Scarlet Traces: An Anthology Based on H. G. Wells' War of the Worlds

by Edited by Ian Edginton

  It was immediately clear she was not. Beneath his father’s workbench was the blanket he’d brought to her last night, along with an empty wooden bowl, licked clean of mutton stew, and a sprinkling of breadcrumbs.

  Closing the door of the outhouse again, he started back towards the house, deep in thought. He stared unseeingly at the path, only looking up when he heard a creak.

  The door of the rabbit hutch was hanging ajar.

  He rushed up to it and threw back the tatty canvas covering he draped over the hutch at night. Opening the door fully and peering inside, he let out a small moan of denial.

  Victoria and Albert were gone, but the evidence suggested they hadn’t departed of their own free will. The hay inside the hutch was soaked in blood, and here and there were clumps of white fur and gobbets of stringy red stuff that Will had no wish to examine too closely.

  HE APPROACHED BRACKNELL’S from the rear, moving cautiously through the woodland that abutted the property’s back field. Crouching behind the stone wall that marked the boundary between the farmland and the trees, he peered at the cluster of buildings some distance away—stone cottage, wooden barn, a few scattered outhouses—his senses alert for any sound, any indication of movement.

  But there was nothing. No sign of life of any kind. The place looked deserted, abandoned, leading Will to wonder whether he had come here on a fool’s errand.

  In terms of finding Meg, the journey had admittedly been made more in hope than expectation. If she had fled and not been taken, then she could have gone anywhere after spending the night in his father’s shed—and hadn’t she been on the run from home when she had sought him out? In which case, what reason would she have for returning here? Unless...

  Unless the men she claimed were pursuing her had been and gone, in which case doubling back might not be as foolhardy as it seemed. After all, home was home. The place where the heart instinctively sought refuge.

  But even if Meg wasn’t here, Will hoped he might find some clue as to why she had fled in the first place. What could she have done that had turned her into a fugitive? Or perhaps it was not a case of what she had done, but what she had seen. She had said that something terrible had happened here. But what? Robbery? Murder?

  Climbing over the stone wall at its furthest corner, and edging towards the cluster of silent buildings, Will’s thoughts returned to his rabbits. Who had killed them? Surely not Meg? Her pursuers then? But why? Had they searched his father’s shed, found evidence of Meg’s occupancy, and then torn his pets apart in retaliation?

  Or was he barking up the wrong tree entirely? Perhaps it was a fox that had done the deed, and it was only the coincidence of timing that had led him to suppose the deaths of Victoria and Albert were intertwined with whatever Meg was embroiled in?

  Clambering over a stile in the stone wall that bordered the back yard of the farmhouse, he scampered across the yard to the house itself. Crouching down, he moved along the back of the building, peering in at one window after another, fearful on each occasion of seeing Drayton’s bulldog-like face glaring back at him.

  But the ground floor of the cottage was empty, the rooms seemingly undisturbed. No less reassured, he sidled along the side of the house, towards the small vegetable patch beneath the kitchen window beside the front door, and the muddy, rutted farmyard beyond. Reaching the corner, he peeked around the edge of the wall, but all was still. Even the long grass in the fields beyond the farmyard, and the tips of the distant treetops, were as motionless as an oil painting. A flotilla of dark clouds hovered overhead, threatening rain. The stink from the nearby silage pit saturated the air like drizzle, coating the back of Will’s throat and making him cough.

  Something reacted to the cough. He heard a scratching, or a scrabbling, coming from the direction of the barn. He tensed, though the sound was too slight to have been made by anything much larger than a cat. More likely it was a rodent, alarmed by his proximity. He began to creep across the yard towards the barn, intending to make as thorough a search of the outbuildings as possible. He was a dozen steps from the barn door, which was standing ajar, when something lurched into the daylight.

  He faltered, and then barked a nervous laugh. Although the chicken that had emerged from the barn was the first sign of life he had seen here, it was a pitiful-looking specimen. Almost devoid of feathers, it staggered and tottered, as though drunk. Its eyes, leaking some viscous greenish fluid, appeared to be pointing in different directions, and it kept opening and closing its beak, as if attempting to form words.

  Hands on knees, Will bent forward. “Hello, you poor old thing,” he said. “What ails you then?”

  As if stung, the bird jerked upright, its head snapping towards him. A shudder ran through its scrawny, yellow-pink body, and then it let out a raucous screech and hurtled across the farmyard, its beak snapping wildly.

  Although the creature should have been pitiful, the ferocity of its attack made it terrifying. Will felt fear ripple through him, then he turned and ran, his legs pistoning, the frenzied screaming of the thing behind him driving him on.

  Suddenly, in his peripheral vision, he saw a blur of movement, as something considerably larger than the chicken appeared from around the side of the cottage, almost parallel with him. He had an impression of the thing shooting across the garden, over the fence and into the farmyard as if fired from a cannon.

  Will’s body lurched with shock, causing him to stagger sideways. His feet tangled together, and to his horror he fell sprawling, the gritty dirt grating his palms as he put his hands out to break his fall. Immediately he rolled on to his back, half-raising his legs to kick out at the crazed chicken and this new assailant.

  But he had no need to defend himself. He looked up just in time to see the larger creature hit the smaller one side-on. With a squawk, the chicken flew sideways, shedding most of its few remaining feathers. It landed in a scrabbling heap, head jerking, legs instantly clawing to right itself. But before it could, the larger creature was upon it. Will saw a foot rise into the air and stamp down, crunching the chicken’s head into a bloody pulp. Brains squirted across the farmyard in a red-grey fan, but even so, the chicken’s body continued to thrash and jerk for some time, as if the sheer intensity of its insane fury was not to be outdone by something so trivial as death.

  Eventually, however, it gave a final shudder and was still. Heart threatening to punch its way out of his chest, Will focused on his saviour.

  It was Meg. She stood staring at him, panting like an animal. “Why did you come here?” she said.

  “I came looking for you. I couldn’t think of anywhere else you’d be,” replied Will.

  “You shouldn’t have come. It’s dangerous.”

  “I found you, didn’t I?”

  She rolled her eyes. “And you almost died because of it.”

  Will looked at the chicken with the mashed head and swallowed. “What’s wrong with that creature?”

  She sighed, then walked across to him and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go inside.”

  Once they were sitting at the kitchen table, she said, “In the summer some men came to see my father. They came from Roebuck’s.”

  “The factory?” Will said, puzzled.

  “No, the big house. Where Mr Roebuck lives.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  “There were three men—two in suits, one short, one tall—and another in a white coat, like a physician or a scientist. They came to an agreement with my father, after which our chickens were confined to the barn, and I was forbidden to go near them. I could hear them, though, screeching, as if they were furious, or in pain. I sneaked out once to see what the men had done to them, but the barn was locked. Then one night, while we were all in bed, some of the chickens escaped by chewing their way through the wooden walls of their cages, and then through the walls of the barn. Da heard a commotion in the farmyard, and went to see what was happening, and the chickens killed him. And then they came into the house and
found Mam, and they killed her too...”

  She had high points of red on the sharp cheekbones of her thin face as she related her story, but her voice and eyes were steady.

  “My lord...” breathed Will.

  “I was woken by screaming. I started down the stairs, but when I saw what was happening to Mam I ran back up again. I was frightened and there was nothing I could do. Most of the chickens were occupied with Mam, but one flew at me and scratched me.”

  She rolled up her sleeve and showed him three thin, inflamed scratches on her forearm.

  “I managed to kick it away and ran up the stairs. I took refuge in the attic, pulling the ladder after me, so they couldn’t follow. And there I remained for most of the next day, until late afternoon, when I came to you for help...”

  Stunned by her story, Will asked, “When did you... How did you get away?”

  “There is a window in the attic, and the next day I saw the men arriving in their fancy carriages as usual. By now the chickens had killed all the cows, and when the men saw what had happened they left again immediately. A little later more men appeared, wearing canvas suits and helmets, like deep sea divers, and carrying tubes that shot fire. They killed all the chickens—”

  “Not all,” Will said.

  “All but the one that attacked you. That one they must have overlooked.” She paused, bit her lip. “And they took away... the bodies.”

  “Your parents?”

  She nodded. “And the cows.”

  “But they didn’t find you?”

  “No. They looked, but it didn’t occur to them that I might be in the attic. I heard them talking. They thought that either I’d attempted to escape and was lying dead somewhere or that I’d actually managed to get away—and that concerned them.”

  “Why?”

  “In the event I was carrying an infection.”

  Will thought of the scratches on Meg’s arm, which she had covered again now. “And are you?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer for a moment—and then silent tears began to fall from her eyes and run down her cheeks.

  “Meg?” he said softly.

  Her shoulders heaved for several more seconds, then she gave an almighty sniff and looked at him with wet but suddenly defiant eyes.

  “I fear I may be,” she said. “I have such a... hunger on me.”

  “A hunger?”

  She swiped the tears from her face. “I’m sorry, Will, about your rabbits. I... couldn’t help myself.”

  His head swam. “You killed them?”

  “The thing inside me did. The appetite. It takes over.”

  Instinctively he pressed himself back in his seat. “And are you hungry now?”

  She smiled thinly. “Fear not. For the moment I’m sated. But it may not be in your best interests to remain in my company.”

  “I want to help you.”

  “I’m not sure you can.”

  “You say the men who caused this are staying with Mr Roebuck, at the big house?”

  She nodded.

  “Then that’s where we’ll go. If there’s a solution to be found, we’ll find it.”

  WILL’S FATHER HAD often described the factory owner Mr Roebuck as a kindly man, even though increased automation using Martian technology had resulted in dozens of job losses at his factory in recent years. Will clung to that endorsement now as he and Meg climbed a tree whose branches overhung the high wall that surrounded Roebuck House, thinking that if the factory owner was as philanthropic as his father claimed, then he ought to give them a fair hearing. His hope was that the scientist who had been experimenting on the Bracknells’ chickens could do something for Meg, give her medicine to make her better, perhaps. He even harboured a hope that that was why Soames and Drayton had been searching for her—in order that her affliction could be successfully treated.

  His initial idea had been to announce themselves at the front gate, but peering through the wrought-iron railings they had seen a group of men by the door of the gatekeeper’s lodge, forbidding in dark uniforms and peaked hats, each holding what appeared to be a long rod or night stick, and it hadn’t taken Meg long to convince Will it might be advisable to seek an alternative means of entry. So it was that they now found themselves creeping along a sagging tree branch like a pair of monkeys and dropping into the leaf-strewn undergrowth just inside Roebuck House’s boundary wall.

  They found themselves in an apple orchard, the ground clumped with leaf mould and decaying fruit. It was late afternoon now, though the oppressive sky made it feel like twilight. At least, though, the lack of light and the trees provided them with cover.

  “Which way?” Will said, looking around.

  Meg hunched her shoulders. “Shall we try straight ahead?”

  They marched through the trees, dead leaves crunching beneath their feet. After a few minutes the trees thinned out and they found themselves facing a long, high hedge, which stretched across their path. The hedge had been so meticulously pruned that its top was flat, its corners sharp.

  Meg indicated a number of arched openings set into the hedge at regular intervals. “It’s a maze,” she said.

  “Let’s go this way,” said Will, and turned right, keeping close to the hedge, trailing his fingers along its rough surface of compacted branches and waxy leaves.

  When they reached the corner, Will stopped and peered around it.

  “What can you see?” hissed Meg.

  “A pig.”

  “A pig?” She frowned, then leaned forward to peer around him.

  He was right. There was a pig. On a flat patch of ground, beyond which were flowerbeds, a greenhouse, and a set of wooden steps leading to an elevated lawn, was a sizeable compound enclosed by a metal fence. At one end of the compound a fat pink pig was tied to a stake, which had been hammered into the ground. The pig seemed quite content, gorging itself on a heap of vegetable peelings and cabbage leaves.

  As well as the pig’s soft grunting, Will and Meg could hear a faint crackling sound, which seemed to come from the fence itself.

  “It’s electric,” said Will.

  “Why would you need an electric fence to stop a pig from getting out?” Meg wondered.

  He gripped her arm. “Shh.”

  Three men had appeared and were descending the wooden steps. One of the men was wearing a white doctor’s coat over a grey suit, and holding a small black box in his hand. The two men behind him, one tall and thin, the other short and squat, were wearing dark suits and top hats.

  Will’s back stiffened and he looked at Meg. “Those are the men who were looking for you. Are they the same men who came to your farm?”

  Meg nodded, eyes narrowed, lips pressed tightly together.

  They watched as the white-coated man moved forward, and stood close to the electric fence. The tall man—Mr Soames—said something to him, perhaps warning him not to get too close, but the scientist’s response was dismissive. As he raised the black box, Will and Meg saw Soames and Drayton tense slightly, the smaller, broader man raising his silver-topped cane, as if in readiness to use it. The scientist pressed a button on top of the box, and immediately there was a grinding sound, like two heavy sheets of metal sliding together. The sound continued for several seconds, and then stopped. Meg and Will looked at one another. Neither of them knew exactly where the sound had come from.

  The three men beside the compound were now standing motionless, as if waiting for something to happen. Will noticed they were looking not at the pig, which was still munching cabbage leaves, but into the empty area of the compound behind it. He was wondering what they were waiting for when something suddenly shot out of the ground, making him step back so quickly he almost knocked Meg over.

  At first he thought the thing was a silvery jet of water, but then, when it was twelve or fifteen feet above the ground, it halted and reared back, into a sort of question mark shape, and all at once he realised with horror that, vast though it was, what he was looking at was a living creatu
re. An eel. Or a worm.

  The worm was a greyish-yellow colour, and its flesh was slick and wet looking. It didn’t appear to have a head as such, the uppermost portion of its body simply flaring out into a funnel shape, that was surrounded by a frill of yellowish flesh framing circular rows of razor-sharp teeth. Its ‘head’ weaved to and fro for a moment, as if tasting the air, and then its body flexed and with incredible speed it shot towards the pig. Before the animal could even let out a squeal of alarm, the worm latched on to it, plucked it into the air, and retreated with lightning speed into its hole, taking the pig with it.

  Will jerked back behind the corner, shaking as he leaned against the hedge. He looked at Meg, and saw her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open. She clutched his sleeve, as if she needed something real to hold on to. Then, in silent mutual consent, they turned and ran.

  THE URGE TO retrace their steps through the orchard, and put as much distance as possible between themselves and Roebuck House, was almost overwhelming, but they knew that if they fled now they would simply be postponing their problems, not solving them. Instead, therefore, they ran along the length of the high hedge until they reached the opposite corner. There they stopped and rested a moment, Will clutching his knees, his breath coming in short, rapid gasps, his stomach churning in fright.

  “What was that thing?” Meg panted.

  “A monster,” gasped Will.

  Meg leaned against the hedge, sliding down until she was in a sitting position, her chin on her bony, upturned knees. “It looked like a lamprey.”

  “A what?”

  “My Uncle Tom used to see them when he went fishing. They latch on to other fish and suck out their blood.” She held her hands about six inches apart. “They don’t usually grow much bigger than this, though.”

  “They must keep it underground and let it out to feed,” Will said. “At least now we know what the electric fence was for.”

  “Do you think those men grew it?” asked Meg.

  “Must have.”

  “But why?”