Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

‘You’re salivating,’ Woodward said.

‘One day,’ Harry said. ‘One day.’

‘Keep writing those Edisonades. In the meantime, for a journalist you ain’t so smart at spotting what’s important, seems to me.’

‘Hm?’ Harry looked around. ‘Oh – you mean that empty garage over there.’

‘ That’s where Dan Bigelow, our host, keeps his own car. His latest is a Daimler, I think.’

‘ He’s gone, then,’ Harry said. ‘I never noticed.’

‘Did you meet him?… Nor did I. I suppose, with a party like this, the host isn’t the point. And I suppose it’s possible that as the house-owner he might have gotten the news earlier than we did.’

Harry felt chilled. ‘Wouldn’t you warn your guests?’

‘What, and risk the roads being clogged up before you made your own escape? I don’t think men like Dan Bigelow get where they are in the world without a little ruthless calculation.’ That traffic noise rose to a roar. They turned to look out at the road, which ran past the wrought-iron gates of the mansion.

More Dodges and Fords and a few grander cars were barrelling at speed along the road, coming out of the east and heading west, Harry realised, west towards the bridges, and Manhattan. ‘Party guests,’ Woodward said. ‘On their way back through.’

‘Right.’ Harry glanced at his watch; it was not yet half past one in the morning. ‘So at midnight they go pouring out to find the Martian landing site.’

‘They find it. And now—’

‘They’re back and fleeing in terror. The pits can’t be far from here, then – maybe a half hour’s fast drive east – twenty, twenty-five miles?’

‘Look out—’

Woodward pulled him back as one car took the turn into the gateway at speed, nearly clipped a post, and skidded to a halt on the pink English gravel. ‘Help me! Help me!’

Woodward and Harry were among the first of the revellers to get to the car, and among the more sober. They found that a young woman had been driving the car, inexpertly. ‘It’s his car!

Not mine! We just went for a drive! We just thought we’d go see – it was supposed to be fun!’

In the passenger seat was a man, almost as young-looking, crumpled over; his white jacket and flannels were stained with blood. A dozen pairs of hands grabbed for him, but Bill Woodward took control. With a peremptory snap he ordered everyone back – and to Harry’s bemusement they obeyed. That was military command for you.

Woodward knelt by the young man, feeling for a pulse. ‘He’s breathing. Pulse feathery. I don’t know if he’s conscious. Hold in there, son; I’ve seen men survive worse.’ He glanced around at the party-goers, who looked to Harry like curious, faintly horrified peacocks. ‘You may come forward only if you are a trained nurse, or a doctor. Only if.’

After some hesitation a young man in a slightly distressed morning suit came out of the crowd. ‘I’m a student. Will that do? I’m in my fourth year at—’

‘Shut up and take over.’

The boy came forward, knelt down, and immediately began to work with the injured man.

Woodward, with Harry, hurried around to the far side of the car. A couple of women were trying to soothe the driver, the girl. ‘I did my best! I never drove in my life!…’

‘You did fine. Was it the Martians, though?’

She nodded, dropping her head, as if it was her fault. She said that the Martians had come down near Stony Brook. ‘The whole town was there, it felt like. Looking at those darn pits. But they came out of their shells, those cylinders, the Martians, soon as they landed. Well, the Guard and the police were there, and they fired their guns. But the Martians just – the Guard and the cops, they just – burned. And the big machines rose up on those stilts of theirs, like some kind of circus act, and everybody started to run away. We all ran back for the cars. But Simpson fell, I think he twisted his ankle, and I tried to help him up. But we were in the road, and a car came, and it just hit him, it just knocked him aside , like you’d shove a baby deer out of your way, I’ll swear it was deliberate…’

‘How did you get him to the car?’

‘My dear, have some brandy, just a nip to calm your nerves.’

‘This other car. You get his number? The police will want to know about this, Martians or no Martians…’

Woodward plucked Harry’s sleeve. ‘Nothing more we can do here. Let’s get back to the house.’

They walked back up the drive, to a house that was still brightly lit. But now the guests seemed to be streaming out, word of the first refugees from the Stony Brook landings evidently having spread, and Harry heard more cars starting up and crunching over the gravel and out of the drive.

Inside the house the band was, remarkably, still playing, a jazzy number now that Harry recognised as ‘Beale Street Blues’.

Waiters and other staff circulated, there was still drink to be had if you wanted it – and some did, evidently intent on partying to the end – but there was coffee too, and Harry and Woodward both grabbed cups gratefully.

Woodward kept glancing at his watch. ‘We probably still have a few hours’ grace. In England a couple of years ago, they landed at midnight – just like here – and they seem to have waited until dawn before moving out in big numbers.’

‘Hm. But the longer we wait the harder it’s likely to be to get off the island.’

Woodward grinned. ‘“We.” Are we a team now, sport?’

‘I reckon I’d be a better driver than you with that busted shoulder of yours.’

Woodward nodded. ‘You’re probably right. You say you live close by. Your car?’

‘A Model T.’

‘Hmph. What are you, a hobbyist? We’ll take my Dodge. But—’

‘But we wait for Miss Rafferty.’

‘Marigold, yes.’

Harry glanced around. ‘Maybe we can find out what’s going on. There must be wireless sets around, away from these party rooms anyhow.’

‘You’re supposed to be a reporter. Can’t you call your news room? They should know.’

‘Hey, that’s a thought. I could even file a report.’ Woodward stood up. ‘Another day, another dollar, huh?’

It was a long night of waiting, for Harry and Woodward.

They stayed close to a radio set. There was little news coming out of the landing sites on the island. Harry considered calling his family, his parents in Iowa. He figured he’d only scare them to death to be called in the middle of the night, for no good reason.

At around three a.m., they learned from the newsroom of the Post that President Harding had announced a second Martian landing, in the hills outside Los Angeles. It had been local midnight there, just as at Long Island. America was under attack from Mars.

At around four a.m. a servant circulated through the house, calling for Woodward; there was a telephone call for him. It was Marigold Rafferty. She’d found Edison and his staff at his rented villa. After a brief discussion it had been decided to load the old man on a power-boat and take him across the Sound to Manhattan. There hadn’t been room to take everybody, and despite Edison’s vigorous protestations Marigold had got left behind. She was waiting on a ride back to the Bigelow place, but everything was very disorganised. Woodward told her they would wait for her, and Harry, despite his growing anxiety at being stuck there, nodded agreement.

Five a.m. came and went.

At six came the first reports of the Martians moving out of their pit at Stony Brook. To nobody’s surprise they were heading west, parallel to the Sound, towards Manhattan. The island’s authorities could mount only minimal resistance, and were anyhow more concerned with organising evacuations.