Max Collins - The War of the Worlds Murder

Bobby, who would have preferred his dance music uninterrupted, did allow as the Columbia Broadcasting System knew its stuff.

And when Professor Pierson had first come on, James said, “I think I’ve heard of him-at school.”

“Does sound a little familiar,” Bobby said.

James and Bobby were business majors.

Then all the horror had come over the air, and both boys were concerned and even scared, particularly James, whose family lived in Trenton, New Jersey.

When the general came on and said the route to Trenton was closed, James got really worried and upset. At Newark they stopped at a drugstore, to phone and see if James’s folks were okay.

Two people were working in the drugstore-a pharmacist and a cashier-and three people were there picking up various needs. James and Bobby couldn’t believe these fools were going around like nothing was wrong in their lives, except maybe a headache or athlete’s foot!

James stood up at the front of the store and said, “Everybody-listen to me!”

The cashier put her hands up, and Bobby said, “It’s not a stickup, lady.”

And James-in a clear, concise manner that, had he summoned this in speech class, would have got him far better than his C-minus-told the drugstore audience about what he and Bobby had heard on the radio.

Then James ran to the bank of phone booths, ensconced himself in one, dropped a nickel in the slot and was quickly told that all the lines were jammed and that his call couldn’t go through.

When he stepped from the booth, James saw everyone in the store, including Bobby, seated at the closed soda fountain, listening to a radio on the counter. The pharmacist was on the stool beside the cashier with his arm around her, she was crying. The other patrons were wailing and moaning and praying.

Professor Pierson’s voice was coming over the air, but the reception was weak: “… these creatures have scientific knowledge far in advance of our own. It’s my guess that in some way they are able to generate an intense heat in a chamber of practically no absolute conductivity .”

James put a hand on Bobby’s shoulder and whispered: “Can’t get through to Mom and Dad. Hell, can’t get through to anybody ….”

Bobby turned haunted eyes toward James. “If Trenton’s blocked, then…then we have to go back. To Manhattan. We have to make sure Betty’s all right!”

“…by means of a polished parabolic mirror of unknown composition, much as the mirror of a lighthouse projects a beam of light. That is my conjecture of the origin of the heat ray….”

And so it was that James and Bobby-having done the good deed of warning those in the drugstore of the deadly invasion-raced back out into the night to rescue “the girls” (Betty’s sixteen-year-old sister, naive or not, suddenly seeming well worth saving from Martians).

State Troopers Chuck and Carmine were not listening to the radio; their Ford Phaeton didn’t even have one.

So when, as they continued patrolling the highway, they noticed traffic heading north was picking up, and picking up speed, they asked, “What the hell?” to each other, a substantial number of times in a short period.

Drivers were travelling at unusually high rates of speed, and in fact the whole traffic pattern seemed erratic.

“Think it’s time to do our job, buddy,” Chuck said.

“Roger,” Carmine said.

Time to start writing out tickets for speeding and reckless driving.

A guy in dark green Chevy sedan streaked by, and the two troopers decided to make him their first example. Carmine, behind the wheel, turned around and took off after him.

The driver showed no signs of realizing state troopers were on his tail.

They hit their siren.

He did not slow down, and-though their Ford was putting out a solid eighty miles per hour-the troopers were hardly gaining on the guy. For almost five minutes, on a winding country road, the chase went on, and finally the Ford pulled up alongside the Chevy, and-siren screaming-as Chuck blasted on the horn, Carmine motioned sternly, then wildly, for the son of a bitch to pull over.

The driver shook his head and kept his eyes on the road.

“My God,” Carmine said, over engine roar, “bastard’s got his wife and kiddies in the car with him! Little boy and little girl!”

“What is wrong with this idiot?” Chuck asked.

“Can’t force him off the road-might hurt those innocents….”

Then other honking cut through the thunder of engines and shriek of sirens…

…and Carmine looked behind him and saw other motorists, right on the speeder’s tail and the troopers’ tail, too-and each others’….

An armada of autos, honking for the troopers to get the hell out of the way-and the troopers were going eighty-five!

The father behind the wheel of the Chevy was hunkered over like a fighter pilot, and Chuck said, “Carmine-fall in behind this s.o.b.”

“What? You can’t-”

“Fall in behind him, and let these maniacs pass us.”

Glancing behind him, even as he rode herd on the Chevy, Carmine swallowed and said, “Shit,” and let the Chevy get out in front, and pulled in behind him, slowing to sixty, while one car after another flashed by, passing not only the troopers but the madman in the Chevy.

Carmine pulled over. “What the hell?…”

“Something’s happened. Something big.”

“Has law and order completely broken down on this highway?”

Chuck nodded. “Yes.”

They sat and watched as car after car flew wildly by.

“You know,” Carmine said, “we maybe oughta check in with headquarters. Let’s find us a phone.”

At a gas station, Carmine used the phone; it took a while to get through; the HQ switchboard must’ve been buzzing. But finally the duty corporal came on.

Carmine began to tell the corporal about the crazy traffic conditions, but got cut off.

“They’re fleeing the area, Carmine. The countryside’s on fire, monsters from outer space are eating people alive, it’s a goddamn Martian invasion.”

“Little green men from Mars?”

“They’re not green and they’re not little. Get your asses back to headquarters, for further instructions.”

The phone clicked dead.

And the worst part, Carmine had to now go report this to Chuck….

In Studio One, Dan Seymour was at the microphone, saying, “Ladies and gentlemen, here is a bulletin from Trenton. It is a brief statement informing us that the charred body of Carl Phillips has been identified in a Trenton hospital.”

At a nearby table, “Carl Phillips”-that is, Frank Readick-was sitting going over his script; like most radio actors, he had more than one part in the drama.

“Now here’s another bulletin from Washington, D.C.,” Seymour was saying. “The office of the director of the National Red Cross reports ten units of Red Cross emergency workers have been assigned to the headquarters of the state militia stationed outside Grovers Mill, New Jersey.”

Readick felt the show was going well-it had really come together at rehearsal, and tonight the thing was like clockwork-literally: Paul Stewart seemed almost bored in the control booth window, poised at his stopwatch.

“Here’s a bulletin from state police, Princeton Junction-the fires at Grovers Mill and vicinity are now under control. Scouts report all quiet in the pit, and there is no sign of life appearing from the mouth of the cylinder….”

Howard Koch had slipped out perhaps ten minutes ago. Readick could hardly blame the writer-the poor guy was bone tired, and had been worked like a dog by Welles and Jack Houseman. Let the guy rest up-tomorrow would be the start of another week of radio “war.”