eastman’s eyes fell on Byrnes and Gracen. “You two! See anything?”

  Gracen saluted. “There was a big explosion in the sky to the east, sir.”

  “Huge!” Byrnes added, spreading his arms wide to illustrate.

  Eastman considered this. “An aircraft?”

  Gracen shook his head. “I don’t think so, sir.”

  “Everybody!” An off-duty soldier in his red undershirt crashed into the doorframe from the darkened corridor. “You have to see this!”

  Eastman craned his neck to look past Gracen and Byrnes. “What is it, Avery?”

  “Come quick,” Avery said before sprinting down the hall.

  The technicians scrambled for the exit, forcing the watchmen against the wall. They followed Eastman, letting his lantern light the way while the others stumbled over each other in the dark. Avery threw open the door and pointed skyward.

  “There! There,” he shouted.

  A green brilliance bathed their upturned faces. Three lights streaked across the sky like falling stars, filling the air with a loud, grating hiss as they passed overhead. The soldiers followed their path until the emerald stars disappeared over the horizon.

  “Son of a bitch!” Eastman growled. Without further comment, he turned and reentered the building.

  One of the technicians turned to follow. “What was that, Lieutenant? Lieutenant?”

  Gracen and Byrnes exchanged worried glances, and then followed as well, leaving the others to gawk at the night sky.

  Eastman stalked down the hallway, his lantern lifted high. “What the hell do you think it was, son?”

  “They’re back,” Gracen said. “Lord have mercy.”

  “Pray on your own time, gentlemen,” Eastman said. “Right now I want that backup genny running. Get these lights back on.”

  *****

  It took Gracen five minutes and ten shoulder-wrenching tugs to get the generator behind the base running. After several seconds, the light above his head pulsed until a steady glow illuminated the area, and he exhaled; he hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath. The walk back was much quicker without having to feel along the wall and squint in the darkness.

  When Gracen reentered the communication room, nothing had changed. Even with the lights on, the same chaos greeted him.

  “Radar’s still dead,” the tech shouted. He cursed and slapped the side of the console.

  “Sheckley, try the telephone,” Eastman shouted. “See if you can reach Albuquerque.”

  Sheckley nodded. His chair creaked as he sat and lifted the receiver. He turned the crank and listened. His brow furrowed as he tapped the hook switch, then a second time. He turned the crank again and spoke into the cup, “Is anybody there? Hello, Central? This is A.R.E.S. Radar Station 42. Hello?”

  Sheckley shook his head at Eastman. The lieutenant took the receiver and held it to his ear. He cursed and threw the now-extinguished lamp against the wall. The sharp odor of kerosene filled the room. All fell silent as Eastman stared silently at the floor, the telephone still clutched in his left hand.

  “That explosion must have done something to our electronics,” he said. “If that’s the case, then the effect could be localized.”

  Around the room, heads nodded.

  “Gracen, Byrnes,” Eastman said. “Take a field telephone and ride south. Splice into the line and try to get a call through. Keep going until you’re able to make contact. Ride all the way to Albuquerque if you have to.”

  Gracen nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  *****

  Gracen adjusted the shoulder strap on the light rocket launcher slung across his back and cradled the field telephone under his arm. He pushed open the garage door and saw Byrnes sitting astride Collette, the base motorcycle.

  Byrnes pointed at the launcher on Gracen’s back. “What’s with the hardware?”

  Gracen stowed the field phone in the sidecar. “You’ve never seen a Martian.”

  Byrnes grinned and patted the Browning .50 caliber machine gun
mounted on the sidecar. “I’ve never seen anything that can stand up to Ma Deuce.”

  “We’ll see.” Gracen slipped the launcher off and laid it inside the sidecar, then slid in beside it.

  Byrnes kick-started the bike, revved the engine a few times, and Collette surged into the desert like a rocket, kicking up a cloud of dust behind her.

  Chapter Seven

  Española, New Mexico

  Joe Wilson lit a hand-rolled cigarette and inhaled deeply. He exhaled smoke into the air and watched the wisps curl and dissipate. A light breeze blew in from the west and he let it wash over him. A good smoke and the wind on his face wasn’t a bad way to end a long day.

  He leaned against the top rail of the split-wood fence and looked out over the flock, about three hundred head of sheep in all. The lambs pranced playfully while the adults grazed and milled lazily about the enclosure. Tomorrow, he’d saddle up and take Buck to help him move them down to the south pasture.

  Buck pressed his head against his master’s thigh and whimpered. Wilson looked down and patted the Collie’s neck. When Buck didn’t settle down, Wilson clenched his cigarette in his teeth and knelt to pet him.

  “What’s the matter, boy?”

  A low rumble from the west reached Wilson’s ears, and he looked up. Over the horizon, lights flashed violently. Seconds later, he heard more rumbles.

  “Shit.” Wilson plucked his cigarette from his mouth and turned toward the house. “Lucy! Storm rollin’ in!”

  Mrs. Wilson stuck her head out the back door, her straw-colored hair poking out from beneath a light blue kerchief. “What you say, hon?”

  “I said there’s a storm—”

  Thunder crashed again, and Wilson looked up. Among the flashes, he saw a burst of brilliant green light.

  Buck paced at his feet, whining and panting. The sheep in the paddock ceased grazing and bleated nervously. The lambs huddled against their mothers.

  Wilson squinted as another emerald flash lit up the sky. “What the hell?”

  “What’s the matter, Joe?” Lucy called.

  “Lucy, you’d better come take a look at this!”

  *****

  New Mexico Desert

  Captain Hintz shielded his eyes as a Martian heat ray struck Lieutenant Freeborn’s Spartan. The tripod exploded in a massive fireball, and Hintz turned away from the blistering heat. When he turned back, all that remained was smoking wreckage. Nobody could have possibly survived. Freeborn’s demise left Hintz’s Achilles the last A.R.E.S. machine in the fight.

  Burning debris littered the ground, illuminating the battlefield. The smoke stung Hintz’s eyes, and he squinted to clear the tears clouding his vision. He could barely make out the invaders through the haze, but the crimson glow of their eyes shone through the gloom like hellfire. Hintz loaded a fresh ammunition belt into the Browning machine gun mounted in the gunner’s nest.

  “Balzer,” he shouted into the radio. “How’s that heat ray coming?”

  Static crackled from the speaker.

  Hintz keyed the mic. “Balzer? Say again!”

  “Heat ray’s stone cold, Cap,” Lieutenant Balzer replied. “The generator’s wasted!”

  “Shit!” Hintz racked the Browning. “Freeborn’s gone. We’re all that’s left. Load the cannon! Let’s drag a few of these bastards down to hell with us!”

  “Yes, sir!” Balzer said.

  Hintz angled the Browning skyward, aimed for the alien’s luminous eyes, and unleashed a hailstorm of searing lead at the closest invader. The Achilles lumbered forward, stepping over the charred legs of Freeborn’s Spartan. The cannon roared, but the Martian sidestepped, and the shot missed its mark by several feet.

  The enemy’s heat ray flashed and raked the Achilles’ left front leg, severing the hydraulic lines. Hintz’s stomach lurched as the tripod stumbled and went down, first onto its knees, then onto its nose. Hintz’s forehead struck his Browning, and fresh blood dripped into his eyes.

  “Balzer,” he gasped. After a moment, he realized he’d forgotten to key the radio and tried again. “Balzer, you alive?”

  Silence.

  “Balzer!”

  A high-pitched whine filled the air, and Hintz looked up. The Martian tripod had emerged from the smoke and was bearing down on the fallen Achilles, but he wasn’t focused on that. Instead, his eyes were locked on nine bright green points of light in the sky; they were grouped in equally spaced formations of three.

  “What the hell—”

  A heat ray streaked down from the air. Hintz’s screams were cut short as the Achilles was engulfed in emerald flames and exploded. The Martian tripod surveyed the damage, and then turned to watch the nine saucer-shaped craft streak overhead toward the east at over five hundred miles-per-hour.

  *****

  Crimson light bathed the humid interior of the lead wing’s cockpit. Green symbols scrolled down the heads-up display, casting their reflections on the pilot’s clammy skin. Tentacles caressed the craft’s control orbs, bringing it down to hug the ground. The flat, featureless landscape below streaked past, dark and devoid of life, much like home.

  It had been beautiful once—the Red Planet. Burbling rivers once crisscrossed its surface, springing from the icy northern crags to nourish the low-lying forests in the south. Then came the beginning of the end—the cataclysm. Some called it judgment; heretics claimed it was natural phenomena.

  The Red Planet was dying, and nothing could stop that. Science… scripture… both were useless in the face of Death. No, there was only one way to ensure survival.

  Colonization.

  The wing commander’s eyes drifted away from the display as it listened to the stream of information filling its mind.

  Enemy ground forces within perimeter eliminated. Threat neutralized.

  Of course they were. The natives’ resistance was pathetic. And their perverse machines! A mockery! They were ugly, unclean… much like the aborigines themselves. The wing commander enjoyed blasting the contraptions into slag.

  Initiate second phase.

  The saucer streaked past a mesa, and the display lit up in hundreds of small, green blips. The wing commander’s eyes flashed over the bright blotches and its beak parted slightly. Thick saliva dripped onto its jaws. A tentacle reached out and tapped the screen, creating a pulsing blue light at the center of the dots.

  Ground units, adjust course.

  A semblance of a smile tugged at the corners of the wing commander’s beak.

  *****

  Buck howled. A few seconds later, Wilson heard a high-pitched hum growing louder by the second. Nine strange shapes streaked overhead, and Wilson stumbled, catching himself before he could topple over the railing into the sheep paddock. The objects were fast; faster than anything he’d ever seen. He could barely make out their oblong, silver bodies, but the green and red lights affixed to its surface were visible for miles as they tore across the countryside toward the horizon.

  The sheep bleated and cried in their paddock. They pressed against the fence, and for a moment, Wilson feared it would break apart. He looked to the west, where the craft originated, and the orange glow of distant fires.

  “What the hell?” he said.

  Lucy stepped onto the porch. “Joe, what was that?”

  Wilson ran to his wife and ushered her back into the house. “Put out the lights, Lucy.”

  Lucy shook her head, confused, and then hurried to extinguish the oil lamps scattered around the house. “What’s happening?”

  Wilson blew out a lamp on the mantle, plunging the house into darkness, and retrieved his shotgun from the hooks on the wall. He opened the breech and loaded two shells into the weapon. “I don’t know. Stay inside.”

  “Be careful, Joe.”

  Wilson nodded and stepped outside. The flock was even more agitated by now. A few clamored on the fence rails, trying to escape the enclosure. Buck barked and ran frantic circles around Wilson’s legs.

  “Quiet,” Wilson hiss
ed.

  Through the din of animal cries, he heard a faint, rhythmic pounding. The ground shook with each impact. Buck stopped circling and looked west, growling and barking. Wilson turned slowly, fearing what he might see. At first he noticed nothing, but then he looked up and spotted three sets of red, glowing eyes staring down at him from a hundred feet up.

  “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered. “Martians!”

  Buck barked, and Wilson dropped to clap a hand around the dog’s muzzle.

  The tripods advanced, their tentacles writhing. To Wilson, they resembled Medusa’s hair in the Greek legends he’d read as a child. And like so many adventurers of lore, he found himself frozen in place.

  He was twelve when the Martians had come before. His family had taken shelter in an abandoned house outside Santa Fe. Wilson’s nostrils flared as he recalled the moldy stench of the wet rag his mother held over his face to protect him from the black smoke. From the windows, they’d seen several of the machines as they stalked survivors, emitting that horrible bellowing cry whenever they came across some poor soul.

  One of the Martians howled as it halted at the edge of the yard. “Uuuuuuuullllllaaaaaaaaaa!”

  The others took up the call, and Wilson felt each thunderous note in his bones. Their crimson eyes swept back and forth, coming to rest on the thrashing flock in the paddock. The machines changed direction and approached the pen.

  Buck sunk his teeth into Wilson’s fingers and squirmed out of his grip. The Collie, doing the only job he knew, rushed forward to protect the flock. One of the tripods tracked the dog’s movement and fired its heat ray. Buck disappeared inside the green flash, and when the light faded, all that remained was a circle of smoking, crackling glass on the ground where the beam had struck, along with the faint odor of burning hair.