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22 - The War of The Worlds - H G Wells · Thrilling Adventures - Daily

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  Speaker 1: Chapter five, the stillness. My first act before I went
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  Speaker 1: into the pantry was to fasten the door between the
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  Speaker 1: kitchen and the scullery. But the pantry was empty. Every
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  Speaker 1: scrap of food had gone. Apparently the Martian had taken
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  Speaker 1: it all on the previous day. At that discovery, I
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  Speaker 1: despaired for the first time. I took no food or
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  Speaker 1: no drink, either on the eleventh or the twelfth day.
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  Speaker 1: At first my mouth and throat were parched, and my
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  Speaker 1: strength ebbed. Sensibly. I sat about in the darkness of
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  Speaker 1: the scullery in a state of despondent wretchedness. My mind
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  Speaker 1: ran on eating. I thought I had become deaf, for
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  Speaker 1: the noises of movement I had been accustomed to hear
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  Speaker 1: from the pit had ceased absolutely. I did not feel
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  Speaker 1: strong enough to crawl noiselessly to the people, or I
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  Speaker 1: would have gone there. On the twelfth day, my throat
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  Speaker 1: was so painful that, taking the chance of alarming the Martians,
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  Speaker 1: I attacked the creaking rain water pump that stood by
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  Speaker 1: the sink and got a couple of glassfuls of blackened
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  Speaker 1: and tainted rain water. I was greatly refreshed by this
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  Speaker 1: and emboldened by the fact that no inquiring tentacle followed
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  Speaker 1: the noise of my pumping. During these days, in a rambling,
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  Speaker 1: inconclusive way, I thought much of the Curate and of
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  Speaker 1: the manner of his death. On the thirteenth day, I
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  Speaker 1: drank some more water and dozed, and thought disjointedly of
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  Speaker 1: eating and of vague, impossible plans of escape. Whenever I dozed,
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  Speaker 1: I dreamt of horrible phanfasms, of the death of the Curate,
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  Speaker 1: or of sumptuous dinners. But asleep or awake, I felt
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  Speaker 1: a keen pain that urged me to drink again and again.
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  Speaker 1: The light that came into the scullery was no longer gray,
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  Speaker 1: but read to my disordered imagination, it seemed the color
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  Speaker 1: of blood. On the fourteenth day, I went into the kitchen,
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  Speaker 1: and I was surprised to find that the fronds of
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  Speaker 1: the red weed had grown right across the hole in
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  Speaker 1: the wall, turning the half light of the place into
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  Speaker 1: a crimson colored obscurity. It was early on the fifteenth
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  Speaker 1: day that I heard a curious, familiar sequence of sounds
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  Speaker 1: in the kitchen, and listening identified it as the snuffing
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  Speaker 1: and scratching of a dog going into the kitchen, I
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  Speaker 1: saw a dog's nose peering in through a break among
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  Speaker 1: the ruddy fronds. This greatly surprised me. At the scent
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  Speaker 1: of me, he barked shortly. I thought, if I could
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  Speaker 1: induce him to come into the place quietly, I should
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  Speaker 1: be able perhaps to kill and eat him. And in
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  Speaker 1: any case, it would be advisable to kill him lest
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  Speaker 1: his actions attracted the attention of the martians. Forward, saying
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  Speaker 1: good dark, very softly. But he suddenly withdrew his head
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  Speaker 1: and disappeared. I listened. I was not deaf, but certainly
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  Speaker 1: the pit was still. I heard a sound like the
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  Speaker 1: flutter of a bird's wings, and a hoarse croaking, but
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  Speaker 1: that was all for a long while. I lay close
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  Speaker 1: to the peep hole, but not daring to move aside
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  Speaker 1: the red plants that obscured it. Once or twice I
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  Speaker 1: heard a faint pitapatter, like the feet of the dog
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  Speaker 1: going hither and thither on the sand far below me,
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  Speaker 1: And there were more bird like sounds, but that was
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  Speaker 1: all at length. Encouraged by the silence, I looked out,
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  Speaker 1: except in the corner, where a multitude of crows hopped
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  Speaker 1: and fought over the skeletons of the dead the Martians
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  Speaker 1: had consumed. There was not a living thing in the pit.
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  Speaker 1: I stared about me, scarcely believing my eyes. All the
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  Speaker 1: mache enery had gone, save for the big mound of
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  Speaker 1: grayish blue powder in one corner, certain bars of aluminium
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  Speaker 1: in another, the black birds, and the skeletons of the killed.
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  Speaker 1: The place was merely an empty circular pit in the sand.
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  Speaker 1: Slowly I thrust myself out through the red weed and
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  Speaker 1: stood upon the mound of rubble. I could see in
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  Speaker 1: any direction save behind me to the north, and neither
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  Speaker 1: martians nor sign of Martians were to be seen. The
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  Speaker 1: pit dropped sheerly from my feet, but a little way
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  Speaker 1: along the rubbish afforded a practicable slope to the summit
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  Speaker 1: of the ruins. My chance of escape had come. I
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  Speaker 1: began to tremble. I hesitated for some time, and then,
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  Speaker 1: in a gust of desperate resolution, and with a heart
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  Speaker 1: that throbbed violently, I scrambled to the top of the
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  Speaker 1: mound in which I had been buried so long. I
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  Speaker 1: looked about again to the northward, too, no Martian was
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  Speaker 1: visible when I had last seen this part of Sheen,
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  Speaker 1: and daylight. It had been a straggling street of comfortable
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  Speaker 1: white and red houses, interspersed with abundant, shady trees. Now
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  Speaker 1: I stood on a mound of smashed brickwork, clay, and gravel,
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  Speaker 1: over which spread a multitude of red cactus shaped plants,
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  Speaker 1: knee high without a solitary terrestrial growth to dispute their footing.
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  Speaker 1: The trees near me were dead and brown, but further
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  Speaker 1: a network of red thread scaled the still living stems.
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  Speaker 1: The neighboring houses had all been wrecked, but none had
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  Speaker 1: been burned. Their walls stood sometimes to the second story,
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  Speaker 1: with smashed windows and shattered doors. The red weed grew
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  Speaker 1: tumultuously in their roofless rooms. Below me was the great pit,
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  Speaker 1: with the crows struggling for its refuse. A number of
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  Speaker 1: other birds hopped about among the ruins. Far away, I
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  Speaker 1: saw a gaunt cat slink crouchingly along a wall, but
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  Speaker 1: traces of men there were none. The day seemed, by
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  Speaker 1: contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly bright, the sky a
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  Speaker 1: glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that
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  Speaker 1: covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh
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  Speaker 1: the sweetness of the air, end of Section twenty two,