Invasion! Earth vs. The Aliens

by Robert Reginald

  “We need to find cover,” I said.

  The minister cried faintly in her throat and began dashing down the road, but I knew it was no good running from a Martian, so I turned aside and crawled through some nettles and underbrush into the broad drainage ditch that ran by the side of the street. She looked back, saw what I was doing, and returned to join me.

  Two of the great tripods halted near us, perhaps having seen our movement; the nearer of the machines was facing Tamalpais Valley, while the other strider was outlined indistinctly against the sky. I couldn’t be sure of its exact location.

  The unworldly howling had ceased; the machines then took positions equally spaced from each other, working in absolute silence. They actually formed a half-circle, I later learned, with about twelve miles between the horns at its furthest extent.

  We still had soldiers out there somewhere, targeting at least part of the crescent formation—at San Rafael and Novato and San Anselmo and Fairfax and Woodacre, and even at Point Reyes on the coast. Behind hills and woods, in ravines and gullies, across the flat meadows, wherever a group of trees or houses provided sufficient cover, our men patiently waited for the enemy’s next move. I don’t know if General Harroll was directing the activity, or if some other officer was in charge. Everyone knew, though, that this represented our final throw of the dice. The Martians just had to advance a little further into our line of fire, and instantly those motionless black forms, those guns and tanks glittering so darkly in the night, would explode into thunderous fury, would light up the sky with their weapons, and then water the soil with their valiant blood.

  How much did the aliens actually understand? No one has ever answered that question to my satisfaction. Did the Martians appreciate the bravery of our boys? Or did they interpret our occasional spurts of activity, the sudden stinging of our shells, as the onslaught of a hive of bees, something to be brushed aside? Did they dream of killing us? What did they want? I had no idea, and neither did anyone else.

  I’ve asked myself these questions a hundred times or more, and still I have no answer that makes much sense, although I know more now than I did then. As I watched those vast, impersonal sentinels standing so very close to us that night, I realized how utterly alien they were, and how strange we must seem to them. Was some understanding between the two species even possible?

  Then came a sound like the distant concussion of a gun, followed by a long whoosh, and then another, and yet another. The Martian near us raised a tube on high and discharged it with a heavy boom that made the ground heave. The one further north answered it. There wasn’t any flash or smoke, just this ominous series of dull detonations, followed by the whooshing sound I’d heard previously.

  This was obviously something new! I was so curious that I completely forgot my fear and climbed onto an adjoining wall. I stood there staring southeast towards Almonte. Just then I heard another loud report, and could feel rather than see a large projectile hurtling overhead down the valley towards the Bay. I expected to observe some flash of its detonation where it landed, but instead all I could see was the dark sky above, dimly lit by the moon, and a kind of mist spreading wide and low below me near the coast. The silence returned.

  “What’s happening?” the minister hissed, crouching beside me.

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  A bat flickered by and vanished from sight. A distant shouting began—and then abruptly ceased. I looked up again at the Martian machine, and saw that it was now moving southeast along the creek bed, with a swift, rolling motion generated by the working of its three legs.

  Every moment I expected some hidden emplacement of ours to attack the striders, but the evening remained calm and silent. This was very strange indeed. The figure of the Martian grew smaller as it receded, and presently the mist and night swallowed it up completely. We climbed higher along the wall as it paralleled the road, trying to see something, anything, that might tell us what was going on. Towards Almonte I could perceive a darkened hollow with a hill poking out of it; and then, on the other side of the stream, another. I couldn’t make any sense of it. What the hell was happening here?

  I looked to the north, and there I saw a third of the black clouds hugging the ground.

  Everything had become very still. Far away to the southeast, I heard the Martians hooting to one another, and then the air quivered again with the distant thud of their guns. But our own weapons made no reply.

  “We need to get to higher ground,” I said, suddenly seized with apprehension.

  I don’t know why I was so worried, but there was something very wrong about what I’d observed. So we headed immediately up the road leading out of Mill Valley to a hilly area between the two gullies. I just didn’t like the look of that black vapor.

  Later I learned much more about the Black Death, as it came to be called, but everything then was still a mystery to us. It was just my gut instinct that drove us up that hill and saved our sorry lives.

  The poisonous gas was dispensed in several ways. It could be shot some distance in canisters that would crack open on impact, thereby dispersing their noxious load, or by directly spraying the vapor over the areas that the aliens wanted cleansed of life. The fog killed everything that breathed it.

  It was heavy, this gas, heavier than the densest smoke. It would sink through the air and pour over the ground in a manner that was almost liquid, abandoning the hills and streaming into the valleys and ditches and waterways. Wherever it encountered water a chemical reaction occurred, neutralizing the stuff and covering the stream or pond or ocean with a powdery dark scum that sank slowly to the bottom. The vapor didn’t diffuse in air as a gas might, but hung together in oily banks, flowing sluggishly down the slope of the land and driving reluctantly before the wind, very slowly combining with the moisture of the atmosphere, and sinking to earth in the form of an inert black dust. Our scientists have never been able to recreate the stuff in their labs.

  Anyone who reached high ground could easily escape its effects, if they understood what was happening. In San Francisco, for example, a number of people on the upper floors of high-rise hotels survived the initial onslaught of the Martians, and eventually lived to tell about their experiences.

  As a rule, though, the Martians didn’t wait for the vapor to disperse naturally, but cleared the air by wading into the stuff and neutralizing it with some kind of gaseous counteragent.

  Late that night we heard some of our own guns again, firing in the distance at a Martian machine. We also saw another Martian ship land, I’m not sure where, somewhere to the south of us. It was a brilliant emerald meteor high in the sky, a beautiful sight really, if it hadn’t been so ominous.

  The Martians had methodically cleared the countryside of most of the pesky “bugs” that were irritating them, much as we might smoke out a bees’ nest. From Novato to San Francisco millions of human beings died during that long, dark night, quickly and horribly and completely. Each discharge of an alien weapon resulted in the wholesale slaughter of tens of thousands of innocent men, women, and children.

  We didn’t realize this, of course, for some days, but were lucky enough to save ourselves accidentally.

  The great striders had almost ceased using their sting-rays, either because they had a limited supply of the energy needed to produce them, or because they wanted to preserve rather than destroy our countryside and cities. After that terrible night everyone knew that no earthly army could stand against them.

  Thus, most resistance against the invaders had ceased by dawn of the next day. The military command withdrew its forces—there weren’t all that many soldiers remaining—to safer locations, leaving just a few bands of sappers and guerrillas. The local governments abandoned their efforts to maintain order, and evacuated their personnel to other locales, along with anyone else who could be persuaded to go. The cities in the San Francisco Bay Area were abandoned to the enemy. The Martians lost no time in occupying San Francisco proper, establishing their
major base there.

  Reverend Lesley, for once, had nothing to say. I think that even she was appalled by the wholesale slaughter of human life—although I’m not certain to this day whether the Martians actually intended to wipe us out completely, or were merely trying to control the surviving members of our population for their own purposes, whatever those might be.

  Perhaps the future would provide answers to these questions. Perhaps the Martians themselves would someday enlighten us.

  Hell, I was just glad to be alive.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  EXODUS, STAGE RIGHT

  Babylon is fallen, is fallen, that great city.

  —Holy Bible, Revelation 14:8

  Alex Smith, 28 December, Mars Year i

  San Francisco, California, Planet Earth

  Although electricity in the Bay Area had failed several days before, people were still living there, but as that third morning after Christmas dawned crisp and bright, all the survivors were ordered out of the City of San Francisco and surrounding communities. It was now obvious that the Martians would soon occupy the place, and that anyone left behind would not survive very long.

  Indeed, there were more people remaining than the authorities had ever imagined, tens of thousands of them, and evacuating the multitudes was no easy task. Some were loaded on ships at the Embarcadero, some sent south on trains, some put on BART or buses or trucks or bikes or skateboards or anything else that was mobile.

  By mid-morning, though, the Police Department began to lose coherency as an organization, falling apart as individual officers fled with their families for safer climes. Official government was just about finished in the city.

  The freeways out of town were all jammed, although some effort was being made by the Highway Patrol to clear away any vehicles blocking traffic. One of the major problems confronting the evacuation was the fact that two Martian fighting-machines were planted at Mountain View, just west of San José. These’d landed fairly early in the picture, but hadn’t moved any further than the area immediately surrounding the impact sites. They’d obviously been positioned to anchor the southern hub of the alien advance.

  As transportation efforts eased, the remaining refugees began fighting among themselves for room in private automobiles, vans, delivery trucks, or whatever was available, often paying exorbitant prices for the privilege. Those who couldn’t pay tried taking matters in their own hands, which resulted in several violent shoot-outs with many casualties. Helicopters were used to airlift hospital patients to waiting ships off-shore.

  As the day advanced and the bus, BART, and train drivers refused to return to San Francisco, the people began fleeing in an ever-thickening multitude to the south—by foot, by bicycle, even by grocery store cart. At noon a Martian strider was seen on the Marin side of the Golden Gate Bridge, which was being defended on the San Francisco end by some hasty emplacements erected at the Presidio, the long-decommissioned Army base. It was important to keep the Bridge clear as long as possible, because the ports of both San Francisco and Oakland are located within the Bay, with the only exit into the Pacific Ocean being through the Golden Gate. People were still being evacuated through the strait by ship.

  There was a brief firefight at Fort Baker on the tip of the Marin Peninsula, but it ended with the usual result. This was followed by an exaltation of the Black Death, but its effect was minimal, since the intervening ocean neutralized its potency before it could reach land on the other side. The Martian striders would have to enter the city proper to seize control. Nothing happened immediately, however.

  A freight train consisting of empty boxcars and flatcars had been run all the way up to the Ferry Building on the Embarcadero. Refugees piled into the gondolas any way they could, and still there were more people wanting to leave. Why they’d waited so long is a mystery to me. The train started backing its line of cars south along the waterfront, eventually plowing through the shrieking hordes that tried to block it, crushing a number of refugees, but eventually getting out of the city with some difficulty, and saving perhaps a thousand souls.

  The Martians moved into the city around dinner time, spraying the area near the waterfront and the Presidio with the Black Death, killing anyone who couldn’t get to high ground.

  The few survivors fled into the higher parts of the city—the ziggurats of Babylon, you might say—where they waited and watched as the Martians spread out, establishing bases at strategic points. Of course, I knew nothing of this until later, but I had my own hell to experience first!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  ONE FOR ALL, ALL FOR ONE

  One for all, all for one we gage.

  —William Shakespeare

  Stephen Smith, 27-29 December, Mars Year i

  Orange County, California, Planet Earth

  Far to the south my brother Stephen, his friend Cassie, and her daughter Erie, had just managed to escape the Martian advance down the Moreno and Temescal Valleys to the area around Lake Elsinore. They fled up the side of the Elsinore Mountains on the Ortega Highway. This winding road, also called State Highway 74, traverses the San Mateo Canyon Wilderness Area between Los Pinos Peak and Elsinore Peak, eventually following the long canyon of the San Juan River down to San Juan Capistrano in Orange County. It’s a beautiful drive through the Cleveland National Forest, although the “forest” proper just consists of scrub pines and shrubs and brush. As with all Southern California mountain regions, this area is normally parched, with very little rain or other moisture except in mid-winter.

  Far below them in the valley, Steve had witnessed the first unleashing of the Black Death in the Southland. As their SUV topped the crest, however, the trio felt safe again for the first time in several days.

  “I think we made it,” Steve said.

  But they still had thirty miles to go on this two-lane road, and the traffic moved very slowly indeed, averaging no more than five miles per hour.

  Cassie again tried calling her sister, Elizabeth Fisher, in Laguna Beach, but with no luck.

  “Can’t get a signal,” she said.

  “We need to find the quickest way possible out of Southern California,” Steve said. “Liz will have to fend for herself.”

  Then the double line of cars in front of them stopped altogether (both lanes were being used for westward travel). Horns began sounding. Finally Steve got out of the vehicle to see what was happening, but the nature of the road was such that there was no way he could determine what the conditions were up front.

  “What do we do now?” Cassie asked.

  “We wait,” my brother said.

  He turned off the motor to conserve fuel.

  The Santa Ana winds were blowing about thirty miles per hour, creating very dry and warm conditions throughout Southern California. The temperatures in the valleys were running about eighty-five degrees, hot but not unusually so for December; up on the plateau it was perhaps ten degrees cooler, but since they were sitting in the open sun, it seemed warmer than that.

  “Open all the windows,” Steve said.

  “I need to pee,” Erie said.

  “I’ll take her,” Cassie said.

  She led the child off into the bushes away from the road, where she couldn’t be seen.

  In the distance Steve could hear the put-put-put of a motorcycle slowly driving up the shoulder of the road to the west. It stopped frequently. Everyone was getting out of their cars and standing around. It was too warm to remain inside.

  “Know anything?” one man asked.

  But no one did. Communications were completely cut.

  Eventually the cycle showed up. It was a lone Highway Patrolman.

  “What’s up?” Steve asked.

  “The road’s blocked by an overturned truck down in the canyon,” the cop said. “There’s no way to clear the accident. You’ll have to walk out. Lake Elsinore’s quite a bit closer.”

  “The Martians are down there,” Steve said. “What about Orange County?”

  “
The buggers haven’t reached there yet, at least as of two hours ago, but I don’t how long that’ll hold. There’re massive evacuation efforts by ship and train taking place along the coast, moving people south to the border. If you can get there before the Martians do, you and your family will have a fighting chance of getting out.”

  Then he drove on to warn the others. He was back again in an hour.

  “Elsinore?” Steve asked.

  The man shook his head. His face was grim.

  “You don’t want to go there!” was all he said.

  “What’s happening, Steve?” Cassie asked.

  He explained the situation.

  “We have to get out,” he said. “If we wait until the Martians reach San Juan Capistrano and the beach areas, then we’re cut off for good.”

  “But it’s at least twenty-five miles.”

  “I know,” he said. “Once we get past the wreck, though, maybe someone will give us a lift the rest of the way.”

  Then he gathered up the water and the lighter food packages. Cassie had brought several backpacks, and these he allocated to the two adults.

  “We’re going on a little hike,” he told Erie.

  “Oh, goodie!” she said.

  She was at the age where everything was still an adventure.

  They started down the road about mid-afternoon.

  The highway was crowded with refugees. Most of the fugitives were trudging along at a slow but steady pace, hiking west into the smiling orb of the sun, sipping their bottles of water and groaning over their aching feet. They encountered occasional forested sections along the way that provided them with enough shade to allow a brief rest in a cooler environment. One of the ranchers there was handing out water and ice, the former pumped straight and cold from his well.