Stephen Baxter - The Massacre of Mankind

And then Harry saw a glint of bronze, high in the air. It was the hood of a fighting-machine, high above Queens. Already, the Martians were here. He would tell me that the sight gave him an extraordinary thrill, as if of exhilaration; none of it seemed real, as if it were all a huge movie set. That’s youth for you.

At last they broke through to the river front, and by a miracle of Woodward’s navigation right at the entrance to the Queensboro Bridge.

Harry, coughing from the smoke, was dazzled by the sudden brilliance of the open panorama. There was the bridge, below it the river on which lay the low grey profiles of warships, and smaller specks that looked like ferries, bravely hauling off handfuls of refugees from the Island. And there ahead of him was Manhattan, a great reef of buildings that poked like broken bones at the sky. As far as he could see the air above the city was clear – no sign of smoke, not yet. Looking back, though, he could see that over in Brooklyn an immense, smoky fire burned, and Harry heard the crump of a distant explosion; he knew that Brooklyn was dense with heavy industries, refineries and shipyards, which would no doubt be targets for the Martians.

And the Queensboro Bridge itself was a solid, unmoving mass of vehicles and people.

‘The Martians haven’t crossed yet,’ Marigold said. ‘So we’re still ahead of the game… All we need to do now is get across that bridge. Shit.’

Harry grinned. ‘Hey, language! You’re not in Menlo Park now, you know.’

Woodward pressed forward. ‘Come on. And now’s the time to use your magic wands.’

He led the way, pushing through the crowd by main force, and Harry and Marigold did their best to follow. Woodward’s revolver was indeed only a back-up, a symbol; he made most of his progress through firm shoving, and snapping out orders that people obeyed without thinking – he got through, Harry thought, mostly by showing a kind of unswerving belief in his own right of way. And, inch by inch, yard by yard, they crossed that bridge.

The bridge passed over Blackwell’s Island, on which stood grey, utilitarian buildings: hospitals, a prison. As they crossed Harry saw that people were decanting there, apparently exhausted, or maybe thinking that this mid-river scrap of land might provide a safer refuge than Manhattan itself. But the island was already full, and what looked like prison guards were lined up with nightsticks and revolvers to turn people back.

Beyond the midstream island, on they went, shoving, clambering over stalled vehicles, until at last they reached the Manhattan side. People spilled off the bridge and out into the neighbouring streets, which were crowded but nothing yet to compare to the crush on the Queens side, or the bridge itself.

Woodward drew his party together. They were all three breathless, dishevelled. ‘Everybody OK? Now we go find the US Army.’ And, boldly, he led them north, along East 60 thStreet.

The Army, it turned out, along with units of the National Guard and the state militia, was bivouacking in Central Park. Woodward left Harry and Marigold waiting at the corner of 59 thand Fifth Avenue while he went into the Park to find an officer and figure out what was going on.

Around Harry, Manhattan still felt like Manhattan. Traffic still flowed, if heavier and faster than usual, and with more military trucks; there were still cops at the interchanges. Harry, breathless, dishevelled, felt like a vagabond who had just wandered into the city. But even here there were people hurrying along the sidewalks with suitcases in their hands and rucksacks on their backs – little kids being dragged along, bath chairs for the elderly, just like on the Island. And they all seemed to Harry to be streaming north.

From here Harry could see the Plaza Hotel. He sighed. Marigold raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s your beef?’ He looked down at the ruin of his dress suit. ‘Look at me. I haven’t changed since I got ready for the Bigelow party, oh, twenty hours ago. I sure could use a couple of hours in one of those suites in the Plaza, a shower, a glass of champagne, a cigar, a heap of newspapers…’

Marigold, by comparison, looked at ease in her riding habit, practical and serviceable, which seemed to show barely a mark. She shrugged. ‘Good luck with that. As for the papers, we came here running from the news; we know it better than any editor in town.’

‘Ain’t that the truth?’

Harry spotted a phone box, and on impulse ran over to make a call to his parents; it felt odd to find change in his pocket – and odder still to find the lines working. His family, in the heart of the continent, were safe but concerned and following the news; Harry promised he would come home as soon as he could, and he meant it. When Marigold tried to follow his example, the line went dead. It would be many days, he would tell me, before Harry was able to make another call.

Woodward came strolling up, hands in pockets. ‘You should see what the Army has done to the Park. Jeez. I dug better latrine trenches in my first week of cadet training.’

Marigold raised her eyebrows. ‘So, are our brave troops ready to smite the foe?’

‘I wish. Patton wishes.’

‘Who?’

‘Oh, a friend of mine. For better or worse there aren’t many officers in the modern US Army with combat experience – but George has, he was involved in the Pancho Villa expedition back in ’16, and now he’s got himself in charge of the operation here, on the ground. And got himself bumped up to Major.’ He grinned. ‘Smart guy all round.’

Marigold looked distinctly unimpressed. ‘Enough of the backslapping. What is Patton going to do ?’

Woodward shrugged. ‘Work out how best to use his forces to counter the imminent Martian threat, and protect the civilians. Right now he’s in a fierce debate with his commanding officers about when to blow the bridges from Brooklyn and Queens.’

Harry was astounded. ‘Like the Queensboro? But they’re all crammed with people – and aside from the ferries, that’s the only way off Long Island.’

‘Sure. But, in the eyes of the brass, that’s also the only way off for the Martians too. If we can keep them bottled up and off Manhattan—’

Marigold was growing angry. ‘Are you serious? Bottled up ? Have none of you soldier boys read the briefings from England? The river won’t hold them!’

Woodward held his hands up. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger. Meanwhile, they are setting up evacuation routes off the island. You can go west to New Jersey – the trains are still running, for now, and there are the ferries and bridges – or you can head north and over the bridges to the Bronx, and out that way.’ He glanced around, and spoke more quietly. ‘Patton’s been ordered to detail some men to see to the shipment of the bullion stores off the island. Don’t spread that around.’

Harry thought it over. ‘So, they’re sending people west and north.’

‘Right. My problem with that is, that’s precisely the way the Martians are going to progress, after they’ve taken Manhattan. That’s the way to the mainland, after all.’

‘We go south, then,’ Harry said, working it out. ‘We’ll still be stuck on another damn island—’

‘But we won’t be in the war zone.’ Woodford grinned at Harry. ‘Anyhow, you’re a reporter. You’ll want to be on the spot, right? Martians in New York! It’s the story of the century. Listen. Make for Battery Park, which is about as far south as you can get. Keep away from the fires. If I can, I’ll come find you when things stabilise. If .’

Harry felt alarmingly exposed to lose Woodward, like a child abandoned by his father. ‘What about you?’