The War of the Worlds Murder - By Max Allan Collins Page 0,64
I have half a mind to grab you by your miserable neck and squeeze it till your tongue turns black.”
That wouldn’t take long, as the lieutenant was already turning purple; in the background, his wife toasted the corporal with her rye bottle, in “hear hear!” manner.
Corporal Stevens had more: “I’d be doing everybody in this troop a favor by shoving this .45 up your tail and pulling the trigger. But I just hate the thought of wasting a good bullet on your miserable carcass, when we have an enemy to fight.”
The corporal folded his arms, held his chin high and waited for a response.
The purple left the lieutenant’s face. He seemed to be working hard to retain his composure.
All the men had gathered around as the confrontation had built, and now Lt. Flanders said to them, “Men—this is no time to pull old chestnuts out of the fire. Let’s let bygones be bygones, forgive and forget, that’s what I’ve always said.”
If so, no one assembled here remembered hearing it.
“Let us pool our energies,” the lieutenant said rousingly, “and fight the common enemy that threatens us. We will make our last stand on the hill. Get to your posts.... You men with machine guns will concentrate your fire on the approaches to headquarters, and you men with rifles will make the last-ditch defense from high ground.”
Shouts of support and even applause came from the troopers—with the notable exception of the stiff-necked corporal.
Then the lieutenant showed his true colors: as his troopers were busy setting up the defenses, he got into his car with his missus and roared off into the foggy night. Heading north.
Corporal Stevens was shaking his head. Carmine and Chuck were standing nearby, and he said to them, “I knew it!... I’ll never regret telling off that worthless son of a bitch.”
Then Rusty, corncob pipe puffing smoke signals, leaned out from a second-floor window and shouted, “Come on in, you guys! The whole thing is a phony! It was just a radio show by some joker named Orson Welles!”
Carmine smiled at Chuck and Chuck said to Stevens, “ ‘Never,’ Corporal?”
And the troopers sheepishly shuffled back inside HQ to put their firearms away.
As the Buick hurtled at top speed, James Jr. and Bobby kept the car radio blasting.
What they heard was unsettling, to say the least.
“The battle which took place tonight at Grovers Mill has ended in one of the most startling defeats ever suffered by an army in modern times—seven thousand men armed with rifles and machine guns pitted against a single fighting machine of the invaders from Mars. One hundred and twenty known survivors...the rest strewn over the battle area from Grovers Mill to Plainsboro, crushed and trampled to death under the metal feet of the monster, or burned to cinders by its heat ray.”
Bobby was smoking; he had his window down. James told him to roll it up.
“Why, James?”
“The Martian gas...I think I can smell it.”
“The monster is now in control of the middle section of New Jersey and has effectively cut the state through its center. Communication lines are down from Pennsylvania to the Atlantic Ocean. Railroad tracks are torn and service from New York to Philadelphia discontinued except routing some of the trains through Allentown and Phoenixville.”
James began to pray, watching the headlights cut through the foggy darkness as best they could. In his mind, he said, If there is a God, please help us now!
“Highways to the north, south, and west are clogged with frantic human traffic. Police and army reserves are unable to control the mad flight. By morning the fugitives will have swelled Philadelphia, Camden, and Trenton, it is estimated, to twice their normal population.”
Bobby was sitting forward, frowning. “James—we were just in Trenton. We didn’t see any crowds like that....”
“Martial law prevails throughout New Jersey and eastern Pennsylvania.”
Bobby began to twirl the radio dial, trying to find other reports.
Walter Gibson remained clueless as to the imaginary invasion having spread nationwide; but he was seeking a clue to something else by having a conversation in the eighteenth-floor men’s room.
As elevator “boy” Leo had predicted, Louis didn’t get talkative until Gibson offered him a couple of dollars. Louis, in a gray uniform that would have been at home in a prison, leaned against the door to a stall, plunger in hand, bell down.
“I don’t know Mrs. Welles, but I didn’t see no woman who looks like that in the building. I’d remember. I got an eye for the ladies.”