The hammering from the pit and the pounding of guns grew louder. My fear rose at the sound of someone creeping into the house. Then I saw it was a young artilleryman, weary, streaked with blood and dirt.

Artilleryman: Anyone here? [bad word] in. Here, drink this.
Artilleryman: Thank you.
Journalist: What's happened?
Artilleryman: They wiped us out. Hundreds dead, maybe thousands.
Journalist: The heat ray?
Artilleryman: The Martians. They were inside the hoods of machines they'd made, massive metal things on legs. Giant machines that walked. They attacked us. They wiped us out.
Journalist: Machines?
Artilleryman: Fighting machines, picking up men and bashing them against trees. Just hunks of metal, but they knew exactly what they were doing.
Journalist: Hmm. There was another cylinder came last night.
Artilleryman: Yes. Yes, it looked bound for London.

London! Carrie! I hadn't dreamed there could be danger to Carrie and her father, so many miles away.

Journalist: I must go to London at once.
Artilleryman: And me, got to report to headquarters, if there's anything left of it.

At Byfleet, we came upon an inn, but it was deserted.

Artilleryman: Is everybody dead?
Journalist: Not everybody, look...

Six cannons with gunners standing by.

Artilleryman: Bows and arrows against the lightning.
Journalist: Hmm.
Artilleryman: They haven't seen the heat ray yet.

We hurried along the road to Weybridge. Suddenly, there was a heavy explosion and gusts of smoke [bad word] into the air.

Artilleryman: Look! There they are! What did I tell you!

Quickly, one after the other, four of the fighting machines appeared. Monstrous tripods, higher than the tallest steeple, striding over the pine trees and smashing them, walking tripods of glittering metal. Each carried a huge funnel and I realized with horror that I'd seen this awful thing bef