I crept to the blocked window slit and peered through the creeper. The Martians, and all their machinery, had gone! Trembling, I dug my way out and clambered to the top of the mound: not a Martian in sight! The day seemed dazzling bright after my imprisonment and the sky a glowing blue. Red weed covered every scrap of ground but a gentle breeze kept it swaying, and oh, the sweetness of the air.
Again, I was on my way to London through towns and villages that were [bad word]  totally silent, desolated, deserted. Man's empire had passed away, taken swiftly and without error by these creatures who [bad word] entirely of brain. Unhampered by [bad word] systems which make up man, they made and used different bodies according to their needs. They never tired, never slept, and never suffered, having long since eliminated from their planet the bacteria which cause all fevers and other morbidities.

Artilleryman: Halt! Who goes there?
Journalist: Er, a friend...
Artilleryman: Be on your way, this is my territory!
Journalist: Your territory? What do you mean?
Artilleryman: Wait a minute... it's you! The man from Maybury Hill!
Journalist: Good heavens, the artilleryman. I thought you'd surely burned.
Artilleryman: I thought you'd surely drowned.
Journalist: Have you seen any Martians?
Artilleryman: Everywhere. We're done for all right.
Journalist: We can't just give up.
Artilleryman: `Course we can't. It's now that we've got to start fighting. Not against them, cause we can't win. Now, we've got to fight for survival. I reckon we can make it. I've got a plan.