Invasion: Earth vs. the Aliens. Robert Reginald
was a practical kind of guy. He had an old-fashioned revolver stuck in a holster right there in his lunch box. The permit was taped on the top for everyone to read, assuming that they could. No way he was going to let the aliens get away!
“I thought we had this Alien Registration Act,” he said in his whiny little voice. “When are those goddamned Congressmen going to do something right for a change? There oughta be a law.”
Still, I suggested, it might be best to move a little further away from the possible action.
“Naaah, I mean, what are they going to do, man?” Brice said. “Piss on us? Hey, I want to see everything.”
“They say Nevada City’s burning,” someone said. “One of those things crashed there. The fire companies are just going crazy.”
I bought a turkey sandwich from a mobile van, together with some cold bottled water, and then thought about Min while I munched away on the miserable mystery meat. I wondered where he’d gotten himself to by now—I hoped somewhere cool and pleasant and safe. I managed to eat about half of my snack before throwing the rest away. Then I decided to mosey on down towards the landing site.
Under the Novato Creek Bridge I found the first group of soldiers. They told me no one was allowed past the stream; looking down along the road, I saw one of the men standing sentinel there. I talked with them for half an hour, and told them what I’d seen the previous night. None of them had glimpsed the Martians themselves, so they were very curious.
But I was startled to find that the Guardsmen really didn’t know all that much about their situation, or even what their commanders intended to do. They were as ignorant of the aliens and their war machines as the townspeople. I described the sting-ray weapon to them.
“Hey, we’ll just hunker down and rush ’em,” a Private named Mayer said.
“Yeah, piece o’ cake,” another soldier said. “Our guns’ll knock ’em out for sure.”
And so on.
One of them wanted to know what the Martians looked like, so I gave them a general description.
“Squids,” Mayer said, “that’s how I see ’em. Well, one tentacle or ten, they’re going down when the bullets start flyin’ ’round here.”
“You bet,” another said, “friggin’ freaks of nature. We’re goin’ on safari, guys.”
That got a big laugh all around, but they didn’t have any idea of what they were talking about. I’d seen the aliens in action; they hadn’t.
“Big game huntin’!” Mayer said, jerking his head at the black guy, “Hey, we’re headin’ for the Serengeti, and Larrah here’s our ‘Bush’ Man.”
They all laughed again, until Sergeant Larrah lunged forward and knocked the man’s helmet off.
“Don’t try droppin’ any of that racist shit on me,” the noncom said. “I’ll boot your ass all the way back to ’Frisco.”
“Didn’t mean nothing by it,” the first man said, backing away and holding up his hands. “Talkin’ about the President, you know?
“Hey,” one of his companions said, “why don’t we just shell the damn things and be done with it?”
“This is the Army, boys,” the black man said. “We don’t do nothin’ without ‘due consideration.’ We move when we get orders to move.”
“Shit,” they all said together, and added the soldiers’ standard refrain: “It’s all FUBAR.”
They were still discussing the situation, waiting for orders from their absent officers, when I left. I couldn’t get close enough to the landing site to see anything else. The surrounding hills didn’t provide enough elevation to observe more than the mound itself, and the troops that I talked to in both camps didn’t have any hard information. The officers were mysteriously absent, apparently consulting with their superiors. People from town were feeling secure again for the first time in several days. I overheard Jan Alexander, manager of the local Ralf’s market, say that her son Benedict was among those missing from the previous day. The police were evacuating people from the western sections of Novato, forcing them to abandon their homes.
I returned for a late lunch a little after one, feeling very tired. The day already seemed dull, filled with that yellow atmosphere that drew the energy right out of your bones. I tried waking up by taking a cold shower. Becky wanted me to drive her to Sonoma and Aunt Anita right away, but I managed to put her off, saying I was too beat to do anything. About half past two I checked the news again, because the early reports had only given a sketchy and inaccurate description of the multiple landings of the Martians around California.
But there was little in the evening editions that I didn’t already know. The Martians hadn’t shown themselves anywhere since last night: they were all still buttoned up in their respective ships, doing whatever they were doing. They seemed to be very busy at something, hammering and creaking and pounding very loudly for extended periods of time. Every so often the microphones on these sites would record the sounds of sloshing and what appeared to be Martian “conversation,” the “oohs” and “aahs” that they made seemingly at random. No one could make any sense of it. The pits themselves were sealed up, possibly as a defensive mechanism, but issued an almost continuous stream of gray-green smoke.
The wire services and the Internet and CNN all reported “Fresh Attempts at Communication” with the aliens, but most of the time the invaders didn’t even bother to zap the groups trying to reach them. Only when individuals approached the pits within a perimeter of, say, fifteen or twenty yards, crossing some invisible line in the sand, did the Martians respond immediately with a vile and vicious attack, wiping out everyone and everything within range, even those beyond the “border” area.
One small group of officials tried to get around this by waving an American flag on a long pole, as if they were actors in some old ’50s flick. The Martians took about as much notice of this as we might of cows mooing in the pasture. I had the impression that they didn’t really regard us as intelligent, although why this should be so I couldn’t possibly imagine. I mean, the signs of our highly-developed civilization were evident everywhere around them.
About three o’clock I heard the dull thud of a big gun firing at measured intervals from the northern military camp. The Martians didn’t respond. I hurried to the battle site, as close as I dared approach, and used a pair of old binoculars to peer through the haze. I couldn’t see much, even with the increased magnification. Becky had remained at home, refusing to join me.
About five I heard another muffled detonation from the north camp, and immediately afterwards a burst of firing in very rapid succession, like machine-guns or small-arms fire—rat-a-tat-tat! I was near the southern emplacement, which was closer to Novato proper. A violent boom suddenly shook the earth. The high school behind me burst into smoky red flame, and the tower of the First Baptist Church came crashing down beside it. When the smoke cleared, I could see that the cross on the pinnacle of the church had vanished, and the roof line of the school looked as if a hundred-ton woodpecker had been gouging away at it.
This was getting way too close for comfort! I retreated from the base as half-tracks began moving forward and unleashing their weapons. The Martian response was immediate: one of the vehicles exploded in a cacophony of flame and bursting shells, while a second partially melted sidewise into the ground. It just missed me.
I ran away, I’m ashamed to admit. I wasn’t a soldier, and I couldn’t face death straight-on.
Our house stood near the apex of a small hill in Novato, just off the main drag. As I ran home, I could just see the roof as I came down our street. A stray shot had cracked our chimney open, and knocked a piece of it down into the yard.
“I’m sorry!” I shouted to Becky, who was standing on the front porch. “We can’t possibly stay any longer. The Martians are breaking out. I should have.... Forgive me?”
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