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?”
I held her close for just a moment.
“Come on,” she said, pushing me away. “Time enough for that later. We’ve got to get out of here. Everything’s packed and ready to go.”
I backed the car out of the garage. People were screaming and running up the street behind me.
“They’re coming!” one man was shouting.
“101?” Becky asked over the din.
“No,” I said. “Everybody’ll be heading for the freeway, and it’s too close to the danger zone anyway. 37 will do.”
State Highway 37 was a four-lane road that slanted northeast from Novato towards Vallejo.
“I thought we were going to Sonoma.”
“We’ll take 37 to 121 north. Maybe we should go even further, I don’t know.”
“I’ll call Anita and tell her we’re on the way.”
Down the hill I saw a truck full of soldiers pull to a stop by the bridge over Novato Creek; they began running from house to house, yelling at the occupants to get the hell out. The sun dimmed suddenly, obscured by the smoke rising from the burning trees and structures; the blood-red light threw a lurid slant upon the scene.
A policeman was directing traffic at the intersection.
“What’s happening?” I yelled out the window.
He turned, stared at me, and shouted something about “a thing like a dish cover,” before I lost him in the rearview mirror. In another minute we were out of the smoke and noise and heading across town.
Even on 37 it took us forever to get out of Novato, or at least it seemed that way, although Becky assured me later that it was just fifteen minutes to the junction. Before us stretched a vista of serene, sunny suburban landscapes, filled with houses and stores and restaurants and sanity. Behind us in the mirror I could see thick streams of black smoke shot through with threads of red fire driving shafts into the still air, throwing dark shadows upon the green-black treetops to the west. The cloud already extended a great distance into the sky, almost like a thunderhead—maybe as far north as the pinewoods outside of town, and running towards Stafford Lake on the west. Everywhere people were scattering like ants from a stirred-up nest, not knowing what to do or where to go.
And very faintly now, but very distinctly through the warm, quiet air, I could hear the rattling of a machine gun and the crackling of small arms fire. Then it all stopped, just like that. Apparently the Martians were destroying everything with their sting-ray.
It took all my concentration to avoid running someone down. Just before we turned onto State Highway 121, I glanced back at downtown Novato, but it was completely hidden behind a pall of black smoke. From there we drove north to the town of Sonoma, a little more than twenty miles from Novato.
The trip took us forever and a day, and it seemed almost like another world when we finally stopped.
Anita, I thought to myself when she appeared at her front doorstep, a crazy bright orange shawl wrapped over her head like a turban, you just laugh your funny laugh all you want. I stepped forward and enthusiastically embraced her. I never saw a more surprised person in all my life.
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