The Massacre of Mankind

by Stephen Baxter

  He glanced around with a soldier’s eye, sizing up the landscape from his elevated vantage. ‘’Adn’t thought of that. Not a bad idea, if it ’ad worked. What went wrong? Well, it doesn’t matter. You’re right, though, they won’t get close again, the Martians will figure out what they were trying to do and will keep a watch.’ He tapped his head. ‘Smarter than us, they is, and you always ’ave to remember it. Just expect them to out-think every step you take, and you won’t waste your time.

  ‘As for you, keep to the shadows, as I say. Watch out for the fighting-machines. And when you get to West Wycombe, wave an ’andkerchief or something and call out that Bert sent you. Got that? My Mary is a crack shot, or getting to be.’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘You’ll see – if you live.’ He glanced at a wristwatch. ‘Oh, and keep the noise down. Baby’ll be having ’er afternoon nap by the time you get there.’

  Iglanced at Verity, who shrugged. ‘The day could hardly get any stranger,’ she said.

  ‘Meanwhile, I got work to do. Them ’uman rabbits won’t chase themselves.’ He grinned, an uncomplicated, unpleasant expression. He had a tool, a heavy, rusted spanner, tucked under his seat; he rapped with this on the cable from which his net cage hung. ‘Piccadilly, driver, and don’t spare the ’orses!’

  The cable reeled in, silently, smoothly, and he was whisked into the air. I remember him vividly in that seat, evidently purloined from some crashed aircraft, with his absurd garb, that legal wig, grinning down at us as he rose, until he was a detail against the tremendous structure of Martian technology above us.

  And then the fighting-machine walked on, the cowl lifting, one great leg passing mere yards over our heads. The folk in the basket at the machine’s back grew agitated, and began to call to us. Hands even reached through the net. Perhaps they imagined we had somehow been negotiating with Cook for their release. It made no sense, of course, yet had I been trapped in that net of death I too would have begged and pleaded for my life.

  In only moments the machine was too far away for us to hear their calls.

  28

  IN THE WEST WYCOMBE CAVES

  We headed roughly south-west, passing villages like Holmer Green and Hughenden and Naphill, before coming down into West Wycombe, which is on the main road west out of High Wycombe. We took Cook’s advice and avoided the main roads and open country; we skirted fields, stuck to the shadows of hedgerows, passed through clumps of trees. We made a hasty lunch of canned meat and rainwater in the shade of an ancient oak.

  Our walk that day must have been seven or eight miles; it took us until mid-afternoon, and felt longer. We were both fit enough, but I was still recovering from my near-drowning, I suppose, and I think Verity’s arm hurt her more than she cared to admit, especially when we had to scramble or climb over walls. We got through it.

  The caves themselves were not hard to locate. West Wycombe Hill is a local landmark, topped with a mausoleum and a church whose tower was once capped by a golden ball – it had been visible for miles around. Verity said she thought it was a folly, a relic of somebody’s Grand Tour to Venice. But when we came to it that day the church was tumbled and scarred, a ruin no doubt created by a careless swipe of the Heat-Ray, and the tower was a jagged splinter with the golden sphere vanished.

  Anyhow all this was irrelevant unless we could get inside those caves safely.

  The caves, I would learn, were another relic of a couple of centuries past. During a series of crop failures the local family, the Dashwoods, had showed uncharacteristic heart by employing local villagers to quarry chalk from the hill. The material was used to construct the road from West Wycombe into the main town – and, being a mercurial sort, the current Dashwood had made something of a monument of the resulting holes in his hillside . . .

  We found a sort of courtyard. It was open to the sky but walled, with the doorway that was evidently the entrance to the caves themselves set in a flint facade with stained glass windows. The setting, eccentric, had something of the feel of an old ruined abbey, with the roof collapsed and the interior open to the rain. We came into this place with the caution you would imagine. We waved white handkerchiefs and kept our hands in the air, and we walked in the bright afternoon sunlight, keeping away from the shadows. We even called ahead: ‘Bert sent us! We’re friends of Albert Cook! Mary! We’re women and unarmed!’ The last word being a lie.

  Even so, as we reached the middle of the courtyard, a rifle shot cracked out. We could not help but flinch, but we stood our ground, for my part making a supreme effort not to bolt.

  Verity was made of sterner stuff. ‘We’re alone,’ she called. ‘Just the two of us. It’s true what we said, Mary. We met Bert -’

  ‘Dead, is he? Rifled his pockets?’

  ‘Not that,’ I said. ‘He found us – he was riding a fightingmachine.’

  Verity managed a grin. ‘The Buffalo Bill of Mars.’

  ‘That sounds true enough.’

  ‘Can we come forward, then? Really, we mean no harm. Julie here has known Bert a long time. She’s in the Jenkins book too! Mary, we know you’ve a child to protect. Bert warned us you’d be cautious, and rightly so.’

  She hesitated. ‘All right, then. Keep your hands where I can see ’em. One bad move and I’ll plug you. If anyone follows you trying to catch me on the hop I’ll plug them, and then you. I got all the angles covered here.’

  Verity nodded. ‘Bert has trained you well, I can see that. We’re coming in now.’

  We crossed the courtyard and got to the door. There was Mary, short, dark, solid-looking, dressed in a kind of coverall of dark blue serge. Behind her I saw a candle-lit tunnel, arched. She had been wielding a rifle, but now she propped that against the wall behind her, and held a revolver: a better weapon in close quarters and another sign of a bit of training. ‘Don’t come close. Turn around. Hands against the wall. And drop your packs, I’ll look in those too.’

  I glanced at Verity, and she at me, and we turned around as ordered.

  Verity sighed. ‘I have a revolver in a holster at my waist. You’ll find that.’

  ‘So you lied.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? Safety’s on, though, but it’s loaded. More ammo in my pack.’

  ‘Fine.’ She rummaged in Verity’s pack, and took the pistol and ammunition.

  ‘May I have it back when I leave?’

  ‘Have to see what Bert says. If you leave.’

  Somewhere, echoing, I heard a baby’s cry – an incongruous sound when you are braced against a wall having a conversation about guns.

  ‘I’ll take you to the Hall.’

  I asked, ‘The what?’

  ‘You’ll find out. Walk ahead, side by side, where I can see you, there’s candles and lanterns lit. I’ll holster my gun but I got it right here and I’ve been practicing.’

  ‘You don’t need to worry,’ Verity insisted.

  ‘It’s you who should be doing the worrying. Go ahead, now,’ she said, as if commanding a pair of horses.

  So we went ahead.

  If you think about it, a cave is a natural shelter from a Martian. I would learn later that across the country systems of natural caves had been exploited by the authorities to provide concealment from the flying-machines, and cover in case of any Martian advance. And though the Martians routinely sent their machines to probe buildings, even cellars and such, they rarely went into caves.

  It is a blind spot in their behaviour. The Martians, it is suspected, do not understand cave systems. Caves in middle England are ‘solutional’: that is, the product of running water acting on rock that is already in place. On Mars such spectacular effects of plentiful water, so obvious on the earth, are comparatively unknown. Save for the odd volcanic formation, caves must be an exotic mystery on Mars – but not on the earth, indeed not in Buckinghamshire.

  Cook’s cave, of course, was not natural, but it was not the rough quarry I had expected. For the most part we followed a neat tunnel, with flat floor and vert
ical walls rising up to an arched roof over our heads. As Mary had said, the way was well lit with candles and smoky oil lamps; the light was good enough for me to see the marks of individual picks in the walls – the signatures of workers already two hundred years dead, I supposed.

  This tunnel opened out into a couple of chambers, one of which had subsidiary passages going on out of sight, like a maze. Then we turned a sharp right, into another, still larger chamber. This cave turned out to be called, locally, the ‘Hall’. And here it was that Cook and this Mary had made their home, their nest.

  There was no bed, but a mattress heaped with sheets and blankets lay on crates – I imagined the labour of hauling down a decent bedstead. A robust table and chairs looked like the foldout military types people brag about being meant for use on campaign. Clothing hung from coat racks or rested in open trunks. There seemed to be no facility for cooking, and I would learn there was a kitchen range closer to the entrance to the caves, where a chimney had been improvised. Water stood in buckets, and I would learn there was a kind of chemical toilet. It would take some labour to survive down here, I realised at once, lugging water in and waste out. Cook must think the concealment worth it.

  The heating came from a stove fed by bottled gas, with a kind of vent set in the wall above to carry away the waste fumes. As, so we would be told, we were three hundred feet underground at the cave’s deepest point, I had, and still have, no idea how Cook had managed to arrange for this bit of ventilation – perhaps via some natural crevice. But he had been in the horse artillery, I remembered; such men develop practical skills.

  Clearly a great deal of care had been taken to secure this place, both, I supposed, against the hostility of humans who might not love Cook, and the Martians who could do no more than tolerate him. And the reason for all this care and attention to detail became obvious. A small child sat in a cot, in the middle of the chamber, raised up above the cold floor. The little girl could not have been one year old, but when she saw us approach she grabbed the bars of her cot and tried to stand.

  ‘Oh, how adorable.’ Verity took a reflexive step forward.

  ‘You keep off of her.’ That was Cook.

  I turned, startled; he could have been only paces behind us as we came down the corridor. Now he stood at the entrance behind us, dimly lit, revolver in his hand.

  Verity raised the hand that was free of the sling. ‘Look – I’m not a nurse, but I’m a VAD, trained as such. You know what that means, Bert. And I’ve had to learn fast about the care of children and infants since I got stuck in Abbotsdale.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with her,’ Mary said defensively.

  ‘But it can’t do any harm to let me look.’ Verity glanced around at the cave. ‘Are you down here all the time? I mean, I don’t suppose she sees much of the sunshine – or of doctors. There might be vitamin supplements which -’

  ‘You leave us be!’

  Cook was more placating; he holstered his revolver and walked forward. ‘Now, Mary, don’t take on. I don’t believe she means any ’arm.’

  ‘That’s true,’ I said. ‘For she’s only here by accident. It’s me who’s been trying to get to see you, Bert – and I’ve come on quite a journey to do that, if you want to know. Poor Verity’s just been dragged along in my wake, so to speak.’

  Verity grinned. ‘Nice way to speak of someone who helped save your life.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  Cook rubbed Mary’s back. ‘If she wants to look Belle over – well, let ’er, she might do some good. People are there to be exploited; if they volunteer for the purpose, then use them.’

  I shared a glance with Verity. I had not expected to find he had a secret family, but that remark about ‘exploited’ was the authentic Bert Cook.

  ‘But not just now, eh?’ He began to strip off his garb, the coat, the legal wig, the mayor’s chain. ‘Mary, isn’t it time for ’er feed? You see to that, and I’ll rustle up some supper.’

  Somewhat resentfully, Mary took the baby from her cot, and walked past us, deeper into the cave complex and out of sight. The baby, wide-eyed, stared at us as she passed in Mary’s arms.

  Bert Cook tried to be a host, in his own extraordinary way. ‘Sit there,’ he said, pointing to the fold-out table. ‘Now, if I turn my back to rustle up some grub, can I trust you two not to pull any stunts?’

  ‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Bert,’ I said wearily as I sat down. ‘You know me, at least. None of us are story-book heroes.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said, though he sounded cautious. ‘And I suppose I should remember my manners. We don’t ’ave guests for dinner very often, as you can imagine.’ He cackled. ‘The odd rat, but Mary sees to them with a spade or a broom.’ He started digging out packets of food and tin plates from one of the trunks as he spoke. ‘Funny sort of place, isn’t it? The caves. Read up on ’em once I acquired ’em. Chap who dug ’em out supposedly ran satanic rituals down ’ere. Nah, I don’t believe it; ’e was a traveller, a rake, a bit of flash; I think ’e was cocking a snook. Good story though, eh? And besides, what could be more devilish than the Martians? And they’re no legend.

  ‘Are you thirsty? The water in the buckets is clean. As for grub, it’s bacon and spuds and beans.’ He leered at me. ‘From the farmers. They pay me to keep the fighting-machines away. Leave offerings, like. ’Course, some are more compliant than others. We get it all cooked up, we do it in batches on the range – that’s out by the door - we cook when it seems safe, then scoff it cold. And a mug of tea.’ He set a kettle on the gas stove. ‘Your brother-in-law did feed me that night in Maybury, all those years ago, in the middle of the First War. Albert Cook pays ’is debts.’

  So we sat and ate cold meat and bread in the cave. The food made us calm and relatively companionable, as a shared meal always will - a bit of common humanity. I even made them a gift of the caddy of Indian tea I had taken from the villa.

  I asked tentatively, ‘How did you come to this, Bert? And Mary. Why do you hide away?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you? If you did what I do.’

  ‘I’m not sure what it is you do, Bert.’

  He turned a knife, casually, but point first at Verity’s chest. ‘She knows. If I let you go, you’ll skedaddle off back to Abbotsdale and tell all them soldiers and nobs where I am, and maybe they’ll tell the authorities outside, the soldiers and the government, and next thing you know they’ll be flushing me out like a rat. And that won’t do, will it?’ He eyed her, more calculating. ‘The only option being for me not to let you skedaddle out of ’ere at all – ain’t it?’

  Verity looked at him with contempt and, I thought, some courage. ‘I’m not going back to Abbotsdale – not for now. I’m going to stick with Julie, and she wants to go on into the Martian pit - don’t you?’

  In fact we’d never discussed such plans, not so bluntly, Verity and I, not since we’d been thrown together.

  Bert raised his eyes at that. ‘And?’

  ‘And she thinks you can get her in there. Because you come and go, Bert, you come and go.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Come on, Bert. Tell us the tale. There’s nothing you like better than to talk about yourself, I know that much.’

  He looked at me, startled, and a disarming grin spread across his face. ‘You know me better’n I know myself, I think. Ha! Very well, then. But if you ever write it down -’ and now he pointed the knife at me ‘- make sure you have it true, this time.’

  I promised I would, and it’s a promise I have endeavoured to keep in these pages.

  29

  THE ARTILLERYMAN’S TALE

  ‘I was ’ere when the cylinders fell. Two years back. You know that much, I was with your ’usband Frank, then, with the sojers who’d been sent to greet ’em. When everybody else ran away from the Cordon, I ran in. Because I knew that’s where the Martians would be, where the drama was going to be staged.

  ‘In the beginning it was just like ’07 over again.’ He sounded nostalgic, a
s if those terrible days after the collapse of humanity in the south of England had been the finest of his life – and perhaps they were. ‘Just like ’07. Refugees on the roads going this way and that with their babbies and old folk and carts of luggage, but most of ’em too dim to ’ave grasped that we already were in a big cage with invis’ble bars that cut across every single road you might try. I saw the soldiers fighting back, and generally they put up a better show than in ’07 – they were brave enough, and we ’ad learned something from that matinee performance, but it made no difference in the end.

  ‘But while they was running around, I was watching, and listening, and calculating. Straight away I could see what the Martians was up to – well, they started with the same routine last time. They was knocking out the soldiers and the rail lines and the telegraph lines and the cars on the road and anything else that might pose a threat – they did the same in ’07, they understand that we organise, see, they know we’re civilised to a degree, even if we’re a rung or three below them but they were letting the people go free. Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? We know what they want us for. And if you came on a flock of sheep with a machine gun, what would you do? Why, you’d knock out the gun and settle down to a feast of mutton, that’s what. And that’s exactly what the Martians were doing.’

  ‘Hunting us down,’ Verity said.

  ‘’Unting now. Farming in the future, perhaps.’

  Verity and I exchanged glances at that chill remark. ‘And I ’id out as the days went by, and I watched ’em do it.

  How they’d swoop down in their fighting-machines on some sheep-fold like Abbotsdale, and they’d scoop up the slow and the lazy and the stupid and the weak, and drop ’em in those nets of theirs, for the consumption of, later. And I watched the people who skedaddled at their feet, turning their backs on those ’oo had been taken. As if they’d never existed. For that’s a way to cope with it, see, if the other fellow is taken and not you, and you go on living, to pretend like ’e never were at all. People become accustomed, like. As if they were being trained.’