The Martians Strike Back!. Robert Reginald

in the season that there was always the possibility of snow.

      “There just aren’t a lot of roads that go all the way through,” Cassie said, after examining her pad. “The one over Yosemite is particularly bad. If we go to Sonora, we could take 108 over the Sierras south of Tahoe, which is apt to be bumper-to-bumper now.”

      “All right,” I said, “let’s try that.”

      We started an hour later, and had no trouble until we reached the village itself. We’d gassed up before we’d left Butterfly, figuring that supplies would be hard to get as the roads became more crowded. Then everything slowed to a crawl as we headed northeast on State Route 108. At Twain a local highway merged from the north, and then we did come to a complete stop.

      I finally got out of the car.

      “Anyone have any news?” I asked several of the other refugees.

      “Stockton’s been hit,” said one.

      “Modesto too,” said another.

      I could see smoke clouds on the western and northern horizons.

      “Oh, looks like we’re moving again,” another man said, and got back in his car. I did the same.

      For the rest of the afternoon, it was start and stop, stop and start, and we barely went five miles. During one of our many breaks, we grabbed a quick bite to eat out of our stores, and then wrapped blankets around the girls as the sun set. Slowly, very slowly, we continued to inch our way into the mountains.

      Suddenly there was a flash of green fire to the west of us.

      “Martians!” I heard someone shout through the open driver’s window.

      “How far?” someone else asked.

      “Maybe, oh, twenty-thirty miles.”

      “That would make it about Angels Camp.”

      “Yep.”

      “Got any weapons?”

      “Shotgun and six-shooter.”

      “Won’t do much good.”

      “Nope.”

      I figured we were making less than five miles an hour—but still, we were progressing; and although the flashes continued, and even seemed brighter on occasion, we managed to keep ahead of them.

      About midnight we were nearing the Indian reservation when I heard some audible thumps behind us, and then an explosion.

      “They’re coming!” somebody screamed.

      “We’ve got to get away from the road,” I said.

      We pulled into a camping area, grabbed as much as we could, particularly blankets, and headed west on a trail towards a large lake, using our flashlights to get us a few hundred yards distant.

      “I figure they won’t search beyond the roads between the cities,” I said. “All we have to do is wait for them to pass.”

      We found shelter under a grove of pines, and turned off our lights. Huddling together in the freezing pitch dark waiting for the aliens to come is one of the scariest things I’ve ever done in my life. I wouldn’t have had the courage to face the situation alone, but the knowledge that I had to save the lives of my dear family also saved me.

      We heard the cars exploding and being crushed by the Martian machines less than a half-mile from us. The girls were shaking from the cold and their fear. Any real animals had since fled the scene. The aliens were very methodical in their destruction, and they continued to pursue the metal ribbon all the way up to the pass, pausing just for a few moments to destroy some housing before continuing on their way. I don’t what they were doing—I didn’t want to know.

      I decided that discretion was, well, you know, and we stayed where we were—safe if a bit chilled—until the sky began to lighten again over the peaks. At that point, our spirits had nowhere to go but up.