An alien invasion is a pretty drastic method of urban revitalisation, you've got to admin.
VII: Brave New World
If you want to discover just what there is in a man — give him power. - Francis Trevelyan Miller
After three nights of travel, Ford approached an empty town.
To find a town free of Martian machines was becoming incredibly rare these days, which had led Ford to become wary to the point of paranoia. He still carried the general's pistol, just in case he ran into any unscrupulous survivors in the wasteland of red weed. He just hoped nobody realised he didn't have any ammunition. He had scouted the small town thoroughly, crawling from shadow to shadow, until at last he was satisfied that he was alone.
He ventured on a stately house that had probably belonged to a rich man. The burnt out, twisted remains of an expensive car sat on the driveway, tangled among the scarlet growth. A skeleton lay next to the door, broken in such a way that Ford suspected he'd been trampled. A news helicopter had crashed on the front lawn - he could just about make out the faint, peeling logo of 'Channel Six' on the side. Apart from this, the house seemed intact.
He crept up to the door, checking thoroughly for traps before gingerly pushing it open. The house was well-furnished and surprisingly clean - Ford supposed that nobody had had time to loot it before the arrival of the tripods. A newspaper, delivered on the morning of the first landings, sat on the dresser. Ford picked it up, scrutinising the cover.
It was a picture of the President shaking hands with his Canadian counterpart in Washington before discussing a trade deal - it seemed weird to remember a time when such things mattered. A black marker had been taken to the President's head - the face had been covered in black ink and there were several tears in the paper indicating the frustration of the vandal. With a deep unease, Ford realised that he wasn't the first one to enter this house.
The click of a rifle's safety soon indicated that he wasn't alone, either.
"Turn around very slowly."
Ford gritted his teeth but complied. His eyes widened as he regarded his assailant.
"Howard Wells?!"
Howard's eyes widened as he lowered his rifle.
"Ford Pines?! Jesus, what happened to you? You look like death!"
Not that Howard looked any better, Ford noted internally. His eyes were bloodshot and his face was unshaven. Most of his uniform and equipment were gone, save for his jacket and rifle - he had acquired jeans and a ragged backpack to replace what he'd lost. His face was severely bruised and he was burnt in some places. Still, he didn't seem as gaunt as Ford imagined he himself looked - perhaps he had found a reliable source of food.
"It's...it's been hard," replied Ford, "What about you?"
"Ever since that prick Northwest wrecked the bridge evacuation," scowled Howard, "I've been keeping close to ground. I found this place about five days ago - been hiding in the basement."
He grinned, exposing deeply yellowed teeth.
"This guy must've been prepping for World War Three," he said, "Whole place is stocked up with canned food. Compared to being outside, it's the damn Ritz! Come on, I'll show you!"
He led Ford down the hallway to the door to the basement.
"Anyway, now you're here, I can finally start talking about my plan!" he said, opening the door.
"Plan?" quizzed Ford.
Howard nodded, leading Ford down into the basement. It was dark inside, with only a few electrical lights set up to provide illumination. The corporal had set himself up well, comparatively - he had a small sleeping bag, a table dragged down from upstairs, a box of tools and a shelf covered in bottles - Ford thought at first that they might have been medicine but soon realised they were in fact wines.
"Sit down!" he said, pulling up a battered camp chair, "Get comfortable!"
Ford sat down, and it felt like a great weight had been relieved of him. He realised that he had barely rested in days.
"So," he said, doing his best to relax, "This plan?"
"Sure," nodded Howard.
He offered a bottle of wine - Ford declined and he took it for himself.
"So," he said, sitting down, "Way I see it, the Old World's gone. The President, Congress, the Governor, the United Nations, all those things - they're all dead, swept away. You know what that means?"
Ford raised an eyebrow, inviting Howard to go on.
"Clean slate!" replied the corporal, extending his arms excitedly as his smile widened, "All the hang-ups of society, man, they're gone! We can build anew! And you know where we're going to build it?"
"I'm sure you'll tell me," shrugged Ford.
"Underground!" exclaimed Howard, "In the basements and the sewers and the subway tunnels! Martians can't bring their machines down there! We'd have dominion! We can build a whole society down there, away from the Heat Rays and the black smoke!"
He took a swig of his wine.
"Out there, it's a tragedy, a disaster," he shrugged, "But that doesn't mean we can't take the opportunity to make a better world, huh? Not just for ourselves, but for our kids!"
"...in a sewer," said Ford flatly.
"I'm not saying it's prime real estate," shrugged Howard, "But it's what we have."
He began to pace.
"So how would this...new world work?" asked Ford.
"Everything would be based on the community," replied Howard, "No federal government, no cops, no bureaucracy - everybody would make decisions as one group."
"A direct democracy?"
"Yeah! One guy, one vote," replied Howard, "Everyone would be exactly equal. Nobody would care about your skin or your gender or anything! Also, no money! Everybody gets back exactly what they contribute. If you don't contribute, you get nothing. Scientists and engineers would prosper and stock marketeers and investment bankers would die off."
He sighed dreamily.
"We'd create a scientific utopia!" he exclaimed, "Develop cold fusion and lasers and whatever else we can think up, and in a few years, we'll back up and give the damn tripods the what for!"
"You can't possibly want to fight them again!" exclaimed Ford.
"No, not with a rifle," replied Howard, "With our own Heat Ray, our own black smoke, our own tripods! What do they call it...reverse engineering!"
Ford stood up.
"You might be on to something," he said, scratching his chin, "If I could get my hands on a tripod...maybe, just maybe, I could...but I'd need a lab first..."
"Say no more!" exclaimed Howard, a manic glint in his eye, "I've started building already! Come on, I'll show you!"
"Well, you're resourceful," nodded Ford, following Howard through a door at the back of the basement.
He found himself in a small utility cupboard. The wall panels across from him had been torn off, and the corporal had dug the entrance to a tunnel. Ford knelt down to look.
It was far from the great society Howard had envisioned.
The tunnel was about a metre long, uneven and unstable in construction. Part of the side wall had already begun to cave in. The floor of the tunnel was littered in broken glass bottles and it stank of alcohol. Ford glanced back at the corporal - he was smiling down on his creation like a father might look at a newborn child, but his red eyes sagged deeply and his vision was unfocused. He gave Ford a thumbs up and swigged his bottle of wine again.
In that moment, Ford saw Howard plain.
"What do you think?" he asked.
Ford wanted to tell him that his dream was simply that - a mere dream. He wanted to tell him that he had nowhere near the genius, the skill, the energy or the patience required to make his brave new world a reality. He wanted to tell him that he was lost, mad or possibly even just drunk. He wanted to tell him that it was all over, and that there was nothing he or anybody else could do to save themselves.
He forced himself to smile.
"It's a good start," he lied.
"I'll drink to that!" exclaimed Howard, "Well, except this bottle is empty. Care for another?"
He marched merrily back into the basement. Ford looked back at the tunnel, shook his head, and slowly followed.
Despite his disillusionment, Ford stayed in the house until nightfall. Howard continued to elaborate on his grand plan, repeating himself over and over again as he drank bottle after bottle. Ford helped himself to a can of beans - he found he could only eat half before his empty stomach erupted into terrible indigestion.
Eventually, Ford heard the distant cry of a Martian tripod, and knew he would have to leave. He looked over to Howard, about to tell him to join him - but one look at the inebriated corporal dissuaded him of this notion. He was clearly too drunk to be moved.
"Howard," he said.
"Y-yeah?" asked Howard.
"I...I'm gonna try capturing a Martian now," he said, "I'll be back by morning."
"Good for you!" slurred Howard, raising his bottle, "That's what the new world needs! Go getters. You...you go man..."
He put down his bottle and put his head in his hands.
"Goodbye, Howard," said Ford, heading for the stairs.
As he ascended from the shelter, he could hear Howard drunkenly begin to sing.
"Take a look around you...
At the world we've come to know...
Does it seem to be much more...
Than a crazy circus show...
Maybe from the madness...
Something beautiful will grow..."[1]
As Ford gently closed the door, Howard's singing faded into a soft sobbing.
There was nothing but rain and mud.
The Navy had been called away to Pearl Harbor with a promise from the Governor of Alaska that he would take over feeding the refugee camp. This had been exposed as a lie. Now, after six days, the last food had run out. There were no medical supplies. There was no electricity. There was hardly even fresh water.
One by one, alone and deprived of all the necessities of human life, the refugees in Ninilchik started to die.
Pneumonia had fully taken hold of Pacifica by now. She now lay on a table converted to a makeshift hospital bed in the same evacuation ship she had arrived on - she was pale as a ghost and had lost a significant amount of weight. She had fallen into unconsciousness earlier in the day - without medication, it was not expected that she would survive the night.
Dipper, Mabel and Wendy stood vigil over her comatose form, waiting in utter silence. There was nothing left to say or do - either aid would come, and they would live; or it wouldn't, and they would die. It was as simple as that.
Mabel swallowed, gingerly taking hold of Pacifica's hand. She glanced over to Dipper and Wendy, who were huddled for warmth in the dark room.
It would be so easy to give up, she thought - there was no food coming. Even if there was, the Martians would probably roll over Canada and catch up to them here. It would almost be a liberation to lay down and accept it. She suspected Dipper had done that already.
She didn't want that 'liberation.'
In her head, she had come to a decision. She would give hope one last chance - one last night. She would believe with all her heart that somebody would come and that they would all be saved.
And if that didn't happen - if Pacifica died in the night - then she would finally be ready to accept the end of the world.
[1] These are the last lines of Brave New World, the Artilleryman's song from the Jeff Wayne version.
AN: Geez, this isn't a happy story, is it?
