Invasion! Earth vs. The Aliens

by Robert Reginald

  I couldn’t see the Martians, because the mound of blue-green residue had risen to a point where it blocked my sight; there was a fighting-machine standing on one rim, its legs partially retracted. Then, amidst the clamor of the machinery I suddenly heard the almost inaudible murmur of human voices, and I nearly shouted out a response before my sense got the better of me.

  I watched the strider intently, satisfying myself that the hood did indeed contain a Martian. The green glow reflected the oily gleam of its skin and the brightness of its dark eyes. I could also see some kind of fluid sloshing around in the cab, maybe to provide a resting place for the creature or some kind of nourishment. Then I heard someone scream. A long tentacle reached over the shoulder of the machine to the little cage that it bore on its back. It lifted something high overhead, a black, vague outline struggling and writhing against the backdrop of the starlit sky.

  Then I realized—all of a sudden—that it was a man!

  He was visible for just a second: a stout, ruddy, middle-aged individual, still well dressed. A few days earlier he might have been someone important. His eyes were bulging in fear. The green-gold light gleamed sickly on his forehead. Then he was pulled behind the mound, and after a moment of profound silence, a terrible shrieking began, followed by a sustained, even cheerful hooting noise from the Martians (“Oh-leh!”).

  I slid down the rubbish pile, struggled to my feet, and bolted into the storeroom. The minister was crouching silently on the floor there with her arms over her head; she looked at me in horror.

  That night we stayed in the anteroom, unable to sleep, trying to balance our fear with the terrible fascination of the Martians. I felt we ought to do something, and tried to think of a way of escaping our predicament, but with no luck. The only way out was through the pit—period!—and we couldn’t risk trying to sneak past the ever-vigilant aliens.

  The next day, however, I reconsidered our situation. Reverend Lesley had never been very rational, and was even less so now, being reduced to occasional whimpers at the implication of what we’d seen. For all intents and purposes she’d regressed to the level of a beast.

  Our one chance depended on the Martians eventually abandoning the pit when they’d finished with whatever it was they were doing. I knew that this had happened at some of their secondary camps, because I’d seen the evidence myself in Novato. If they remained awhile, they might ease their guard eventually, thus affording us some possibility of actually getting away.

  I also thought about trying to dig ourselves out through the rubble in the other direction, but this seemed to me so difficult with the poor tools that we had at our disposal that I immediately dismissed the notion. For one thing, I’d have to do all the digging myself, since I couldn’t rely on the minister for support; for another, it appeared from what I could tell that both floors of the structure had collapsed onto the foundation. Removing the debris would require considerable time and effort, and might well generate a great deal of noise in the process.

  It was on the third day, if my memory is correct, that I saw the boy killed. This was the only time that I actually observed the Martians feeding. One of them held the teen down while another extended its, well, for want of a better word, “proboscis,” and then they took turns, three or four of them, draining away the victim’s vital fluids. His body gradually turned white as I watched. They sucked him completely dry, every drop, and then stripped away the remaining flesh, feeding it into another one of their machines, evidently to be used for some kind of fuel. (Jarmann believes that the aliens were able to reprocess human flesh into manipulable hydrocarbons for use as lubricants and such.) The skeletal remains were dumped on the growing trash heap of Martian civilization.

  After that, I avoided the peephole for the better part of a day. I went into the storeroom, removed its door, and managed to pry up a couple of floorboards without making a racket. I spent several hours working with my makeshift shovel as quietly as possible; but when the hole was only a couple of feet deep, the loose earth collapsed around it rather noisily. I dared not continue. Then I lay down on the floor for a long time. After that I abandoned any idea of digging my way out.

  I also entertained very little hope of being freed by other humans. But on the fourth or fifth evening I once more heard the sound of heavy guns pounding in the distance. Some of our boys had survived!—or perhaps reinforcements had been sent from elsewhere in the state.

  It was very late and the moon was shining brightly. The Martians had taken away the excavating-machine and ore-processor, and, save for a strider that still stood sentinel at the far side of the pit, and a handling-machine that was buried out of sight immediately beneath my vantage point, the place now seemed deserted. The pit was dark except for a pale glow emanating from the handler and the sickly light of the moon; the silence was interrupted only by the occasional clicking of the handling-machine as it measured the marigolds.

  That night had a serenity to it that belied our peril, and I felt a sense of peace for the first time in many days, I don’t know why. Then I heard a dog howling in the distance, and that familiar sound made me sit up and take notice. Immediately thereafter I distinctly perceived a booming noise like the sound of great guns in play. I counted six reports, and after a long interval, six more.

  And that was all.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  THE LIFE AND DEATH OF A MINISTER

  Say not “Good night”; but in some

  brighter clime bid me “Good morning.”

  —Anna Letitia Barbauld

  Alex Smith, 8 Bi-January, Mars Year i

  Marin County, California, Planet Earth

  On the sixth day (I think) of our imprisonment, I stepped back from our window on the outside world and suddenly found myself alone. Lesley had retreated to the storeroom. I went to find her, creeping quietly into the rear of our little establishment. Then I heard the sound of drinking. I reached into the darkness, and my fingers wrapped around a bottle of burgundy, which I tried to yank from the woman.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I hissed. “You’re putting us both in danger!”

  She grabbed ahold of the bottom of the container, and tried to pull it out of my hands. Then the bottle fell between us and broke on the floor. We stood there whispering threats to each other in low tones. In the end I told her that I was implementing a rationing program. I divided the remaining foodstuffs into portions that would last us ten more days. That afternoon she made a feeble effort to crawl by me while I was dozing, but I woke up immediately and stopped her. All day and all night we sat there face to face. I was tired. I was cranky. And all she could do was quietly weep and complain incessantly of her hunger. It was just a night and day, but it seemed to me—it seems even now—interminable.

  For two days we argued off and on about inconsequential things. There were times when I struck her, I’m ashamed to say, times when I cajoled her, and once when I even tried to bribe her with the last bottle of booze. I knew the faucet in the kitchen could still provide me with a trickle of bad-tasting water. But she just wouldn’t listen to reason.

  “God is judging me,” she said. “He hath singled me out for punishment!”

  Oh God, I just wished she would shut her mouth forever!

  She became careless of her movements and any noise she made while moving around in our prison. I began to realize that my sole companion in this damnable darkness was insane.

  My own mind may also have wandered a bit during this period. I had strange, even wild dreams whenever I dropped off. Maybe the struggle with Lesley was one of the things that ultimately kept me sane—and alive.

  On the eighth day she began to speak aloud instead of whispering, and nothing that I tried would stop her.

  “Is it just, God?” she said, over and over again. “Is it just? On me and mine be the punishment laid. We have sinned, we have fallen short. There was poverty, sorrow; the poor were trodden in the dust, and I held my peace. I preached acceptable folly—my God
, what folly!—when I should have stood up, though I died for them, and called upon them to repent—repent! Oppressors of the poor and needy! The wine press of God!”

  Once more she would speak again of her hunger, praying, begging, weeping, even badgering me to give her more food. She then perceived that she had a hold over me—and now she threatened to bring the Martians down upon us unless I agreed to release the supplies. I defied her.

  She continued to warble in her loud, obnoxious, whiny voice through most of the eighth and ninth days, making threats and entreaties intermingled with a torrent of half-sane and frothy repentances for her sham service of God. I actually started to pity her. Then she slept awhile. When she woke, she began again, so loudly, in fact, that I had to make her stop at any cost.

  “Shut up!” I said.

  She went down on her knees.

  “I’ve been still too long,” she said in a loud voice that must have reached all the way to the lower circles of Hell, “and now I must bear witness. Woe unto this unfaithful city! Woe! Woe! Woe! To the inhabitants of the Earth by reason of the other voices of the trumpet—”

  “Shut up!” I repeated, rising to my feet, terrified lest the aliens should hear. “For God’s sake, woman—”

  “Nay!” shouted the minister at the top of her voice, standing and extending her arms to the left and right. “Speak! The word of the Lord is upon me!”

  In three strides she was at the kitchen door.

  “I must go to bear witness against the aliens! I must depart! It has already been too long delayed.”

  I put out my hand and grabbed the first thing that came to me, a large carving knife still dangling from its original hook. In a flash I was after her, overtaking her halfway across the kitchen. I raised the blade on high—and then struck her with the butt! She slumped immediately to the floor. I stood over her body, panting. At last she was silent! Finally!

  Then I heard a noise just outside, a scraping of the plaster, and the hole in the wall suddenly went dark. I looked up and saw the lower half of the handling-machine moving slowly across the opening. I was scared shitless.

  One of the tentacles came curling like a serpent through the debris, swishing back and forth as it sought its prey. Then another limb appeared, feeling its way over the fallen beams. I just stood there watching the alien “arms” reaching towards me. Outside I could actually see the Martian driver visible through its glass plate: the ugly, bulging face, the dark, bestial eyes peering intently into the darkness from the liquid bath in which it was embedded. The metal snakes kept feeling their way forward through the opening in the wall. I froze completely.

  Then at last I came to my senses. With a huge effort I stumbled over the outstretched body of the minister, and stepped quietly towards the storeroom door. The first tentacle now stretched out about the length of a man, twisting and turning this way and that with its strange, jerky movements. For awhile I continued to watch the thing, fascinated in spite of myself by that slow, fitful advance. Then I forced myself back into the safety of the alcove. I was trembling so much by this point that I could barely stand. I opened the door of the partially blocked cellar, and stared back into the faintly lit kitchen, listening intently. Had the Martian seen anything? What was it doing?

  Something was moving out there, something was very quietly but purposefully exploring our little world. Every now and then I could hear it tap against the wall, or start questing again with a faint metallic sound, like the jangling of keys on a ring. Then a heavy body—I knew whose it was—was dragged across the floor of the kitchen towards the opening. I crept to the door and peered out. The driver in the handler was examining the minister’s head. Jesus H. Christ! I gave no thought to Lesley’s welfare, but only hoped that the creature wouldn’t infer my presence from the blow I’d given her.

  I crept back into the cellar, shut the door, and covered myself as much as I could with boards and fallen debris. Every now and then I paused, absolutely rigid, to listen again.

  Then the faint jingling returned. Santa and all his reindeers, I thought!—and nearly burst out laughing in spite of myself. The thing was slowly feeling its way around the ruined kitchen. Then it moved into the storage nook. Shit! Maybe—oh, God, maybe!—it was too short to reach me.

  At that point I actually prayed for my life. I hadn’t prayed for anything since I was a kid. The tentacle scraped faintly at the cellar door. Quote the raven, “nevermore”! Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the dark December….

  But of course, it was January now.

  Things were quiet for a bit, and that was almost worse than the scratching sounds. Suddenly I heard it fumbling at my chamber door! The Martians understood doors!

  It worried at the knob for a moment, a very long moment.

  The door swung open!

  In the gray light I could barely see the damned thing, like some rogue elephant’s trunk waving towards me, touching the walls and examining the ceiling and feeling the broken stairs. It was blindman’s buff all over again. The tentacle looked like a black worm swaying its little head to and fro, sniffing and snuffling me out. Shitters quitters!

  It touched the end of my shoe. I nearly screamed out loud. I bit the heel of my hand to keep quiet. The blood was salty in my mouth (do the aliens taste salt?). For a time the thing remained motionless. I even wondered if it might have withdrawn. Then it grabbed onto something big with an abrupt click and scratch—for a moment I thought it was me—God, I thought it was me!—and took whatever it was with it. Apparently it’d grabbed a piece of wood or something to examine. Who the bloody hell knows?—or cares, even.

  I slightly shifted my position—my back was cramping—and then listened again, oh, gentlefolks, did I ever listen, I strained myself listening, I heard myself listening. And all the while I whispered sweet passionate prayers to Jesus for my safety. It was the Reverend’s ultimate revenge: I had become Lesley!

  Once again I heard the same deliberate tinkling sound creeping towards me. Slowly but steadily it drew ever nearer, scratching against the walls and tapping on the remaining debris. I knew I was dead for sure this time. I suddenly felt a great release. I didn’t care any more. I would give myself up willingly.

  And then—and then the thing just rapped smartly on my door and shoved it shut with a giant bang. I must have jumped halfway to the ceiling. I heard it gradually retreat back through the outside rooms, rattling cans and smashing bottles. I heard nothing else but silence, a silence that passed into an infinity of suspense.

  Had it actually withdrawn? It’d fooled me so many times in the past hour or two that I wasn’t really sure. I finally decided that it was gone.

  I lay there all through the tenth day. I remained sequestered in the close, close darkness of the basement, buried among the leftover pieces of man’s existence, not daring even to crawl out for the drink that I so desperately craved. I couldn’t find the strength to leave my security blanket. I couldn’t even move.

  Oh, dear God in heaven.

  Lesley, please forgive me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  THE SWEETNESS OF THE AIR

  The God who gave us life, gave us liberty at the same time.

  —Thomas Jefferson

  Alex Smith, 13 Bi-January, Mars Year i

  Marin County, California, Planet Earth

  By the eleventh day I was getting so weak that I finally found the gumption to abandon my refuge. The kitchen and the storeroom were empty. The Martians had apparently confiscated every scrap of food, perhaps to sustain their human captives. For the first time I despaired: I’d had nothing to eat or drink for several days, and I didn’t know where to go or what to do.

  My mouth and throat had swelled up and my strength was ebbing very rapidly. I sat alone in the darkness of the storage nook while I sank further into my funk. I would have killed for a piece of bread. I thought I might have lost my hearing as well, because the noises from the pit had ceased. But I didn’t feel strong enough to crawl to the peeph
ole to check on what was happening outside.

  On Day Twelve, however, I knew I had to do something or die. I wasn’t going to last much longer. So I took a chance, crept out into the kitchen, and attacked the leaking faucet that stood on the sink. I got a couple of handfuls of green, rusty water. It tasted like shit—but it was the nectar of the gods! Despite the noises I made slurping the foul liquid, nothing with tentacles poked its way through the hole.

  I kept thinking about the minister and her awful death. I felt guilty over my treatment of the woman, who had obviously gone completely gaga. I wondered how much I’d contributed to her dementia.

  The next day I drank some more water and then dozed. My dreams were filled with food and of vague plans of escape. I conjured a series of nightmares about the death of the minister, and one of Becky; but, asleep or awake, the hunger in my belly kept me drinking constantly. The light outside had changed to a dull rouge, like the color of blood.

  On Day Fourteen I snuck into the kitchen again, and I was astonished to find that fronds of the red weed were now poking through the hole in the wall, turning the half-light of the place into a crimson-hued obscurity.

  It was early on the following day that I heard the dog scratching outside. When I investigated, I saw its nose peering through the red weeds. At my sudden appearance the terrified creature began barking quite furiously.

  I thought that if I could induce the mutt to come a little closer (“Here, doggy, doggy!”), I might just be able to kill and eat him, or at least to shut the bugger up, lest his actions attract the Martians.

  I crept forward very slowly, softly whispering “Good dog! Good dog!”—but it suddenly withdrew its head and disappeared.

  The pit remained absolutely still thereafter. Then I heard the flutter of a bird’s wings and a hoarse, harsh cawing.

  For a long while I lay next to the peephole, not daring to touch the red plants that now obscured it. Once or twice I heard a faint pitter-patter—perhaps the feet of the dog again—running on the sand below me, and there were more bird sounds. Finally, emboldened by the silence, I found the courage to look out.