Part Two:
“Yet across the gulf of space, minds that are to our minds as ours are to those of the beasts that perish, intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic, regarded this earth with envious eyes, and slowly and surely drew their plans against us.” – HG Wells, War Of The Worlds.
The road beyond the culvert is an exposed wasteland. Sometimes the open places are better, though that goes against the instincts. Out here, there is a sense of being watched, a tension in your shoulders and fingers that forms from the feeling that the longer you are in plain sight the sooner some vessel of the enemy will sight upon you. You do not feel overly concerned, do not have the energy to be. Perhaps it is the tiredness or perhaps it is the overwhelming heat which breeds lethargy.
Once this was a place of housing, but now it is a ruined remnant of the society that existed before the war. The crumbling remains of buildings stand waiting for the next assault to demolish them. Everything that was metal rusts quickly in the wet heat. This is all that remains of a once great civilisation. They did not come here to wipe out humanity. Sometimes it seems that this is the worst thing to live with; they simply do not care.
The unit walks slowly, in a stretched out line, side by side. Harding chews on something, a piece of orange peel you think, casually walking with his shotgun slung across the nook of his elbow.
White is jittery still, nervously eyeing the dark spaces that hide under collapsed buildings or between free standing walls. There is still too far to go to burn up energy here. The only thing to do is to take the chance and hope that no trouble passes by this way.
You are deep in thought for a moment, thinking maybe that the hottest part of the day has now passed (was that the hint of a breeze you felt for a second?), so it takes a second or two before you notice that Scott has stopped. You turn back to look at him.
Scott is deep in thought it seems, then his eyes focus and he turns to you alarmed. “Something is coming.”
White shrieks in response.
“Find cover,” Harding shouts and runs off without looking back. Not waiting to see how the others respond to this, you turn and dash for the nearest skeleton of blackened walls. You are barely through what was once the doorway, when you can feel it too – a vibration in the air, like a sound outside the spectrum of human hearing. You can feel it in your skull, your teeth chatter in synchronicity with it. One of them is passing by.
You scuttle deeper into the ruin, finding a brick walled room which is almost intact, but for the ceiling, through the absence of which a sky of grey and black clouds shows above.
Crouching in the corner between two walls, you make yourself as small as possible, hoping against hope that you will be too insignificant for its attention. You clench your eyelids shut at first, but then the shadows of strange colours bleed through and you open them inadvertently. Clinging to the wall as though it represents your sense of reality, you helplessly watch the impression of shapes drifting and circling the tops of the walls.
Your eyes catch sight of some writing on the stone, scrawled in red, and to distract yourself from your present circumstances, if but for a second, you try to make out what it says. The graffiti is written in one of the tongues of the invaders, crudely translated into the Roman alphabet:
“Mwag Thugluei Isinwa Fhtagn,” the words read. You are unable to draw your eyes away. The world seems to sway and the words float in the centre of your attention.
“Mwag Thugluei Isinwa Fhtagn.” They pulse in your mind like a mantra, each syllable making time with your frantic heartbeats.
“Mwag Thugluei Isinwa Fhtagn.” You have no reality now but the words. You can hear a voice dimly inciting them. Only later do you realise that it is your own.
“Mwag Thugluei Isinwa Fhtagn.” The chant seems to grow louder and louder. You fear it will consume your whole world. Screwing your eyes shut, you curl up into a ball, hoping to escape the words.
Unknown time passes and you realise suddenly that the room has gone quiet. The vibration is gone and with it the enemy. The writing on the wall has faded once more and become nothing more than scratches.
You stagger out into the open, waiting to see if and when the others will emerge.
Harding walks out in his nonchalant way, looking above you to the clouds where a potent thunderstorm is brewing. This is not good news. In these days it will bring rain and lightning, but the heat will be dissipated for only a few moments.
White returns, face red from hyperventilation. It may not be the enemy, but the mission itself which kills him.
Scott comes last, putting away a small book, in which he has apparently been making notes. Of the team, he seems least disturbed by this close encounter. Perhaps it is because he is already well on his way into insanity.
You do not tell them about the graffiti as the four of you exchange knowing, weary looks.
The respite is only short, as there is never time to rest.