Hello, fellow FF writers and readers once again. Another chapter for this FF and I hope everyone is enjoying it.
This will be a chapter that takes place during the main storyline, but is referenced in Chapter 13 by the priest. It will be an expansion on the aforementioned, taking place in the early stage of the invasion.
As a quick note, keep in mind this chapter will be different. It will not solely be from the normal POV of when one reads the chapter, but also from the viewpoints of several other characters. This is to capture the scope of the entire event.
Enjoy.
Southend-on-Sea, or Southend for short. A coastal town to the east of London nestled on the south coast of Essex. While not new for those who resided there and had done for centuries, those who were to travel or move to the area for the first time would quickly fall in love with its high street, the many brick and stone houses and cottages that made up the residential areas mixed with the serene beauty of the various parks within the town and of the nearby countryside. If not that, then there was the beach, long, sandy, a place often packed to the brim with people during summers past all eager to enjoy a day in the sun and the sand and the water. Small parks and playgrounds had been set up and a long wooden pier had been set up on the beach and stuck out a good few hundred metres into the harbour, and recently had been fitted with an electric tram that enabled people to save on walking and traverse from one end to the other in a matter of minutes.
Or perhaps if one did not come to the location for a day at the beach, then there was the aforementioned countryside, both around the town and across the bay, the latter of which contained the Isle of Sheppey. As for the mainland side, the tiny villages, the many woods, the rolling fields and farms and other such picturesque things of this area of the British countryside were all for people near and far to enjoy. The Thames had its rowing and sailing clubs with a marina in Southend, all of which were indulged in greatly by locals and tourists. Even Hadleigh Castle, though by now falling into ruins, attracted those eager and yearning to learn more about this little corner and its role in the wider history of Great Britain.
Oh, the beauty and tranquillity, serenity and peace, even simple happiness and joy that many would say lived and seemed to literally emanate from here. There was no wonder why this had been such a wonderful place for people to escape and rest and put their feet up, imagining themselves in their own little pleasure land where work and city-life was but a distant thought, a part of their lives that they were all too eager to push aside for a few days. Where adults could sit and talk and recall past times and dream of the future with their friends and lovers and new acquaintances – and potentially more – and where children could splash, run around and imagine themselves in a place outside of their normal routines of school and study. It was, to put simply, a wonderful summer haven.
No longer.
Within these same streets and cobbled roads between the pubs, shops, restaurants, libraries and such that made up the two to three, sometimes even four-story tall buildings, crowds moved at a steady pace, but the tension and anxiety was palpable. Nervous conversation filled the air, occasionally laced with the sounds of orders and calls for calm and organised progression on the part of the various army officers and soldiers scattered about as they urged the people on towards the coast and the pier. Many shops and cafes and market stalls and such were emptied of food, drink and other provisions by the army and people, knowing that it would be of better use to them for the coming day, or days. On the roofs of some of the buildings, several more soldiers kept watch over the town and its surrounding countryside, some fixed on the distant smoke and fires to the north and west. The sun hidden in the partially cloudy sky barred down on them, a serene moment within a tumultuous time.
"Wendy, keep hold of my hand, dear," a young mother with long dirty blonde hair, blue eyes and wearing a green dress and a hat that was tied around under her neck pulled along her daughter. "We mustn't get separated," she instructed.
"Yes, mother," the girl, who looked like a younger version of her mother, though with shorter blonde hair, wearing a white knee length dress, white stockings and a pair of socks and shoes, replied, holding onto her mother with one hand and clutching a small teddy bear in the other.
Around them, the noise, the nervousness, the calling and uncertainty among the sea of people made her uneasy, instinctively grabbing her mother's hand tighter as they worked their way along the pavement. Looking around, she saw all sorts of people, young and old, poor and rich. Even many children who looked around her age or even younger. Some were silent, tight-lipped, others were crying at all the noise and, to their eyes, the chaos and unfamiliarity of the situation. A few were carried in the arms of their mothers, or on the backs of their fathers, their heads constantly turning and gazing with a mixture of displeasure, yet curiosity at the world around them. She could see some pets among the crowds, they too unsettled by the noise and urgency. Snippets of conversation reached her, some parents urging their children to remain close, others talking about where they were to go. Some, she heard, were making mentions of the 'walking abominations' and 'ugly, inhuman brutes' and about things falling from the sky.
Her mother pulled her around a gas lamppost, then stopped on the corner for a moment to assess their whereabouts and to rearrange the basket of food – some bread, biscuits and fruit – on her arm and check on her daughter to make sure she was still holding her daughter's hand. A trivial, unnecessary thing in a normal time, but this was better to be described as an abnormal time, one of uncertainty and urgency, hence the hurried pace of those around them and themselves. She gazed out across the sea of heads to the next street that led down towards the harbour, and hopefully the rest of her family.
"Mother?" her daughter's voice came up to her. "Will Father, John and Michael be at the harbour waiting for us?"
She could not answer and tried to look away at the aforementioned street once again as the tide of people made their way down it, their own crowd being swelled by more people who came in from other side streets or from the other direction, everyone hoping to get to the beach, to reach that bastion that meant not only safety, but a sure escape. Her husband might somewhere be among them, maybe he was waiting for them. No, don't be silly! He would likely be near or even at the beach already, having taken the boys down there this morning under the pretense of seeing the ships so that they would not have the children be scared and panicked. She was thankful they had done that, for she was sure as a mother that the boys would be very uneasy about their current situation, even with their older sister, Wendy, to comfort them and keep them in line.
She turned back to her daughter and forced a comforting smile. "Of course, darling." She replied softly. "Come, let's go."
She pulled her daughter along again, passing a bearded officer who was waving people along and ordering them to remain calm. Soon they melted within the crowd, joining the mass of humanity in their bid for safety.
Hadleigh Castle
"Anythin' ou' there, lad?" The captain called from below to the soldier on the old stone tower.
He looked down, his tired face accentuated by his baggy eyes and his occasional biting of his lip to keep himself awake. "Nothing yet, sir," he replied back to the captain some thirty feet down from the top of the tower, which the captain nodded at, then returned to addressing some soldiers nearby to set up a gun emplacement pointed at the marsh.
The young lad returned to his original task of observing the surrounding scenery that stretched for miles. To his back – the north – was the marsh that led to the village of Hadleigh; to the west was the Thames that led to London, where he could already see the pillars of smoke and black clouds the creatures had started to spray as they advanced; to the south was the Thames and then the neighbouring counties, and finally the town of Southend stood to the east. The harbour, the Thames and the open water beyond hosted an array of floating vessels, ships of all shapes and sizes. Many were yachts and rowboats, some were the larger double chimneyed steamships, these having either been passing by or directed from London's ports to evacuate the people from there or the surrounding areas. He could see the faint outlines of crowds of people on the beach where rowboats and personal yachts were ferrying people to the larger ships, though whether it was part of the plan or not he had no idea.
He watched as one of the steamers moved away towards the sea, destined for … well, no one knew. Some went to Holland, others to Norway or to France. Some, rumours afloat, even made a move towards America, though how they would get there or even why they would go there he did not know. Part of him even doubted they would be safe going somewhere as distant as America, given that these things were falling from the sky and landing all across the British Isles. For all he knew, they could be landing over there right at this moment. If so, he could only imagine they were experiencing the same thing as they were. Maybe even the entire world was. Some of his fellow soldiers had seen more of these green objects fall from the sky, supposedly in the direction of the distant east and south.
Wouldn't be a surprised if the Froggies and the Dutchies are on the run. The Franks too, I bet.
As he turned away from the harbour's direction and looked in the direction of London, he reflected on the last twelve hours. It was now roughly midday, about a day and a half almost since this had all started. Him and his own regiment had been sitting at their camp based not far from Chelmsford when one of the 'meteorites' had landed not far away. As with others, which he and others soon came to know about from their commanding officers and several locals, they had investigated when the thing had burst open and a metallic device opened and began to lay waste to the surrounding countryside. Many of his own regiment had been able to escape and, within the next few hours that night, had gathered up weapons and cannons and attacked the object, though by then they had run into the first of these tripod groups and were quickly burnt to ashes. Our soldier here had been near the rear of the attacking force and, with the few that survived, retreated. To hell with the consequences, they were going to escape.
From then on, he and several others had been heading south when they came across another regiment that had been moving up from the Thames area and, after informing the commanding officer of what had happened and the threat posed by the tripods, of which more were now rising all over the country and laying waste to everything in their path, their new regiment was turned around and ordered straight to Southend. They had reached the outskirts of the town by around 5 o'clock that morning, and since then were split up and ordered to assist in the evacuating of as many as possible from the surrounding countryside into London or to wherever there were ships. Those with yachts, fishing boats, transports, even simple rowboats had all been ordered to help. Meanwhile, in the countryside behind them the tripods had laid waste to Chelmsford and the any villages and farms around it. Many had fled into London, some believing in the asinine, false hope that the metallic behemoths would not dare attack the city itself.
Our soldier shook his head, glancing north at the distant fires. Anyone who believes that is either dumb as a doornail, or completely off his head.
Harsh sounding, but, to his mind, completely true. These creatures, whatever they were behind the minds of these machines, would not cease for anything, nor would they restrain themselves. If anything, they would be assaulting London right now, or at least trying to surround it before advancing. And more of them were coming; he himself had seen more of the meteorites, though they soon realised they were cylinders of some sorts, crashing down far overhead, and reports of more coming down from the sky near Chelmsford, one even across the other side of the Thames in the direction of his brother's current residence of Rochester, had flooded in since this morning. He could only imagine the desperate crowds, the panicked, fleeing mobs, the undisciplined mass of humanity in all directions hoping to reach some form of safety, whatever that may be.
As much as he wished to stay positive, he knew it would be in vain. His own experience of what they were capable of from last night more than enough proof that it would take a warship to effectively stand up to them.
VVVVRRRRRRROOOOOOOOMMMMM!
That noise. He felt an icy chill rush down his spine, his stomach drop, a cold sweat breaking out and his throat go dry.
No! Please no!
He did not want to, but the shouting and barking of orders from below only it more real. He slowly turned, still hoping somehow that it was not going to be real.
His face contorted into terror. Though they were still distant, he could make out the forms of several lumbering metallic machines about a mile or two away, their neon green eyes glowing noticeably even at this distance. He counted five of them, each spaced some distance from each other, and all aiming for Southend.
Oh God help them.
Another of the machines let loose its foghorn – for lack of a better sounding description – as if it were commanding its fellow brethren to begin the assault.
"Boy! Bloody well ge' down 'ere!" The captain's voice shouted from below.
The soldier did not move, he stood still as a statue, frozen in time as an observer to what was the end of Britain. Even as one of the tripods, as if sensing it was being watched, turned in their direction and began to advance towards them, he still did not move. Those below began to shout out and order for the gun to be readied.
"Boy! Wake up! C'mon!"
Snapping out of his trance, he hurried towards the ladder installed on the side, taking one long last look at Southend, only imagining the terror, the horror, the absolute unbridled mass of panic that was befalling them. With what he had seen last night, and what he had heard from others, it would take a miracle to save the town and those within it.
With a quiet mutter of "God help us all,", he began to clamber down the ladder.
Meanwhile in Southend
"George!" her voice was drowned out by the noise of the crowd, the shouts, the calls, the orders for calm, the distressed cries of the children. "George!" She called again. "Wendy, stay close to me, dear," she pulled her daughter close to her. "George!"
Still, her voice was lost in the crowd. Though everyone was moving calmly, there was the mounting apprehension as they neared the opening to the beach. People pushed and shoved and elbowed their ways towards the nearing pier, and several soldiers barked angrily at the crowd to maintain order and discipline, lest they start a riot. Wendy's mother pulled her daughter with her towards the side again, stopping on a small mound elevated a good couple of metres or so above the path, giving them a grand view of what lay ahead.
The pier, long, wooden and stretching quite a distance out into the harbour, lay down the hill and ahead, about a good hundred metres away. Beyond that as far as the two women could see were ships of all shapes and sizes scattered out across the bay. One of them, a double chimneyed steamer, bellowed its horn loudly as it came to a halt next to the pier and the crew on the ship and several soldiers on the pier began to drop wooden steps across the gap and funnel people onboard. A small electric tram came back along the pier, a moustached man wearing a white t-shirt with overalls and black trousers in the seat. Seeing him, Wendy recognised him as the local tram driver and maintenance man, Tim being his name. She and her family had come to know him a lot when they visited the region the last few holidays. Possibly he knew where George and the boys were, maybe they were even near him.
Grabbing her daughter's hand and ushering her along, they quickly melted back into the crowd, weaving in and out of people as they moved towards the pier. As they got closer, they heard shouts and complaints and exclamations of all sorts. What was going on?
"Mary!" A man appeared before her, tall, but with a sizeable belly, dressed in a shirt, a black jacket, black trousers and shoes, carrying a young boy of about four with blonde hair and blue eyes and dressed in a white buttoned short and a pair of shorts in one arm and holding onto an older boy of about seven with dirty blonde hair, brown eyes covered with thick glasses and dressed in the same attire as his father, with the other hand. "Here, darling." He called out again.
She saw him, her eyes alight with relief and she and Wendy rushed towards them; Mary embracing her husband and youngest son, Michael, whilst Wendy hugged her younger brother, John, who dropped the suitcase he had been holding and hugged his sister back, both relieved their sibling was safe and well.
"Oh, my darlings," Mary said, planting a hard kiss on Michael's face and then one on John's forehead, almost making his glasses fall off. "Are you all alright?" she asked them.
"We're fine," George replied, sighing exasperatedly at the chaos around them and he beckoned them over near the edge where a few others were waiting for the crowd to thin, though judging by the swelling number and the tram not moving, it looked unlikely to be done for a while. "We were waiting for a while, watched more steamers arrive. Some went past." He explained and then nodded in the direction of the beach behind them where a large crowd of at least a few hundred people were gathered. "Some have been trying to leave this way, but more still come."
Mary nodded without a word, looking grimly at the sights around her, wondering how it could have come to this. Of course, it was and should have been obvious to her, dear readers, yet when in such situations where everything is moving at a fast pace, clarification and an idea of what may lie ahead being in short supply, as well as the constant fear of the calamity befalling them, the mind would forget, or at least push to its deepest recesses about what was happening and why it was so.
Gradually, though, it came back to her. They had been visiting one of George's colleagues who lived in Brentwood just a few days past, then decided to take the children to Southend on a little trip before going back home. It had been in Rochford last night when the family had seen several of the 'meteorites' soaring overhead, which had amazed the children; Michael commenting that they looked like 'stars flying'. They had heard of one falling further north supposedly the night before last but had been asleep then and were only told late the following morning. Over the course of yesterday, supposedly more had fallen across parts of Britain, and by then there were reports and panicked orders of something going on. Something about a "Force never seen before," being fought and destroyed near Dover, and of further instances along parts of the south coast and to the north of Southend and London. Still, many people, the Darlings included, had not taken this to heart, believing it was all exaggerated and would be dealt with.
However, all that changed this morning when news of Chelmsford and the surrounding areas being destroyed the previous night, and a thick, noxious black fog permeating across much of the countryside, of which many in and around Southend could see, reached the seaside town. Since the early morning hours too, swarms of refugees had been making their way down to the beaches in and around the town, ships sailing past packed with people fleeing London. As if a switch had been flicked, the Darlings had come to realise just how severe the situation was and what may lie in store for them should they wait. It was decided then and there that they should pack and leave. As mentioned, George had taken the boys to the beach half an hour ago so as not to worry them and try to learn more what was going on and, hopefully, get a place for him and his family on one of the ships, though they had underestimated the size of the crowd and it had taken them a while to get to where they were now before deciding to wait for the boys' mother and sister.
And here they were. The family was back together, yet still not where they wanted to be.
George took out a handkerchief and wiped several beads of sweat from his forehead with it, watching as people started to walk down the pier towards the parked steamer. A burly looking soldier ushered everyone along, as did several other soldiers scattered up and down the wooden platform. Nearby, Tim was kneeling down in front of the tram with a tool in his hand while a few people looked on worryingly.
"Wait here with mother, boys," he told John and set Michael down on the ground next to Mary and he walked over to Tim, having to squeeze past some people who were either watching him too, or were waiting for their turn to move onto the pier.
"Tim," George called to his acquaintance, but he did not hear him. "Tim!" he called again, hoping his voice would be able to carry over the noise of the crowd.
Tim looked up, then rose his arm a little in a greeting and got up. "'Iya, George, mate," he greeted in his cockney accent.
"What's happened to the tram?" George asked.
"Bloody thin's knackered, been' runnin' all day n' iss decided to break," Tim knocked his spanner on the side of the tram's front carriage out of frustration. "Of alla times the thin' decides ta' stop, 'as to be now!"
George looked at the machine, a concerned expression at the implications this would no doubt cause. "That is a bother." He said, rubbing the back of his head. "Can't you fix it?" he asked.
Tim gave a snort. "In all this?!" he nodded his head at the crowds, some of who had been listening and were not turning away with grumbles and mutters of "Wonderful,", "Well, we'll have to walk," and so on. "Yer 'avin a laff, George. Ya bess off walkin', mate. And I'd getta move on," he indicated with a jerk of his head at the growing number of people walking down the pier.
Another sigh, another obstacle for his family. Yet, it could be worse. We at least have a way off the mainland and to Europe.
He thanked Tim and walked back to his wife, who was waiting anxiously with the children, Michael in her arm and a basket in her other hand; Wendy and John looking out at the beach, silently watching the rowboats arrive and leave the shore, each packed with people, the lines on the sand trudging forward a few yards. For those in such lines, it would feel as if their turn was coming, that they would soon be on one of the waiting steamers. Yet more were filling out of the streets and onto the beach, swelling the numbers tenfold.
"How many people do you think are down there, Wendy?" John asked his big sister.
"I haven't the faintest idea," she replied, then turned to see her father coming back and nudged her younger brother and motioned for him to turn around.
Mary stepped forward a pace to meet her husband, her expression hopeful.
"No luck," he said grimly. "Darn thing's broken. We'll have to walk."
Mary's face fell. "In this?" she indicated with the arm with the basket at the moving crowd, which had barely shrunk given the constant stream of people and belongings. "I doubt even the new ships will have enough room for us all."
"It's all we can do, darling." He called for Wendy and John to come over. "Stay close to me, children so we don't get lost. John, hold onto the suitcase."
"Yes, father," he affirmed, picking up said object.
George looked back down the pier at the steamer, more people walking across the gangplank to its wooden deck, to the apparent safety it represented, a lifeline to a safe haven. Hopefully.
George cleared his throat and turned back to his family and motioned for them to set off, quickly melting in the crowd. "Well, best g-"
With a deafening noise as if occurring right next to them, a loud, deep, thunderous horn sounded off, resonating through the air like the voice of a deity, almost ubiquitous in fashion. A deathly moment of silence gripped the people within Southend as well as those on the beach and even the ships scattered across the harbour, a chill running down everyone's spines, the bubble of safety they thought would last until they were all long away from Britain suddenly extinguished in a moment. Thousands of pairs of eyes turned back in the direction of the town, and though they were greeted with a perfect normal scene of buildings and houses and vegetation and hills and such – no more than what one would see on a typical summer's day in this place – they instantly knew what that sound meant. What it represented.
"They're coming!" a lone voice cried out in terror from in the crowd.
The predictable, but still utterly terrifying metaphorical floodgates had opened as the crowd broke into a frenzy. Many ran down the pier, the sudden weight and thousands of clambering feet shaking the wooden structure. Others clambered down the slopes leading to the beaches, which were themselves filling with more of the stampeding masses as they rushed into the water towards the rowboats. The men on the boats shouted and called for calm, but it fell on deaf ears and the boats rocked. Women and children both onboard and in the water, the latter being literally dragged and pulled by their parents, pushed and cried out frantically, desperately trying to get onto a vessel to safety. Some were pushed back into the sea, only to be trampled on and/or shoved aside by more of the wall of humanity behind and around them.
George grabbed hold of Wendy and John, dropping the suitcase, and cried at Mary to follow him. All around them, people pushed and shoved and stepped on one another in their haste to escape. The officers and soldiers shouted for calm, some firing their pistols into the air, but this too did nothing. Michael cried out and buried his head into his mother's shoulder, wanting the noise to stop hurting his ears, to stop scaring him. He wanted to go home, he wanted to be with his older sister and brother. He wanted to get away from all this bad chaos.
Further by the pier, an officer, about fifty and three, his face marked by a greying moustache, ran hurriedly up the gangplank, having to push and shove the people aside, to another officer at the top.
"Hold them back!" he ordered, having to raise his voice over the noise of the fleeing masses. "Cap's going to set her off in a minute."
The second officer, younger, more of a recent graduate than an experienced veteran, looked at him wordlessly, mouth agape and still for a moment, then at the crowd, seeing at least over a hundred on the pier. Behind them many more streamed in from the streets and alleyways; some even climbing up the sandbank to try their luck on getting on the ship.
"B-but sir-" he protested.
"No 'buts', boy!" the first officer shut him down. "Jus' get on with it, now before those things ge' 'ere!"
The first officer rushed back over to the plank, pushing people onto it and shouting for them to hurry. His younger colleague sighed heavily, the weight of this decision like a thousand pounds on his shoulders, soon to be marked with blood and ash.
He rushed off through the crowd and found a sergeant with a group of soldiers who were trying in vain to maintain some semblance of order.
This isn't order, it's a streaming mass of panic he thought.
He reached the sergeant and relayed the order. The sergeant stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, the world becoming a blur around them. A moment passed. Two, yet it felt like eternities as he tried to process what this meant.
"That's an order, sergeant!" the officer said, his tone reluctantly firm.
The sergeant nodded; it was all he could do. He barked at his men and began shoving people back, forming a line with his men. More soldiers rushed down from further up the pier and from behind as the crowd on the gangplank began to thin, thickening the barrier between the ship and the crowd that now pushed and pulled more desperate than ever.
Among the crowd, Wendy held onto her father for dear life, hugging him as close as possible as they squeezed down the edge of the crowd, though found themselves caught between the people and the side of the pier's wooden railing. The wood creaked and shook as people flooded onto it. Some tried to jump through the crowd, but quickly fell to the ground and were crushed by the resulting fleeing mass, their cries and screams of pain unnoticed.
George looked behind him and saw Mary holding Michael close to her, the basket in her other arm now gone as it had been knocked off her arm a few moments ago, the contents now long gone. George glanced back down the pier and saw the crowd moving back and forth as the crowd tried to force their way through the line of soldiers. George turned back to Mary.
"Mary, stay close!" he called out.
"I'm bloody trying to!" she shouted back, having to push past a woman with her husband to get to George.
A series of loud pops and bangs rang out from a few metres ahead, followed simultaneously by screams as the crowd withdrew as several near the front fell, almost throwing George into the railing to the point where it began to crack loudly. Wendy and John cried out loudly and held on tighter to their father, fearing they were going to go over. A few more cracks broke through the air ahead. More fell and the soldiers desperately began shouting at the crowd and shoving them back more.
"Children, don't look!" George turned them away from the grisly sight and looked back at Mary, who, having forced her way to her husband, pushed Michael's head into her shoulder and told him not to look up, meeting her husband's gaze with the same terrifying question: what to do now?
The crowd surged forward, rushing the soldiers once again. The soldiers withdrew, breaking their line as they tried to recuperate the space between them and the crowd. George saw the opening.
"Mary, quick!" he called to her.
They, along with many at the front of the mass of people, rushed forward, almost stumbling and being knocked over a few as they went. The cries and shouts rose, desperation running high, the multitude of emotions vehemently filling the air. George barged past a soldier trying to gather his weapon; Mary right behind him. The soldier cried out but was quickly overtaken by the mob and pulled to the ground by a few whilst others trampled over him, his screams mixing with the noise of the fleeing. A few more shots rang out and several fell, but these too were quickly silenced as those doing it were dealt with.
George ran on, glancing over his shoulder to see Mary close behind. Around them more people ran onto the gangplank to the steamer. A few soldiers and officers, seeing that resisting was pointless, shouted and urged people on. Crewmembers ran about on deck, people fled further down the ship in the peculiar belief that putting more of a distance between themselves and the chaos would make them safer. The Darling family rushed onto the gangplank, praying that the weight of the seemingly never-ending crowd would not cause it to buckle and give way.
VVVVRRRRRROOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!
The horn sounded once again, a call of impending doom. Though still distant, it spurred on the fleeing people more as they rushed to get on the ship. Another blast sounded out from behind them, in the direction of the coastline facing the North Sea.
"They're going to trap us!" a man cried out.
George pushed on; Mary still close behind, along with the crowd. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, their feet fell on the deck of the steamer and they rushed away from the entrance. George set down the children and told Mary to take them under a makeshift covering next to one of the towers of the ship. She did this and they melted into the crowded deck.
Looking back at the gangplank, George saw the soldiers raise their weapons at the other end of the gangplank. Those in the firing line paused for a moment in all the madness, having lost their courage to come up against anything that would impede their hopes of survival. More shots rang out. Bodies fell and screams erupted as those on the pier and across the deck backed away, lest they be next.
"Stop!" George cried, rushing over and grabbing an elderly-looking officer with a moustache. "There's still more room!"
"We can't take 'em. The ship's too full and there ain't enough time!" The officer shouted back vehemently.
"You can't just abandon them!"
George made to move towards the soldiers. He had to stop them! He had to! There were still hundreds of people here on the pier alone! Surely, they could take more! There was plenty of room, more than enough for the people in Southend.
The officer grabbed him and threw him back, raising a pistol at him. "You wan' 'o try that again, son? 'Cause so 'elp me, I'll do it!"
George froze, staring the officer dead on, seeing the look of determination, the necessity to get on with this evacuation, damning any who happened to get in the way. He wanted to live too, and also for his men to live. The noise of the calamity disappeared for a moment, as if they were the only ones left in this whole debacle.
To live at the cost of others? George could only think as he waited for the officer to make the decision; to shoot or to not shoot?
The air split again with the sound of the dreaded horn, forcing many to their knees or in a ducking movement as if it were some divine force ordering all to kneel before it and submit; the former being somewhat apt given the deadly power that was approaching. Another sounded off further down the coast in the direction of the sea, followed almost simultaneously by a third in the opposite direction.
"My God, they've destroyed Hadleigh Castle!" A soldier from somewhere down the deck cried out, pointing out in the direction of said location further inland.
Those around him, George and the officer included, who had heard followed his pointing and saw a pillar of smoke rising in the distance a few miles away. A glow of fiery orange and red briefly lit up that area like the glow of an impacting meteorite, the distant outline of a Martian tripod ambling down the coast. A few people gasped and cried out as a few small boats and one of the larger steamers appeared to be a few hundred metres directly in front of the tripod in the Thames River. God only knew the sights and horror that those on the ships were witnessing and would soon be befalling them as the tripod surged forward towards them.
"God, they haven't a chance!" Someone commented near George.
Neither will we! George feared, turning back to the crowd as they began to force their way onto the ship again, the stream of people still seemingly endless.
The officer called for his men to hold back the crowd, and rushed down the ship, having to force people out of the way. Though George could not make it out, he heard him shouting with a man he presumed to be a crewmember, who themselves then disappeared into a large compartment near one of the chimneys.
A hand grabbed his shoulder, startling him for a moment before he saw it was Mary.
"George, darling," she said, having to raise her voice over the noise of the struggling nearby on the gangplank. "Please, come back to the children. Th-"
She was cut off as the ship jolted, then began to move away from the pier. Those on the gangplank cried out as it bent, then fell, sending many screaming into the water below. A few lucky ones at the front of the crowd managing to jump forward onto the deck (one being grabbed a soldier as he was about to fall off) but the crowd on the pier cried out. Some tried to jump over the edge, but the ship began to move away further, and those that attempted fell short and ended up in the bay. Many on the deck rushed forward, some trying to find something, anything to throw over to them. Others looked on helplessly, fallen, some with tears brimming as they realised the coming calamity and what would befall those they had left behind.
On the shore near the small slope that led down to the pier, a woman came to a halt, cradling a young infant in her arm, her eyes wild with terror, heart racing, hair a mess as she saw the steamer pull away. She saw some try to leap over the side of the pier, but many quickly began to rush back down the pier. More streaming masses fled down the sides of the slopes onto the beach, where many were already trying to climb aboard one of the remaining rowboats, though these too were overloaded with people and the rowers and several other passengers fought with the fleeing, lest they capsize the vessel and doom them all. The noise and cries and screams and yells of terror (likely mixed with pain as she witnessed some fall and disappear under the feet of those in the crowd) filled the air like a chorus, and the few soldiers remaining could do little to stop them.
My god she breathed. This is no organised crowd or march. It's a stampede, a fleeing horde with no direction, driven to the maddest extent to which survival took all precedence.
Nobody mattered now; only one's self-preservation was what and all they were concerned with. The steamer began to turn left and move in the direction of the North Sea. She looked further up the bay to where the Thames came in and saw one of the steamer ships erupt in flames as the tripod in that direction let loose its ray of fiery death across its surface. Those on the beach nearby fled away from it, and the rowboats in the bay began to paddle and row furiously (some even jumped into the water and tried pushing) to put a considerable distance between them.
A stampede without order, all semblance having been discarded. It was the rout of any and all civilisation.
THUM! THUM! THUM!
Her heart stopped, as did many of the crowd around, before and behind her. A chorus of cries and shouts rose up once more as the crowd began to disperse in any and all direction, some pointing up in the direction of the town. Another sound filled the air as if to meet the challenge of the sounds of the fleeing mass of humanity. Different, mechanical, a mix of whirrs and machine-like noises. Though such sounds were not unfamiliar to humanity, these were particularly … alien.
Dare I look?
THUM! THUM!
Slowly, she turned her head, the noise of the world around her near silent, gone as her senses focused on something else.
Then, it rose from behind the buildings of the nearby street. Her breath was caught in her throat, her eyes almost bulging with fright like they were going to pop out of her head, her feet instinctively causing her to back away as she laid eyes on the mechanical monster. A tear-dropped head with two huge luminous green eyes and below that a main body section with three huge legs that held it up, though she could only see the top parts of them as the aforementioned buildings blocked the rest from view. A mass of writhing, swinging tentacles waved about around the section of the 'neck' – dare she give it that kind of name, for it sounded too human.
And below that on the front of the main body was something orange and spherical and connected to the body through a short metallic tube.
And it was pointed in her direction, glowing brightly.
The woman turned away, holding her baby close to her chest, slamming her eyes shut, the sound of something charging filling the air once more.
Her last thoughts drifted to her parents, themselves long-deceased, and wondering if they would be waiting for her and her youngling. Hopefully they would be. From behind, a wall of fire swept across the slope towards her and the buildings across the seafront.
The ship's deck was a chaotic mess as people fled towards the back or behind the various towers, the chimneys and the compartments of the vessel, their terror directed at the tripod that loomed over the town of Southend and had started firing its heat ray across the beach. Over the shouts and calls for calm and the gasps and cries of horror on the ship, though, the sound of the Martian heat ray dominated all as if it were eager to show its power, it force, its destructive nature. Swathes of people on the shore were disintegrated, buildings looked as if they burst into flames. Many leapt into the water from the pier or on the beach, hoping against hope they could find escape the firing line of the deadly machine. However, this too proved futile as the heat ray, to the aghast view of those on the ships and various smaller craft across the bay, struck it and began to boil it as if were directly under some kind of stove. Those who had momentarily thought they were safe were quickly boiled alive, some even … well, without putting it in so grotesque a description, the skin on their bodies was considerably less.
George grabbed Mary and pulled her away, though they were almost torn away from each other as everyone else was doing the same. Several soldiers and others began shouting, begging for the ship to move faster. Children cried and their parents tried to shield them from the horror. George and Mary rushed back under the covering, seeing their children being tended to by another woman whom Mary had asked to manage them.
"Thank you," Mary told her, relieved, then picked up Michael, holding him close. George grabbed Wendy and John. "Come, children. We need to go inside."
George stopped her. "No, Mary, not there. If they hit the ship, then we'll be trapped."
She paused, realising the error, then nodded. "Then we should go to the other end of the ship," she said, to which her husband nodded at.
BOOM! The ship shook, knocking many to the deck floor. BOOM! Another loud bang like a cannon blast rang out. What on earth was that?
Looking up, those on the deck saw a small warship about half the size of their vessel race past in the direction of the Thames, two small, but powerful looking guns pointed at the tripod, which had paused just on the edge of the now burning seafront and was looking up at the small warship. One fired at the machine, a shell racing out and slamming into the remains of a building that one of its legs had cleaved in half. Fragments of the structure flew out and struck the tripod across the leg and body and the force of the small bang made it stagger sideways as if it had received a blow to the side of the head. Another shell fired, hitting the tripod's body section that tore a hole in it. The machine, forced back a smidge by the force of the impact, ambled back into the town, its legs tearing houses and shops and other buildings apart as it went.
"They go' I'!" someone shouted out ecstatically, eliciting a chorus of cheers from those on deck of the steamer, in the rowboats, even a few on the beach.
The sailors on the small warship cheered as they began to set the ship to move straight up the river towards the other tripod, which, after having devastated several other floating vessels of various kinds further up the bay before proceeded to grab any stragglers in one of its many tentacles, was rushing to meet them, the 'eye' glowing brightly like the sun. The Martians within the craft had witnessed their brethren be driven away by this pesky little nuisance of a human vessel. How dare they! They were nothing but insects, pests, microbes even! Up against the power akin to that of gods in their eyes! They would be dealt with swiftly, and those in the tripod would enjoy it very much.
The captain of the steamer shouted at the crew to begin moving the ship on, blowing its horn as if to get everyone back on track and away from this area while they still could. More rowboats followed nearby and behind, some racing towards some larger yachts and small Royal Navy vessels. One or two of the smaller wooden rowboats, having earlier evacuated their passengers, began heading back to the shore, hoping to grab those left behind.
VVVRRRRROOOOOOOOMMMMM!
The many humans up and down the beach and across the bay stopped dead upon hearing that horn. That dreaded, spine-chilling, hellish noise that was like the call of death, the declaration of the apocalypse. A series of thumps followed and within moments another tripod tore through the forest further up the beach facing towards Hadleigh (or what had been the village but was now a smouldering ruin courtesy of the tripod that had attacked its nearby castle). Almost simultaneously, the damaged tripod re-emerged, its green eyes glowing brightly as if burning with fury. To its left a hundred metres or so further down the coast, a third tripod appeared, a series of large cylindrical objects attached to its legs and sides, another tube-like appendage with a glowing eye on the end at the ready. More of the deathly horns blared out at a distance, no doubt signalling more were on their way.
"My god," Mary breathed, her eyes drifting to the beach as the remaining few hundred people began fleeing into the water ahead of the metallic behemoths like a mad rush on a summer beach holiday. "They don't stand a chance,"
As if on cue, the damaged tripod advanced onto the beach, its heat ray sweeping the sand and turning it to glass, incinerating tens of helpless people. Its leg smashed through the entrance section of the pier, rocking the wooden structure wildly as those on it began fleeing to the other end; anyone who ended up falling or tripping or getting knocked over being crushed underfoot by the fleeing crowd. Some leapt into the water and began frantically swimming towards any rowboat or ship in the hope they could escape. Many on the pier behind were not as lucky as the damaged tripod turned towards it and fired another jet of flame, lighting the entire structure on fire and trapping many among the fires, an unfortunate few being caught in the way and burned to a smoking crisp. Some mothers and fathers, desperation for their children's' survival above all, chucked many of their children over the edge of the pier into the sea, hoping that someone down there would be able to grab them and save them. A few adults already around the pier in the water quickly swam over to grab the kids, and another rowboat began racing over quickly, some of its occupants diving to get to the children before the Martians did.
The second tripod to arrive, meanwhile, marched into the bay, one of its legs, whether deliberately or not, sliced through one of the wooden rowboats that had tried to grab any survivors from the beach whilst the tripods were occupied. The passengers and rowers were sent flying tens of feet in different directions into the bay and left struggling among the choppy waters, though the tripod continued on, its heat ray aimed at directly at the small British Royal Navy vessel. The tripod advancing from Hadleigh splashed into the bay, the smaller yachts and rowboats racing to get out of its line of sight.
Aboard the vessel, a senior officer shouted out for his men to ready another round, to which they rushed to do. They had to fire on the tripod coming from Hadleigh. If they could stop it, then turn their attention to the other tripods onto the beach, they could buy enough time for the civilians on the ships to escape. Maybe they could even stop them! It had to be possible! It had to be!
A shadow fell over the ship and the crew collectively looked up to see one of the newly arrived tripods looming overhead, its heat ray aimed directly at them, the eye glowing like a fireball.
The captain sighed; shoulders slumped as the men around him rushed to aim the weapon at the invader's machine. A false sense of hope, a futile effort of David to stand up to a mechanical Goliath. Try as they might, they were doomed. He looked up, gazing into the enormous, luminous green eyes of the machine, wondering if they, the accursed beasts inside were looking back down at him in return. Were they mocking him, an insect in their eyes and ready to squash him and his men? Or perhaps they were more respectful, commending in whatever tongue they spoke that their enemy, whilst knowing that his time was done, was embracing his fate? Did they have such a view where they from? Or were they just as mindless and empty in thought as their creations?
Such questions were asked, and maybe they would be for generations to come, but the captain would not be here to witness or ponder of their possible answers. His last thoughts drifted to the future, perhaps a bright one, a gleam of hope, a sudden triumphant burst of light in the sea of darkness, against these demons from another world as the ship was engulfed in flames.
The steamer ship had crossed the length of the bay and was near the open sea, but for its many passengers and soldiers scattered about its deck it was not far not fast enough as they watched in abject horror as the small, but valiant Royal navy vessel explode. Bodies covered in flames leapt into the water, but the tripod's many tentacles snaked down and grabbed the few survivors and placed them somewhere within the main body section of the machine. Nearby, on the shore the damaged tripod sent out its own tentacles and thrashed the pier to pieces, tossing chunks of wood and the occasional person who had yet to be burned to death in all directions, leaving those on the ship to look on helplessly as their fellow men and women were expired right before their very eyes.
A sudden commotion erupted across the ship behind George and Mary, the former comforting the latter who had begun to sob at the hellish sights before them.
"The other one's in the bay!"
Many rushed over to the side and front, only to cry out in terror as the crewmember who had shouted out the statement was right. A few hundred metres ahead, standing tall and firm over the entrance to the bay, the water lapping just under twenty feet from the main body section, was the third tripod. The invader, the machine of death and destruction had almost certainly seen them as it was turned in their direction, ignoring the smaller yachts and rowboats that had sailed right past or were still within distance of its heat ray. Many on the deck of the steamer shouted out in alarm, some rushing towards the few lifeboats that were tied to the side of the ship. One or two immediately leapt overboard. The soldiers rushed to the end of the ship, readying their rifles, though at the back of their minds they knew it would be like throwing pebbles at an armoured elephant.
The tripod turned towards them, the eye that was the heat ray glaring with a fiery disposition as it began to glow brighter. The civilians rushed to get to the stern; the captain desperately trying to move the ship into reverse. The soldiers fired their few shots, but none landed on the tripod, it was too far, an issue that would not in any way affect their larger opponent. Mary and George, searching for and seeing their frightened children huddled nearby, rushed over and cradled them, holding them tight, waiting for the inevitable.
A horn sounded from the sea, one louder, more booming and commanding than any other heard that day. It rolled across the land, rivalling that of the effect the tripods' own call could bellow. The tripod before the steamer, along with the other remaining ones, and no doubt the many hundreds of people of people in and around and even on the shore opposite Southend, all turned in the direction of the North Sea. Those on the steamer, even those on the yachts and rowboats quite literally within throwing distance of the tripod in the bay, all temporarily forgot about the danger befalling them.
A ship moved swiftly through the water, turning and heading directly towards the bay. Its form was immense, bigger than … well, probably most, if not any other ship ever built, at least by the British. A thick ironclad base with a huge steel building across the centre of the deck and two smoking towers sticking rising out of it, and behind them a tall wooden mast with rope tied to the bow and stern of the ship, both ropes lined with the various flags of sailing. At the front of the ship, a huge double-barrelled gun lay, powerful enough to rip another ship in half; a second turret right at the back. Smaller guns lined the port and starboard sides of the ship and sailors rushed across the deck, some manning the weapons, others standing across the deck, gazing at the burning town, the distant fires, saddened, but relieved that some steamer ships and yachts and even rowboats had managed to escape; furious and vengeful that their home was under the assault of these creatures, these monsters, these – dare one say – demons from hell itself.
An elated cry rang out across the bay. That glimmer of hope had come, their saviour arrived, their lives delivered to safety. Many cheered out "Thunderchild! Thunderchild!" as if to encourage the ship and its men. The ship sailed on, on towards the waiting machine that had now turned to fully face it, eyes glowing almost like twin green suns, facing down the approaching human sea vessel. Was it surprised at the sudden arrival of a human warship? Possibly. Would it stand up to it regardless? Almost certainly.
The bow turret turned towards the tripod, meeting the glowing eye that was the heat ray as the Thunderchild advanced swiftly through the water. The ship rocked wildly as the guns fired a pair of shells, the sound like a pair of giant claps of thunder, the shockwave rushing across the water's surface, shifting the very air, going right through the bodies of those witnessing this act, right down to their teeth.
The shells tore through the head of the tripod, shattering it in a cloud of smoke and debris, and the metallic beast swayed, its legs knocking over a rowboat that had yet to move out of the way. Another salvo crashed into the back of the main body of the machine, ripping it into and brought it crashing down in sheets of flame with a humungous SPLASH and CRASH, tossing the boats nearby wildly around like toys.
Those on the Thunderchild and the many other ships and boats around the bay cheered in victory. Just like David and Goliath, the Thunderchild had faced down the monstrosity and survived, its enemy's smoking ruins partially poking out from beneath the surface of the water. Driven on by their renewed courage, the sudden resurgent vigour, the ship powered on with a whoosh of spray, driving straight for the entrance of the bay. The survivors and crews of the other steamer ships further out and the little yachts, rowboats and other floating vessels cheered their naval companions on, their shouts of joy, their cheers of encouragement enough to fill the air like the exultant masses before their deliverer, for their saviour had come. They would be delivered and the enemy driven away.
George and Mary, too, found themselves joining the mass of joyous choruses as the Thunderchild swept past the steamer as it began to exit the bay; the warship moving so fast it rocked the evacuation ship. Michael clapped his hands and exclaimed "Yay, Thunderchild!", and Wendy and John smiled both brightly and ecstatically at the ship as it went by. The crew, dressed in their naval uniforms, replied back with their own cheers and salutes (some civilians and soldiers on the steamer responded back with their own salutes), a promise that they would do anything and everything to ensure they would prevail. Cries and shouts and screams of "C'mon, Thunderchild!" and "Go get the bastards!" rang out. The captain of the vessel, a thick bearded man of roughly sixty with a stern gaze, a heavy build that even his uniform could not hide, and a resolve few with his time and experience in the Royal Navy could match, roused his crew from within the bridge, calling on them to stand firm, to carry on, to drive the Martians from His Majesty's kingdom.
"We are not done yet," he declared, directing the ship on towards their otherworldly foe.
For the Martians, the effect was immediate. The Hadleigh tripod rushed to get onto land despite the distance being a good kilometre between it and the Thunderchild, yet it was the fear that suddenly it could be upon them and run them through. The damaged tripod made for the beach, knocking aside a straggling yacht that had hoped to make a beeline for safety whilst the tripods were distracted. The few stragglers on the shore dove and sprinted out of the way of the mechanical legs. The third tripod, the one that had sunk the smaller Royal Navy vessel moments before, was more obstinate. Its heat ray aimed for the warship and began to glow that deathly glow humans had quickly come to fear.
The Thunderchild, as if recognising the threat, turned its forward gun towards the tripod and, with another ear-splitting BOOM, a shell raced the air. For a moment, it disappeared in the daylight and the smoke. Then, the tripod's head split open in a fireball, throwing metallic chunks, along with likely any gory remains of the machine's pilots, in all directions. The body swayed on its three legs as if trying to recompose itself after receiving such a deadly blow. But the Thunderchild sped on, its pointed bow aimed right at the body of the Martian tripod, and with a swift THUD and twisting of metal and steel, it cut right through the machine and cleaved it in two like a warm knife through butter. The cheers and shouts of victory rose up again all across the bay as the Martians suffered another loss. They could be defeated! They were being defeated! They would fall, and the navy would triumph.
On the evacuation steamer, the crowds had gathered mostly at the stern, they too eliciting another chorus of victory as they watched the Thunderchild rip through the tripod. George and Mary, their children in tow, looked on somewhat relieved. They had escaped from this hellhole, but they were glad that the Martian tripods, who just hours ago were the equivalent of the unstoppable Four Horsemen advancing unchecked, unchallenged, killing at will, were now fleeing for their lives. Whilst it was a novelty that such powerful a group of creatures could flee in the face of what should have been inferior firepower, they did feel some sort of pleasure at seeing these brutish things with their mechanical demons caving by the might of the Thunderchild, one of the most powerful flagships of the British navy. Perhaps they could win. They had to!
The Thunderchild fired again, the booming sound still rocking the ship and making the teeth, bones and brains of those on the steamer vibrate a little as it did despite the distance between them. The earth on the hill behind the Hadleigh tripod rose up and heaved in all directions, just missing the machine by ten metres, but it was enough to make it stumble and nearly fall over as it moved desperately out of the range of the warship. Within the still smoking town of Southend, the damaged tripod bent its legs and lowered itself behind the buildings, missing another salvo that flew directly overhead and landed somewhere further back in the town. One of the civilians standing near George commented how, were the current situation not happening, a machine could do something that, at least by human eyes, seemed only possible for a biological creature.
"Daddy," Wendy spoke, looking up at her father, who looked back down at her. "Will we be able to go home once the Martians are gone?"
He did not answer, but looked up at Mary, who had overheard the exchange, silently asking her the same question. Indeed, would they ever be able to go back to their home in London? Would they ever see their friends and family again, if they were even alive? Would they sleep in their beds once again, feel the comforting sheets cover them and take them into a dreamy, imaginative world? Would they go to school and work? Run in the parks around their house? See their dog, Nana?
Meanwhile, at the front of the ship, another man stood, his shaking hang lifting a cigarette to his mouth and he took a puff and blew out a cloud of smoke above him. A few others milled about nearby, talking somewhat exhaustedly, yet relieved that they were far from the warzone. Two of the demonic beasts were levelled by the Thunderchild, and the others appeared to be fleeing for safety. Even then, the ship would vibrate a little as said warship fired off again, followed almost simultaneously by an explosive sound. Part of the people wondered if anyone left behind on the land was affected by the ships firing. Possibly, but nothing could be done. Those who were on the way out of Britain would have to hope that they would be able to escape, or at least find some kind of shelter. From then, no one new or could say what. Questions lingered: Would they return and rebuild? Would their home become a battleground for months, years, even decades that had yet to pass? Would they even win, or lose?
As the man drew another puff of his cigarette, his eyes drifted out to the horizon, seeing only the flat, almost smooth blue below the midday sky that was cloudy both with natural clouds and the smoke of the devastation they were leaving behind. Sanctuary was out there. They had fled, they were safe. His eyes flickered briefly to the water, then back up to the horizon. They were s-
Wait! He looked down, grasping the railing around the side of the ship fiercely as if his life depended on it. His cigarette fell into the water, but he took no notice. His mouth ran dry, his stomach dropped and he went pale.
A large oval object moved through the sea, about a hundred feet or so away, a pair of green, luminous eyes on the front that closed for a second, then opened up as if it were alive. Four thick metallic-looking appendages stuck out horizontally from the back as the machine moved along, slowly, calm, almost in a stalking manner. It was like a predator waiting to ambush its prey, which had seen it too late, or even barely. It knew they were trapped, and now it could strike.
The man backed away, breath hitched, spluttering, almost hyperventilating as he pointed over the deck at the water. A few people around took notice and followed his pointing, unsure of what to make of this sudden spectacle before them.
In the bridge, the captain, who was behind the wheel of the ship, saw this taking place on the deck in front of him. A curious fear rose within him. Could they see something we don't?
A few more people ran to the side of the deck and looked over, only for some to quickly withdraw in fright and begin shouting and calling for others to look or flee. He heard a few call for lifeboats to be detached, and hearing this made a cold sweat break on his forehead.
Then, he saw it. A bright green glow, almost like the colour of fresh, healthy grass in the summer fields, appeared and quickly expanded across the under-surface of the water near the ship. It grew in intensity and size, quickly covering an area twice the size of the steamer and the water began to churn and turn, becoming a whirlpool, pulling the steamer towards it. The ship rocked, the many on board screamed and cried out, hanging on desperately to whatever, or whoever, they could, but the odd one or two were unfortunate enough to be sent over the edge of the ship into the sea. The glow grew in intensity, like a second sun emerging from the beyond the horizon
Then, with a whoosh of spray and the sound of hundreds of tonnes of water being shifted, a huge shape rose out of the water like some sort of gigantic creature, drenching the passengers on the steamer and swamping many towards the other side of the bow. Those who had avoided the water fled down the ship or behind the towers. Soldiers rushed towards the side facing the tripod and began firing at it in desperation, but the tripod simply rose out of the sea, its legs being much longer than those on the machines they had narrowly escaped from land.
Mary fled behind the stern tower with George and the children. Several others joined them, panicked cries all around them as they saw the top of the tripod cresting the 'building' (they had no idea what it was called) between the two towers on the steamer. The tops of the large glowing eyes turned down to look at the ship as if fascinated the humans had tried to, in some vain hope, slip past it even though it was pointless.
Mary turned to her husband and was about to ask him what they should do – the intensity of the situation overrode any kind of rational thinking for a brief moment – when the steamer rocked, knocking many off their feet. Thom-thom-thom, the vessel rocked again, the sound of metal ripping loudly. More gunshots rang out from nearby. Men shouted. The ship jolted as it tried to move on, but something held it in place.
Then, the ship began to list to port. "It's tentacles are gonna turn us over!" someone cried out.
More excited, urgent shouting. More gunshots, then hurried footsteps and cries, someone shouting out: "Watch out, the heat ray!" A wall of orange flame soared into the air on the other side of the ship in unison with a chorus of screams. Metal screamed and the ship listed more to the left, now almost at a roughly seventy-degree angle and rising.
"Children, grab hold of me and your mother!" George cried out, gripping a metallic doorhandle with his wife. Others around them held onto the railings, doors, sides of the 'building', whatever they could get their hands on. "Wendy, hold my hand!"
The girl did so, gripping her father's hand tightly, watching her brothers as their mother pulled them over to the door; John gripping the handle under her hand. Mary held onto Michael, who was letting out a panicked cry and burying his face into his mother's shoulder.
What happened next was almost a blur.
The ship seemed to leap in the ocean, which itself erupted like an undersea volcano exploding on the seabed. Those onboard cried or screamed, some swearing loudly, as a wall of water swept over the ship. One unfortunate man was thrown over the side of the ship, to what fate no one knew. Nor would they even notice as the other fleeing people and soldiers and such were too caught up in the chaos.
"Look!" someone behind George exclaimed, pointing up.
George, Mary and the children followed his finger to the tripod, or where it had been. It was gone!
"Where'd it go?!" John said.
Something metallic groaned and roared like some kind of massive beast, then the ship rocked again, knocking those who had not had the foresight to grip something, or someone, to the deck again. A loud splash. Water flew across the front of the ship, sweeping many to the sides. Had the railings not been there, they would have been thrown overboard. George and Mary looked at each other confused.
What on earth had just happened?
The captain barked at his crewmates to get the ship going, to put it into full throttle. He turned the ship's wheel, pointing the bow directly at the staggering behemoth no more than a hundred feet before them. The tripod's head, now smoking with a great chunk missing from the back, turned towards the incoming battering ram. The metallic sphere that was the heat ray rose to face the steamer, forcing those on the front to scramble for safety towards the stern.
The eye opened and glowed brightly. Those on the bridge dove for cover as the ship neared the tripod.
"Hold on!" the captain cried out.
With a loud BOOM, followed by the crunching and twisting of metal, the bow crashed directly into the tripod's midsection. The legs flew out desperately trying to maintain footing, but the steamer ploughed on. The midsection cracked and was forced under the ship, exposing the small neck that connected it to the head, and with another loud chorus of twisting and screaming metal, the machine was decapitated. The legs jerked up, pointing towards the sky as if it were trying to point at something, then fell into the torrent of water, quickly sinking beneath the surface.
Cheering broke the captain and crew, who had been nervously holding their breaths, waiting for the fiery deaths they had seen so much of at the hands of these machines, breathed sighs of relief. The captain almost slumped against the wheel of the ship, but held himself up. He watched as the refugees and soldiers on their ship rushed to the starboard side of the bow, exclaiming and clapping and whopping loudly as the remains of what had been the head of the accursed machine sank beneath the waves, glowing green material floating on the water being the only miniscule traces of its existence.
"Bloody good luck that was, cap'n," a sailor said, dabbing his forehead with a tissue.
The captain nodded, exhaling, staring out at the open sea before them, thinking of safety and salvation, ignoring the possibility that there were more out there, lurking, stalking, waiting for their own moment to strike, wanting to succeed where their brethren had fallen. For now, they were safe.
"What 'appened tha' the tripo'?" one of the other crewmembers, a young man in his twenties of Yorkshire stock, asked, nodding at the remains of said machine.
"I think I know," the captain replied, calling for another crewmember to take command of the wheel, and walking out through a side door onto a balcony next to a set of steps that led down to the deck. Several others flanked and followed him as he emerged from the bridge and looked back at the mainland, a sense of pride filling his expression. "Thunderchild." He said laconically.
There, within the bay a good mile or two away, the Thunderchild sat, its grey hulk looking like it was glowing in the light of the sun as another steamer and several yachts passed into the North Sea. All around it, the land either burned or was smoking from fires or the growing black fog within the town of Southend, yet the ship stood firm as it fired another salvo to the hills on the south side of the bay at the tripod as it scrambled out of the way, throwing a torrent of dirt and debris in all directions. It was a lone hero, an angel from the Lord himself, sent to safeguard the passage of his children to safety as the Devil and his minions tore and terrorised their way across God's green earth, yet had run into and were now fleeing in terror from the Thunderchild, Britain's saviour, its hero, its salvation.
The spirit of man will prevail the captain thought, hoping to see those men soon and give them all the biggest celebratory binge-drinking they had ever had once things returned to normal.
ON the stern, the refugees rushed over, many cheering and talking excitedly as they watched the Thunderchild fire again, this time shattering the hiding places within the town where the damaged tripod was hiding and forcing the machine onto its side. Though it was not knocked out of the fight, they watched in amazement as the machine got back up and, like a panicked human when trying to flee an approaching predator/attacker, began to force its way deeper inland.
"HAHA!" a man nearby yelled ecstatically. "The bastards are runnin'!"
More cheering. Men, women, children, soldiers, sailors. Even Mary and Wendy were caught up in the euphoria of the moment, the latter clapping her hands madly. Michael bounced excitedly in his mother's arm, raising his arms in triumph like a footballer who had scored a goal at a distance.
"Yay, Thunderchild!" he cried happily.
Salvation. It was theirs. The tripods were fleeing, their match met.
It was the last moment of happiness any were to see with the ship.
With a loud BOOM, the front of the ship exploded, instantaneously silencing the crowd on the steamer, and likely on any other ship or location the survivors happened to be on the mainland. The shockwave rolled across the surface, shaking the other steamer and smaller yachts that had just left the bay area. Even their own steamer vibrated a little, but none paid it any heed as they stared unblinkingly at the Thunderchild as the ship rocked, all guns ceasing to fire. Some stared at each other, the same question all wanted to ask, but could not find the power to do so.
What was going on?
Indeed, what was going on, dear readers? What could suddenly turn all hope into terror in the blink of an eye? What could turn the tide against humanity so swiftly and suddenly? Many of the people across the bay area who had managed to survive, either on land or on one of the very few remaining boats, themselves did not know despite being closer to the action.
The answer, the number five.
From behind the remains of the burning houses and buildings along the seafront, another tripod emerged, eyes glowing furiously green like fire, a pair of metallic eyes open and almost sun-like in colour, traces of flame dancing around them. Several stragglers dove in all directions as it tore through said buildings and onto the beach in the direction of the sea, heading straight for the burning ship. Many figures rushed across and along the deck of the warship frantically as the coming symbol of death advanced.
If you remember, dear readers, there were five tripod that were spotted by our now almost certainly dead watchman at Hadleigh Castle. If you have been keeping track well (very good, first of all), then you recollect two have fallen before the might of the Royal Navy vessel. Two others, one of them the damaged, was in the process of putting as much distance between said vessel and itself; the other was on the other side of the bay, taking cover behind one of the hills. The fifth, however, had been inland, sorting out any exit points along the roads and pathways that led out of the north of the human settlement and into the surrounding countryside, occasionally dealing with the odd person or soldier who had been unfortunate, or possibly foolish enough to remain behind, or maybe even continue into Southend in some vain hope everything would still be functioning as it were earlier on in the day with the various ships and boats taking people out of Britain. However, when it had seen, or maybe heard as their technology probably enabled such feats, its fellow machines falling or rushing in or from the bay, anger had seized its crew. Their fellows had died, or were cowering and running, at the hands of such insects, such barbaric beings not as advanced or civilised as they! Such a thing they could not stand for and had to be put right.
The fifth tripod splashed into the bay, knocking over a lone rowboat and the three adults and four children they had rescued from the now burning pier – it was covered in the charred remains of the many tens who had become trapped, some of these even having been literally turned to ash – into the water, yet it paid them no heed. Its eyes brightened in intensity. The sailors on the Thunderchild cried out in warning, some diving for cover, others diving overboard.
Flame leapt from the tripod to the ship. The steel frame melted like ice cream, along with several unfortunate crewmembers who had not gotten out of the way in time, their screams mixing with the groaning of the ship. The tower closest to the bow cracked and fell onto the front of the ship with a crash, shattering the already smoking wooden deck. The tripod fired on, turning its ray along the ship, the fire falling heavily like water coming out of a hose, pissing the deck and setting anything and anyone there alight. The wooden mast with the ropes and flags burst into flames and collapsed into the sea, the ropes snapping away. Those on the shore turned away in horror, unable to take in the sight of their saviour, their guardian angel being struck down so harshly.
OOOOORRRAAAAAHHHHHH!
The dreaded sound, the sound of death rolled out from the opposite side of the bay as the hiding tripod rose up, a renewed vigour visible in its metallic eyes as it pointed a large cannon-like object at the Thunderchild and fired another jet of flame. Screams and cries of anger and pain rang out as the port side of the ship nearest the stern burst into flames. The Thunderchild sprang to life, reversing away towards the bay entrance, but the tripods advanced. They were not going to let it escape! Not so easily.
Those on the distant steamer watched; horrified, speechless, gobsmacked, all adjectives unable to comprehend just how they felt as the fifth tripod charged towards the Thunderchild. Its many tentacles shot out to the side of the ship, tearing holes in its hull and along the grey building in the centre. On the other side, the renewed tripod repeated, focusing on the stern. A few sailors and soldiers on the deck grabbed the few rifles or weapons they had and fired up at the machines, but they did little to break the armour of the machine, who responded by shooting more flames and turning them into dust.
"My god!" one of the crewmembers with the captain murmured, dumbstruck. "They haven't a chance!"
"Oh god, look!" another cried out. "The Thunderchild!"
The tripods, tentacles driven deep into it, pushed with strength that would have rivalled God himself, lifting the stern of the Thunderchild up out of the water. The sailors onboard cried and screamed as they slid down the deck, some colliding with the various guns or objects strewn about on the ship, others going down the sides all the way to the bow. A few clung desperately to the railings, praying loudly, pleading vehemently for god, for someone, anyone to save them, to stop the tripods as the ship rose higher. The fifth tripod began to hold its tentacles in place whilst the other now repositioned itself under the ship and pushed further. The ironclad hull, already peppered with wounds and leaking oil akin to a body spewing blood, groaned loudly as if the ship itself were roaring in pain; the wooden deck splintered and cracked like bones. The second tower was ripped off by the sheer power of a free tentacle from one of the tripods and tossed into the bay akin to someone throwing aside a used cigarette. More sailors fell into the sea around the tripods and began swimming away frantically. A few rowboats raced towards them to grab some whilst the Martians were distracted.
When the ship was almost at roughly thirty degrees an angle, the tripods pushed forward and the ship fell. Like a tumbling building, it fell with a thunderous sound, splashing water in all directions. Several small boats capsized along with their occupants, a few more were flattened by the ship as it fell quite literally onto their heads. Water flooded into the holes and the ship turned more onto its side. Hundreds of bodies began to scurry onto the now skyward facing starboard side of the iron base or away from the ship in a frenzy as the tripods began razing it with their heat rays, melting the ship more and incinerating anyone in their path.
On a rowboat some fifty metres from the chaos, a couple of men pulled in a bedraggled sailor from the water. His ginger hair a mess, his uniform torn and soaked to the skin, shoes missing and face frozen as if he had seen the very centre of hell itself and the torturing of the damned within its fiery hold. His brown eyes took in the two men who had pulled him into the boat, the woman crouched at the other end, her dress torn and bloodied and short blonde hair also a mess, comforting a young boy who had been tossed into the sea by his parents when the pier was torched by the Martians.
"You alrigh', ma'e?" one of the men asked in a cockney voice.
The sailor just stared at him, swallowing hard, mouth quivering a little but no sound came out. It was like a newly born baby.
A shadow fell across the boat. The five occupants looked up, all colour draining from their faces as the fifth tripod glared down at them, the green eyes filled with them, nothing but in its eyes a collection of targets. More fittingly, prey.
One of the tentacles shot out and wrapped itself around the sailor and snatched him away so quickly the adults had no chance to grab him. He kicked and yelled, pushing and struggling with all his might, but it was hopeless and his temporary rescuers watched helplessly as the tripod turned towards its fellow machine, which had grabbed about a dozen more humans from the now smoking hull of the Thunderchild. Among them, the captain of the ship, his face bruised and arm broken and hanging limp at his side, looking on, powerless, lost, defeated.
One of the tripods pulled out of its midsection a large-barred cage, the gaps only big enough for a small animal to fit through, a hole visible in the top. Like humans putting their stuff into a bag, the tripods dropped the sailors into the cage until it was crammed almost full like a pack of sardines, all squirming and struggling to get free, but could not find the footing to do so within their prison.
"What are they going to do with them?" the woman gasped, shielding the whimpering child from the sight, though she too was on the verge of tears.
The two men shook their heads, not wanting to witness such a thing, but that morbid curiosity, that inability to shy away from severe acts of cruelty and malice that man had inflicted upon itself and others ever since it had learned to walk upright, or from creation if one were to believe in the more supernatural origin, kept them focused on the cage. So transfixed they were that they did not hear the woman cry out, nor did they at first feel one of the tentacles knock them aside and grab the young lad and tear him away from the woman so fast he scratched her arm and hands and cut them open. By the time the three adults knew what had happened, they could only watch as the boy was tossed into the cage.
Then, almost with a careless manner, the tripods dropped the cage into the bay and moved back to the town, ignoring the rowboat. Those on board watched in abject horror as the cage slowly sunk beneath the water, its prisoners struggling, crying, pleading for help. Some even began biting and pulling at the bars. Where was the boy? Somewhere in that disorganised mass of frantic activity, that massive instinctual habit for preserving one's own life, god or no god be damned. A few called out to the rowboat, but it was hopeless and pointless. There was no way they would get there in time, the men knew it. Even the woman, who tried to urge the two men into action, knew at the back of her mind that they would and could not able to do anything to save them.
The cage disappeared, the only trace of its existence being a mass of air bubbles from those still trapped within.
Apart from the occasional weeping and attempts at: "What can we do now?" and "Have we lost?", there was nothing but silence aboard the steamer. Many stood silent, looking on at the death and carnage inflicted upon Southend and the surrounding area, watching the tripods march back inland, occasionally stopping to fire at several sections that had so far remained unscathed by the fighting. Some wept a little, others nigh on inconsolable and had to be dragged away. A few had held onto the railings around the ship, gripping it to the point their hands turned white, wanting nothing more than the worst and only the worst possible things to befall the Martians. Bombs, fire, disease, illness, the fury of the Lord himself, anything just as long as they suffered and felt the pain and misery as much as their fellow men, women and children had.
George sighed, moving the children and his wife away from the scene. The loss weighed on their shoulders like the weight of the heavens upon Atlas himself. They were safe, they could be glad of that, but many others had not been so lucky, and likely would not be in the coming days. Maybe even the next few weeks or months if the war lasted this long.
"Bye, bye, Thunderchild," Michael said, looking back at the scene, waving his hand sadly.
Bye, bye, Thunderchild. Yes, goodbye, so long warship of the Royal Navy. Maybe we would be joining it soon. It was possible. The Martians were not going to stop. Not here. Not at Southend, nor London, nor Sussex or Yorkshire or Scotland or Ireland. If anything, this victory would embolden them, intensify their lust for conquest, urge them ever and ever on to their final goal. Britain was just the beginning.
UUUUUUULLLLLLAAAAAAAAAAA!
A call, a cry, mechanical, yet somehow feeling organic, like a cheer upon the field of battle rang up from the direction of the mainland. Those on the steamer looked and saw the tripods facing skywards, tentacles raised, eyes now afire with a passionate glow. All human eyes followed them and felt their hearts drop; their hope swept away like waves on the breaking shore.
Above them, stretching to the horizon in both directions, the leaden sky was filled with green streeks and flashes, each emanating seemingly from nowhere but now coming down, each directed towards Britain. Some were close, almost to the point where a faint black shape could be made out somewhat within the green fireball; others more distant and looking like shooting stars. If only they were.
On any other night, man would have looked up at such a sight and gawked and awed and pointed and clapped and celebrated, and all other such elation would have rung out. The heavens were displaying for them a show, an idea of activity, possibly even life beyond their world.
Now it was but a symbol of death, a blanket of fear and terror that would soon reveal more of the walking death machines, more of the abominations, the metallic monstrosities and their demonic pilots that would emerge to unleash hell upon the land.
Satan, eat your heart out – one American commentator, onboard the same vessel as the Darling family, would later comment.
As the ship reached the distant horizon, followed by the few lucky stragglers and survivors, destined for safety somewhere on the continent, it was clear to all now, whether on the water or still on that island in the northwest of Europe, one that had come to dominate the world's seas, and thereby the world itself, one where the sun had yet to set on its empire. Despite its best resistance, its effort, its willpower and courage, one clear fact stood out.
Britain, and probably soon the Earth itself, belonged to the Martians.
The tripods we have seen, dear readers, would all meet their own fates soon.
1. The damaged one that had fled from battle would later be abandoned, its crew stuck down by the shells of an artillery brigade near Norwich.
2. The tripod that had fled up the hill on the southern side of the Southend Bay remained in the area and would sink a few small vessels that tried to sneak past in the dead of night. Unbeknownst to its own crew, they would fall victim to the smallest creatures that Mars had long since removed from its own world, yet were in more than an abundant abundance on Earth.
3. The third – or we should say 'fifth' – tripod was to meet its end at the foot of Big Ben, the leader of the three to four strong piloting group one of the few of its kind to lay eyes on humans up close before succumbing to the diseases they had breathed in, absorbed and become exposed to from the first moments of the invasion.
As for the Darlings, they would return home months following the invasion when word had reached the world that all traces of the Martians had been lost. It was a Christmas all would remember, but not too fondly.