(Author's Note: This is the cursed crossover of a writing assignment I received after reading The War of the Worldsby H.G. Wells, and I thought it was funny enough to share.)
The perpetual sound of screaming echoed just outside the window. There were riots in the street. The ground shook as the Martians' machines roared in the distance, inflicting their terrible damage upon humanity.
Despite my urgings, the detective refused to leave. He sat in his armchair, violin in hand, playing a melancholy melody. "Don't you see, Doctor? Look at the streets. Flight is impossible. Our only hope of survival is to remain hidden."
In my heart, I knew he was right. But that did nothing to quell my growing fears. "But the smoke! The Black Smoke that inescapably brings death!"
The detective only scowled. "Easily neutralized."
"How?" I cried, impatiently. Even as we spoke, our chances of escape were growing slimmer. But I couldn't leave without him.
The detective laughed dryly. "Have you ever inhaled a clean breath in London? The air has already been polluted so completely. I suspect the Smoke won't be able to penetrate the dense fog, making it of no effect. Far more dangerous is the fear of being trampled or starving in an attempt to flee. No Heat-Ray, no Martian, is as dangerous as a stampede of fearful people."
"How can you be sure?" I said, exasperated. He wasn't often wrong, but the stakes were high, and time was of the essence. If he were wrong today, we wouldn't live long enough to regret it.
The detective looked at me earnestly. "I don't. But I'm asking that you trust me. On the one hand, our chances are slim. On the other, impossible."
I paused. "You mean, all these people…" I looked out the window at the terrified hordes.
"Yes, Doctor. They're as good as dead." He said, without flinching. He set down his violin and joined me by the window. "Now, we have nothing to do but wait."
We tried to continue with daily routine, but that was worse than impossible. Even without the humming of Martian machines right outside the door, it didn't take highly honed observational skills to know that something was wrong. The detective was more irritable than normal; I was jumping at every sound. Even our landlady would've possessed more bravery than had come over me.
"If only we had a case to work!" The detective grumbled, "Something to end this painful monotony."
I sighed. Only the detective could call the apocalypse monotonous. A case, indeed! Solving a murder, that would make everything just peachy, wouldn't it? Still, I couldn't help but be comforted in the certainty of his voice. To him, it was no worse than waiting out a thunderstorm, with the only casualty being the loss of a refreshing morning walk.
We waited. We watched. The sky turned threatening and red as the giant machines crawled through London, leaving destruction and death in their wake. The detective had faced the greatest human minds in a battle of good versus evil and won. But these forces were not human. What chance did he have of outwitting them?
To all appearances, he didn't even try. He simply watched and waited, a hazy look in his eye, scarcely moving but from the armchair to the couch. If there was anyone who could outsmart the Martians, it was the detective. And even he had admitted defeat.
Three long days, we waited. We watched as the city crumbled around us, and the air was thick with the smell of blood and decay. Our supply of food was complete, but the near-constant sight of decaying bodies was nauseating, and as a result, the detective and I ate very little. Every second was painfully long, and the three days seemed a lifetime. By the third day, we hardly talked to each other; there was nothing left to be said. Isolated, in our respective bedrooms, there was a moment of peaceful respite from the howling of the wind and whirring of the alien machines. But only a moment, and then the crying voices echoed through the air once more.
Finally, the screaming stopped. I woke up to the sun streaming through my windows, and the quiet whispering of a morning breeze. It was over. It was quiet.
At first, I believed it was a dream, a memory of the peaceful days which were long gone. Then the sound of music came to my ears, and I opened my eyes and listened. It was a violin, singing cheerfully. I tumbled out of bed, got dressed, and rushed to the living room.
The detective stood by the window, playing a wandering, melodic tune. "Good morning, Doctor," he said with a smile.
I followed his gaze to the window outside. The sky was blue, and that seemed a strange sight. The red glow from the Martian machines had vanished, and the warm sunshine illuminated everything, banishing the darkness. The Martians were gone, and the sun had risen in London once more.