War of the Worlds Read online

  The tripod kept coming, its tentacles writhing at its sides. Eric picked up a broken brick at his feet and hurled it at the Martian. It sailed through the air and harmlessly struck the tripod’s leg. In response, the heat ray’s barrels began to glow. Eric stepped back, bracing himself for the fiery death that awaited him.

  But the attack never came. The glow enveloping the heat ray cannon faded, and the machine was still for several seconds.

  Suddenly the tripod jerked, and a long, mournful howl filled the air. “Uuuuuuuuuuuulllllllllllllaaaaaaaaaaa!”

  Eric clamped his hands over his ears. The tripod swayed, and then staggered into the building next to it. Metal legs buckled under the domed cowl’s weight, and the machine fell forward… straight for Eric.

  The boy threw up his hands, and the tripod’s cowl struck the ground with a deafening crash that knocked him off his feet. Dust and ash billowed around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the swirling grit. The cloud hung in the air for several seconds before the wind began to carry it away.

  Eric’s lungs burned, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. He stood, his legs trembling from the volatile mixture of fear and adrenaline. He took one shaky step toward the downed machine. The dome cracked open with a sharp hiss, spewing steam and smoke into the street. Eric jumped back and fanned the cloud away from his face, his nose wrinkling at the strange stench pouring out of the tripod.

  As the haze cleared, Eric caught a glimpse of movement. A Martian, its gray skin glistening with slime and perspiration, lurched out of the wreckage. Eric took another step back. His foot slipped on a broken brick, and he fell to the street, skinning his palms on the cobblestones.

  The alien beast heaved its bulk out of the machine. It was as large as a bear and more terrifying than anything Eric’s imagination or God’s Creation could conjure. Its nostrils, spotted with open, bleeding sores, flared as it wheezed and struggled for breath. Dark, gelatinous saliva trailed from its beaked jaws as the creature emitted a weak, croaking cry. The red, reptilian eyes fixed upon Eric, and the beast sluggishly stretched a long, twitching tentacle toward the boy.

  *****

  New York City - 1914

  Eric Wells jerked awake in his seat and looked around him. The monorail car was filled with commuting soldiers of differing nationalities, talking amongst themselves in their native tongues. If any of them had caught him napping, none showed it. Wells sat up straight and adjusted his gray uniform shirt; the cut of the garment matched those around him, but the colors varied depending on their particular branch of service.

  He yawned and massaged a crick in his neck. After a night on the train, plus a six-hour layover in Hartford, Wells was ready to stretch his legs a bit. He had spent the bulk of his two-week leave visiting family in Cape Cod, trading his uniform for a full-dress suit to serve as best man in his cousin William’s wedding.

  After the massacre at Leeds, young Eric had been sent to live with his Uncle George and Aunt Norma in Bristol. Over the years, William became like a brother to him, and the boys were inseparable. That is until the family moved to America and Eric stayed in England to enlist in the British Army.

  His aunt and uncle never understood his decision to become a soldier, reminding him that he had seen more than his fair share of death. William, however, understood perfectly. After sharing a room for eight years, Eric’s cousin had heard him cry out in his sleep on countless occasions, reliving the horror of Leeds night after night. If he could, Wells hoped to spare other children that same hell.

  The monorail car, suspended from the track above it, clattered forty feet above Fifth Avenue past St. Patrick’s Cathedral, streaking past pedestrians and steam-powered automobiles. A growing hum reached Wells’ ears, and the sound slowly swelled into that of a roaring engine. The other passengers gasped, and Wells turned to look out the window behind him.

  Outside, dangerously close and matching the monorail’s speed, was a red, single-prop tri-plane fighter. A Valkyrie.

  “What’s he doing?” one of the soldiers said. “The man’s insane!”

  “He’ll kill us all,” exclaimed another.

  Wells scoffed at the pilot’s arrogance. “Show off.”

  The Valkyrie banked, and Wells got his first good look at the madman at the stick. Manfred von Richthofen… as if there could be any doubt. If the pilot’s monumental arrogance hadn’t given him away, his plane’s trademark red paint would have.

  Richthofen grinned and offered Wells a flippant salute. Wells smirked. The Valkyrie banked to the right, ignited its afterburner, and disappeared down a side street like a rocket. Wells settled back in his seat and shook his head, the smirk still lingering on his lips. Richthofen was an arrogant flyboy, it was true, but the man’s skill was unquestionable.

  Wells looked up as the monorail passed the recently finished Empire State Tower, a steel and glass monolith that loomed over the city like an obelisk. Pneumatic mail tubes and multicolored conduits snaked down the building’s surface before branching off in all directions at street level. As the highest point in Manhattan, the building’s spire was equipped with several antenna arrays for both military and civilian use. Other towers like this one were being erected all over the city. With its soaring population of immigrants and military personnel, New York had nowhere left to go but up.

  Manhattan had been largely spared from the Martian siege due to the combined efforts of city workers and the New York Army National Guard, who blew the bridges connecting the island to the mainland. Tripods that foolishly tried to ford the rivers were quickly swept out to sea by the current. Nobody knew for certain, but the locals claimed at least three of the machines lay on the bottom of the East River, never recovered.

  Ahead, in the middle of an intersection, Lady Liberty’s little sister “Vigilance” stood tall and proud, dwarfing the Flatiron Building behind her. The statue represented a fusion of feminine beauty and maternal defensiveness with her flowing dress and colossal .50 caliber machine gun. Beautiful and full of fight, just like the city that she called home.

  The monorail turned at Washington Square, causing a few of the standing soldiers to stumble as the car curved along the track. Towering a hundred feet over the park was a monument depicting a soldier standing atop a struggling Martian. The beast’s tentacles twisted around the man as he plunged his bayonet into its body.

  “Never Again,” Wells whispered. The monument’s name echoed the sentiment of all Earth’s citizens. Never again would Earth fall prey to such wanton destruction. Never again would the forces of Mars march unchecked across the land. Never again would humanity be caught unaware.

  If the bastards ever showed their slimy faces again, humanity would be ready. Eric Wells would be ready.

  Behind the monument, an enormous, armored battle zeppelin floated above the skyline. Whether it was the Leviathan or the Agamemnon, Wells couldn’t tell from this distance, but he knew its destination would be the same as his. The ship disappeared from view as the train crossed into Chinatown, filling the car with the aroma of exotic spices. Wells’ stomach grumbled.

  The monorail emerged from the buildings obscuring his view, and Wells caught his first look at a monolithic military complex ahead, home to the New York division of the Allied Resistance Earth Squadrons. The base stretched over a mile long and a half-mile wide, filling the southern tip of Manhattan Island. Massive gun turrets and heat rays reverse-engineered from Martian technology sprang from the base’s surface in all directions, creating an impenetrable defense.

  Beyond it, the Thomas Jefferson Suspension Bridge stretched across the bay, connecting the A.R.E.S. base to New Jersey. Two battle cruisers, the Bismarck and the Repulse, both bristling with anti-Martian armaments, lay docked in the harbor.

  A flash of red caught Wells’ eye as Richthoven’s Valkyrie approached the base. The massive blast doors in the front of the base split open, allowing the fighter entry. Wells collected his bag from under the seat. The monorail slowed as i
t entered the cavernous A.R.E.S. rail depot. Sunlight streamed in through the convex glass ceiling.

  The car screeched to a stop above a set of ground rails, upon which sat a long and imposing battle train loaded down with as many armaments as the naval cruisers outside. By land, by sea, or by air, A.R.E.S. was prepared for every possible scenario. At least, that was the collective hope.

  Wells stood and followed the crowd of passengers as they filed out of the railcar. As the other soldiers spread out and descended the stairs, Wells caught a glimpse of a familiar face. An Asian man in a gray A.R.E.S. uniform decorated with the rank pips of a Lieutenant stood at the foot of the stairs. He smiled and offered Wells a friendly salute.

  Wells smiled and descended the stairs. “Good to see you, Shah.”

  Raja Iskandar Shah was a good soldier, but more than that, he was a good friend. A Bugis prince in his native Malaya, Shah’s posture and impeccable appearance reflected his noble upbringing. Proud and strong, with a warrior’s poise. The keris dagger he carried, its silver-inlaid wooden sheath tucked securely into his belt, set him apart from his fellows in the service of A.R.E.S.

  Wells had met Shah in England two years earlier when both men were enlisted in the British Army. One night, a group of four drunken Tommies didn’t take too kindly to having “a wog” in their ranks, and decided to give Shah his marching orders. By the time Wells had stepped in to put a stop to the fight, it was already over, and Shah was the only one standing. Afterward, over a cup of tea, Shah regaled Wells with tales of exotic eastern lands until sunrise.

  When the call went out from A.R.E.S. for recruits later that year, both men enthusiastically responded. Wells took comfort in Shah’s presence. There was no one else on Earth he would rather have fighting by his side.

  “Today’s the big day, Captain,” Shah said.

  Wells’ smile faded. “Yeah.”

  “Don’t look so happy about it,” Shah teased. “You deserve it.”

  “We deserve it,” Wells corrected him. “Now we’d better go. The general’s not the kind of man you want to keep waiting.”

  Shah nodded and gestured for the captain to lead the way. They weaved through the soldiers milling about the station toward a nearby archway.

  *****

  General Kushnirov stood on a raised platform overlooking the expansive auditorium stretching out below him, pensively stroking his horseshoe mustache. To his dismay, the room was only a third full. Uniforms of all colors dotted the seats, and even from this distance, he could tell many of the soldiers had grouped together according to nationality. A.R.E.S. may have been a united global force, but the sense of unity among the troops was weak.

  The growing tensions in Europe were beginning to spill over into the A.R.E.S. barracks. Every day, disciplinary reports detailing disputes between citizens of rival nations crossed his desk. One would logically assume that a global threat would bring the people of Earth together, but the fact was that old animosities and anxieties died hard. Sooner or later, the dam would break.

  Kushnirov only hoped the human race didn’t get washed away when it did.

  In order for A.R.E.S. to be a cohesive force, these prejudices needed to be addressed and erased. Recent experiments in assigning different nationalities together in units had produced mixed, albeit in some cases, promising results.

  Movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and Kushnirov turned to look into the stern, determined countenance of Theodore Roosevelt, the Secretary of War and former President of the United States. Roosevelt had been instrumental in the formation of A.R.E.S, using his political standing to convince his compatriots in Washington to issue the much-needed resources to build their defenses. Under his leadership, America had dug itself out of the rubble left behind by the Martians and ushered in a new age of prosperity.

  Roosevelt removed his spectacles and offered a reassuring smile as he wiped the lenses with a handkerchief. “General,” he said.

  Kushnirov’s gaze returned to the soldiers. “There should be five thousand troops here, not two. The recalls of our troops and equipment are bleeding us dry. Those fools in Europe would rather prepare to fight each other than the Martians.”

  Roosevelt replaced his glasses. “We will be enough.”

  Kushnirov turned to face him. “Do you really believe that, Theodore?”

  Determination hardened Roosevelt’s face. “I won’t allow myself to believe anything else.”

  *****

  Wells and Shah entered the auditorium and scanned the faces of those in attendance. Chinese, Korean, Japanese, German, Italian, Austrian, Indian, British, French, and American soldiers talked amongst themselves. Most were men, but Wells also saw several women scattered among them.

  Shah spotted the other members of their unit—all wearing the same gray uniforms as he and Wells—and pointed them out. They made their way through the crowd and slid into the two empty seats. Shah took the spot beside a towering, bald black man.

  Shah nodded to the man. “Good morning, Sergeant Douglas.”

  Douglas returned the nod. “Sir.”

  Wells sat between a beautiful blonde woman, her hair pulled up into a ponytail, and a tall, burly red-haired man.

  The woman smiled at Wells. “Good morning, Captain.”

  Wells returned the smile meekly, his voice catching. “Lieutenant Carter.”

  The red-haired man leaned across Wells’ seat and leered at Carter. “Hey,” he said with a thick Irish accent, “when this is over, maybe you and I could—”

  “When hell freezes over, O’Brien,” Carter snapped.

  “Well, I do feel a wee chill in here.” O’Brien grinned. “You don’t know what you’re missin’, Jennifer, my darlin’.”

  “That’s Lieutenant Carter…” She glared at the Irishman, her stare deadlier than any Martian heat ray. “Corporal.”

  Wells smirked.

  O’Brien’s grin never wavered. He sat back in his seat and saluted. “Yes, sir! I mean, ma’am. Do you have any idea how beautiful you really are… ma’am?”

  Carter huffed and turned away, but Wells could see the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

  “Don’t you ever give up, O’Brien?” Douglas said.

  “Are you blind, Sarge?” O’Brien gestured toward Carter. “The woman’s crazy about me!”

  Douglas scoffed. “Well, you are the expert on crazy.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” Roosevelt’s voice boomed through the auditorium, “if I may have your attention.”

  The soldiers turned their gazes to the platform at the front of the room.

  “As you know,” Roosevelt said, “fifteen years ago, the Martians launched their unprovoked attack against us.”

  The wall behind Roosevelt lit up with projected images of the carnage inflicted during the first Martian invasion. Big Ben and Parliament lay in smoking ruins, as did the Taj Mahal, the Arc de Triomphe, the White House, the Kremlin, and the Hermitage in St. Petersberg.

  “Over one hundred and forty million of us were murdered, and many of our great cities laid to waste,” he said. “Until the invaders were beaten by the smallest of Earth’s living creatures… the germ. From that destruction, we formed the Allied Resistance Earth Squadrons, A.R.E.S., from the best of our planet’s armies to make sure that it never happens again.”

  O’Brien leaned toward Douglas and muttered, “Ancient history.”

  Wells cast O’Brien a scornful look, but Roosevelt spared him the trouble of scolding him.

  “This may seem like ancient history to some of you, but I tell you this for a reason.” Roosevelt nodded to a tall, thin man in a white coat standing to his right. “Professor Tesla, A.R.E.S. Chief of Science and the man responsible for unlocking the secrets of Martian technology, has made an alarming discovery. Professor Tesla?”

  “It’s the mad doctor himself,” O’Brien whispered.

  Wells jabbed O’Brien in the ribs with his elbow.

  Nikola
Tesla elicited apprehension from many of the soldiers enlisted in A.R.E.S. His genius was undeniable, but his ability to unravel the mysteries of Martian technology gave some the notion that he was actually part alien himself. His inventions were a great boon to mankind, however, because without them, A.R.E.S. would have been no different from any conventional military. Moreover, the non-military applications of his work had been crucial in enabling humanity to fully recover after the invasion.

  Tesla stepped up to the microphone and tapped it twice before speaking. “Good morning. Mars’ orbit is once again approaching a time of close proximity to Earth.”

  The wall behind him displayed a diagram of Mars’ position in its elliptical orbit in relation to Earth.

  “I’ve detected large-scale fluctuations of magnetic energy from the Martian surface, along with a series of low-frequency radio signals,” the professor continued. “Some—in fact, most—of the scientific community believes these signals and energy readings are temporary anomalies caused by sun spots. I do not. It is my belief that the signals are a Martian military code hidden within sunspot activity—that they and the magnetic energy coming from the planet’s surface serve as a prelude to an invasion.”

  The assembled soldiers murmured amongst themselves.

  “Invasion?” a voice behind Wells exclaimed.

  “We’re not ready!” said another.

  “Let ‘em come!”

  “How soon?”

  Tesla shook his head. “Weeks. Days. Hours.”

  A German officer one row ahead of Wells stood and shouted, “So, you have no idea!”

  Kushnirov brushed Tesla aside and growled into the microphone, “I do.”

  The excited murmuring ceased, and all eyes were fixed on the general.

  “They will come when they are ready and we are not,” Kushnirov said. “So we must get ready… now!”

  The general raised his fist and the wall behind him split open. The giant doors behind the podium slowly slid apart to reveal a vast hangar filled with machinery and vehicles, including the gargantuan battle zeppelin, Leviathan. Three-legged machines of various sizes stood still and silent. The largest of these, a black behemoth resembling a tank with legs, stepped forward. It was over sixty feet tall, and shook the room as it walked. As it came to a stop beside Kushnirov, jets of steam hissed from its leg joints.