wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
It is a rhythmic, steady beat.
My friends and my girl are in a desperate struggle for possession of the other vessel.
wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
The steady beat almost has a striking sensation to it, as if the air itself is somehow being severely pounded.
wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
It may be up to me alone to take this enemy ves...
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
A green explosion blasts me from the alien war craft’s ladder. I am very nearly knocked senseless from the detonation.
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
Buffeted back by the blasts, I am apparently still taking fire. Staggered from the incoming attacks, my head reels with disorientation. The concussive explosions of these green energy blasts force me away from my comrades. I can’t tell where I am being knocked about; I am just trying to keep running.
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
I want to get back to Miss Plumtartt, but something is in a tenacious pursuit, firing its green blasters in a ferocious assault against me. These are the same destructive blasts of the walking towers that we have been attempting to commandeer, but those had been idle. A strange new platform for the powerful green energy blaster is here. Without getting a chance to clear my mind of its severe rattling, I am forcibly pushed deeper into the demolished Capitol city.
wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
The pounding, rhythmic beat is deafening. It is as if it is right on top of me. A horrible and powerful wind is viciously trying to knock me down. The sandy, grainy grit of this city’s destruction is whipped into a sudden tornado under the impetus of the sudden and terrible force from an artificial windstorm. The sand is painful and blinding.
wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
I cannot even get a look at what is chasing me, due to my constant efforts at staying ahead of the ray-gunman, and the flying particles of tiny detritus. I am blind in my reckless flight.
I finally risk a glance back... and up...
It can fly!
Impossibly held aloft, this craft is clearly heavier than air, yet astoundingly, it is able to maintain flight without the assistance of a balloon’s heated air, or a dirigible’s trapped gases.
These monsters have achieved the impossible.
This ship maintains suspension by means of propeller!
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
My tormentor continues in a determined effort to snuff me out of existence.
The craft is similar to the others as far as the main fuselage is concerned. This still conveys the impression of two pie plates, one stacked upside down upon the other. However, where the first two pair of machines have three legs extending downward, this craft of the air has three posts mounted at equal distances around her perimeter rising upward. These vertical shafts end in horizontally mounted propeller blades. Roaring like an angry typhoon, the propellers spin faster than a cyclone motivated windmill. These three mighty, and powerful perpendicular pinwheels are able to churn the very air around us to such an incredible degree that the incredible craft is impossibly, and miraculously held aloft.
My knees nearly buckle at the uncanny sight.
Her blasters resume their emerald hued extermination prowess. The pilot is able to guide his ship at an uncanny speed and wondrously supple dexterity. It is able to circle about me searching for an angle of attack at a furious pace.
I am forced to scamper among the broken rubble of the nations gleaming white Capitol buildings. The granite explodes around me.
To my despair, I catch a side glance of our erstwhile targets of capture. The two idle towers are now rising.
One of the sonic cannon bearing mechanicals has joined my flying friend in his search for me. They force me steadily Eastward down the mall. I am barely able to run ahead. I seem to have a premonition of when to throw myself to one side or another, as tremendous blasts of energies burst around me in a deafening cacophony. Piles of rubble provide both obstacle and momentary cover from the green explosions. The unsettling vibrations of the sonic cannon now add their disturbances to speed my demise.
Across a wide boulevard I dash, and up a wide set of steps. These carry me higher, and it is not until I reach the top and look upon a sea of white rubble that I realize that I have run up the steps of our now demolished Capitol building.
I am heart-broken at the sight, but have no time for melancholy. My murderers hound me relentlessly. Without wiping my feet or removing my hat, I jump into the chaos of the crumbled Capitol’s remains.
I find a bit of cover, here. The great piles of broken building provide many hiding places and avenues of travel. Fallen walls often leave a triangular crawlspace beneath. My pursuers never abate their attacks. Green blaster bolts continue to blow apart great chunks of material. The cannon, however, has foregone its aural destructive efforts to search for me with its legs and tentacles. The flying machine takes its cue from the walker. The airbourne craft extends its tentacles and begins sifting through the detritus of legislature.
My scampering narrow escapes never cease.
I grab up a broken piece of lumber, vaguely like that of a cricket bat, but more splintery. At the moment, I am not concerned with the trivialities of splinters, although I have no doubt that under other circumstances, they would be of an utmost concern.
I bat a questing tentacle on the nose.
A gigantic steel crab-like claw almost skewers me.
A green blast hastens me on my way as I scamper through rubbly passages.
I bats more tentacles. A lens is centered in these grabby claws. It conveys the impression of being an artificial ‘eye’. I am reminded of the sight of these camera palmed tentacles from the top of Sloss Furnace’s ‘Big Alice’, and how they so easily handled big Daniel Slagwood.
As the gigantic, crab-like claw of a tripodal leg attempts to puncture me, I shove the board into a space between the machine’s levers that control the extension and retrieval of its last appendage. The rod controlling the pull mechanism is immediately jammed.
It stumbles! I’m bringing the blaster/walker down, but I am about to be crushed in the process!
A dive to the side is another narrow escape from being squooshed. I’m glad I’m so nimble and my intuition is proving correct, but my luck has got to run out sometime. Suddenly, the rubble pile ends, but I don’t slow down. Breaking from the broken granite, I am running blindly. I normally have a fantastic sense of direction, but I am momentarily disoriented from all of my mad scrambling through the grounds of demolished democracy. Somewhere in the back of my mind I remember to be happy about dropping one of the Martian war-walkers.
~Snap!~
I look back to see that the fallen, mechanical, walker has snapped the board I placed, and is quickly retracting his three legs. He now swiftly rises again to renew aggressively his pursuit of me with freshly found vigor.
Sensing the frustration of the murder pilots, I know that these devils mean to end me. My desperate and harried flight gets no respite. I cannot see where I am running.
wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup-wup
Whumm-whumm. Whumm-whumm.
{{{PRR-BLIZZSXK!!!}}}
The wharf of a riverside quay passes beneath my running feet and I tread air for a breathless few seconds before landing in water.
Green energy bolts churn my aquatic surroundings.
I allow one quick breaking of the surface to gulp a quaff of air and I am again submerged.
I pull what I hope is a tricky maneuver. I swim back towards my enemies underwater, to surface under their noses beneath the ferry’s docks.
Whether or not I am detected, I do not know, but nevertheless, my fiendish foes rip the docks apart with their powerful mechanical tentacles. I am forced beneath the river’s surface once again. I swim as far as I can underwater. When I s
urface, I take hold of some drifting flotsam from the smashed wharf. A bit of trailing rope allows me to cling to it without the monsters detecting me.
I float away, having failed in my mission. I have failed my country and my species. For the second time in one night, I suffer the humiliating sting of defeat.
What’s more, I have failed before my one true love, Miss Persephone Plumtartt. I was forced to run from her at the same time as she was under attack herself.
She could be dead, right now.
Or worse, fare for the Martian appetites.
Earlier, Sir Paul asked what sort of man I was.
At this juncture, I do not feel good about answering that question.
Chapter Ten · On the Advisement of my Betters
It is with supreme weariness that I drag myself ashore the opposite bank of my adversaries. The sensation of being desired to be eaten has shaken me. By now, my disappointed diners have given up their ravenous pursuits. I lie on the bank in a miserable state for some time. I finally stand to wipe, wring, and shake the river’s water from my sogged body. I have never experienced such weariness. Not just of body, but of spirit. I stumble from this side of the Eastern Potomac tributary in search of shelter. The suck and squirt of my squelching boots are lonely and dismal companions.
This side of the District’s area did not receive much damage. Most homes are still intact, but there is a desolate emptiness in the neighborhood. Desperate families have abandoned their precious homes before this unstoppable invasion force. I can imagine the empty houses’ windows forming faces. They stare at me accusingly for not having defeated our enemies.
Hey, that one nice brick home shows the reflected flicker of firelight, just barely visible from a back room.
I’ll go to the door and knock.
~knock, knock~
Gosh, nobody is responding. The door handle is locked. I’ll knock again.
~knock, knock~
Hunh, ain’t nobody answering me. I reckon since the reflected light would presumably be originating from the kitchen, I’ll go around to the back of the house.
‘Knock, knock’ say my knuckles to the kitchen doorframe.
My knuckles get no response.
“Hello, anybody home?” I ask, entering the back door.
I am welcomed by the gaping maw of a cannon.
I am mesmerized by its extraordinary width and depth.
“I am human,” I reassure the steel tube, “I come in peace.”
My eyesight spirals, following the lands and grooves of the barrel down it’s circular corridor.
I am transfixed upon the tube for several eternal seconds.
Finally the large caliber pistol is withdrawn to an upward facing position of restful readiness upon its owner’s shoulder. When not seen from less than an inch away, the handgun resumes its normal and appropriate dimensions.
“Of course, dear boy, you must be one of those fools, er, that is, one of those brave defenders of our fair and noble city.”
“You had it right the first time, sir, I’m one of the fools. Um, excuse me, sir? I am about to fall out, may I please sit down?”
“Dear me, but you certainly may. By all means, young man, please sit down.”
I slump into a wooden chair. It feels like the most comfortable chair I’ve ever sat in. I cannot remember the last time I sat.
The gentleman, for he is obviously of a different stratum of people than me, now considers the poor form of continuing to hold a firearm upon his fellow man.
“Oh, you know how it is, you can’t be too careful.”
“Nossir.”
The weapon is awkwardly tucked into his vest.
“You wouldn’t be able to spare a bite to eat would you, sir?”
“Why dear me, where are my manners, of course young man, I am sure I have something here for you.”
My reluctant host is taller than me by an inch or two, though he still falls short of the six foot mark. He easily tips the scale at over three hundred pounds, but where my friend Sir Paul approaches this scale-bending milestone with the chiseled physique of a Roman God, this squashy man easily gets there and far beyond in soft and pudgy form. Carefully oiled and prepared black ringlets of fashionably stylized hair surround the porcine features of his saggy face. Several times he has been distracted by his immaculate manicure to admire its perfection.
I get the impression that he does not normally share a table with the likes of me. Condescension cascades in smothering waves from his white-suited form. I’ll admit, I must appear a bedraggled rat before this well-coiffed fellow.
“Eh, henh, eh henh, er. So-O-O-O, did you and your fellows have a tough time of it today?”
His pretense of sincerity is so slick and practiced, it is almost convincing.
“Yessir, today and everyday. I’ve been at odds with these monsters all the way from Alabama.”
My host gets a repugnant look on his mug like he just found a fly in his cereal at the mention of my home state.
“Indeed,” he drolls. He manages to stretch the word out as long as a full-growed water moccasin in the hot sun.
“Yes, sir. My name’s Ichabod Temperance.” After a quick wipe on my pants, I extend my hand.
He looks at the presented appendage. After a short time to ponder his options, he finally, limply, shakes my hand with the light touch of a thumb and two fingers. I think he might be concerned that some of my uncouth Alabama characteristics will somehow contaminate him like a case of the cooties.
“And you have the privilege of meeting Senator Beauregard Schiester Deipauckette’s very own personal secretary, Leechton Munitrough III.” Arching one eyebrow in an ever increasing trajectory, his wide lips come together to form a tiny bow. “You have heard of me, I’m sure.”
“Nossir, I ain’t never did, sir.”
The noble countenance once again gains the look of having tasted something unpleasantly tart, perhaps.
“The unfortunate circumstances of your background to blame, no doubt.”
“Yessir.”
“You claim to have had some experience with these beings, eh?” I can see the machinations of his furtive mind behind his tiny eyes as he tries to figure out a way to make the most of this meager resource he has found. That meager resource of course would be me. “Tell me, what are they like?”
“Well, sir, they proved themselves to be a bad lot from right off the bat. Every chance they get, they have snatched folks up and gobbled ‘em down and gone lickety split. Ain’t nothing we’ve been able to do to try an’ stop ‘em has worked. I’ve personally witnessed the most heroic displays of courage I could ever hope to see in our precious world’s defense. City after city has done all they could to fight these monsters. Our military has been brave to the point of foolhardiness, but to no avail. Tonight, I was a part of what may have been Mankind’s last chance of resistance.”
A heavy, stone fills my chest.
Up until now, I have been able to maintain my composure, but having to speak the words aloud, does me in.
“We . . . failed.”
Unable to control myself, the wrack of one great sob shakes my body. My bottom lip quivers uncontrollably.
“I failed.”
Another wrack of unbearable misery convulses my weary shell. My sorry, traitorous lights fill to overflowing with sadness and shame.
“I failed my country.”
The breath stealing stone in my chest is now painfully heaving itself up and down. My neck muscles swell and my throat constricts in an effort to contain the rock of remorse.
“I failed my friends, who are, even now, probably slain by the horrors.”
No longer able to show a semblance of dignity, I am choking with the tearful sorrow.
“Have my dear friends been eaten?”
Unable to restrain myself I release my tortured burden.
“I failed Persephone!”
This I wail with my last shred of dignity. The melancholy I carried since making th
e riverside has now fully consumed me. Wracking sobs heave my wretched body without mercy. It is a long few minutes before I regain my sensibilities.
I dig about my person in a haphazard manner looking for a rag to use as a handkerchief. My eyes are so full of hot, salty tears that it is difficult to locate the rag that is right there in my pocket for me to grasp. I can tell my face is soaking wet with tears and snot. I find the wet and dirty rag, wiping my face, eyes, and blowing my running nose before looking back to Mr. Munitrough.
He has a look of perfect distaste and disgust on his face and in his manner. No one has ever looked upon me in such obvious disdain and discomfort. Mr. Munitrough is being defiled just by being in my wretched presence. I think he wishes I was a cockroach that he could just stamp out of his knowledge.
I cannot blame him. I am disgusted with me too. I wish he would just go ahead and stamp me out of my misery.
“I knew it was going to happen,” Mr. Munitrough speaks to me at a steeply downward slope. “I said so all along. It’s not my fault you people wouldn’t listen to me.”
“Sigh...” he sighs.
“I realized immediately that this was a superior race and that terms would need to be negotiated. To a man of my intellectual preponderousness, it has been obvious all along. All this fighting that you and people like you have done is postpone the inevitable. You have actually weakened our position at the bargaining table.”
“Sigh...” he sighs again.
“But, what’s done is done. We cannot go back and ‘unfight’ all this ridiculous resistance nonsense that our rabble have been up to. No sense in crying over spilled milk, as they say. We must move the proceedings along. The next order of business is to open a method of dialogue, so that the natural order of things may be institutionalized.”
“I’m not sure what that natural order is, sir.”
“Why, isn’t it obvious? Even to someone such as you, I should think that the writing is clearly emblazoned upon the wall for all to see.”
“What’s that, sir? I am unable to read that writing. The unfortunate circumstances of my background, remember?”
“Why, the Martians are the new masters of planet Earth, silly boy. Resistance has proven to be frightfully futile, wouldn’t you say? The sooner you come to grips with that unalterable fact, the better off you’ll be.”
For the Love of Temperance (The Adventures of Ichabod Temperance Book 3) Page 14
