Propagation

by Rory D. Cottrell

"Daddy, Daddy, it's time! Turn on the radio," his children chorused as they rushed about the room in a mad sugar frenzy. Jason, nine, mouth adorned with a thin rim of misplaced marshmallow fluff, bounced around the room like a hard rubber ball. His sister, Sarah, seven, twirled around in her ankle length flannel nightgown, a pair of fairy wings the only relict of the Halloween costume their mother could not pry off Sarah's body.

The calvacade about the first floor of the house owned by Michael and Abigail Lorrah, spurned on by a rush of hastily eaten chocolates and sugar candy, was calmed by the veiled threats that unruly boys and girls would not stay up past their bedtimes if they did not settle down.

"C'mon, Dad, it's gonna start soon. We're gonna miss the beginning," Jason whined.

"Alright, alright. Give me a minute."

Mike folded the remains of the Sunday paper and left the old wooden rocker, hand carved by his father over fifty years before. The arms were well worn by the years of rocking frightened children after a restless nightmare, long bedtime stories by a warm winter hearth, and endless ruminations about politics and the world in general. But there would be no fire tonight. Southerly winds brought with them extremely warm temperatures. Station KWOW out of Grover's Mill, New Jersey reported a high of 72° , unusual for Halloween Eve.

The wooden radio, received six years ago as an anniversary present from Abby's parents, sat on the mantle, out of reach from messy children's fingers and wagging tails of over anxious puppies. It stood nearly one foot tall, with mahogany paneling and brassy black knobs near its protruding base. The ON/OFF inking above the knob on the right had nearly disappeared with years of use.

For better or for worse, the radio had become the centerpiece of Lorrah family entertainment most Sundays. During the lazy days of summer, ball games filtered through the fine metal mesh and polished red veneer. When no ballgame could be found, music or the world news filled the Lorrah family living room. The family gathered after every Sunday dinner, children freshly bathed, dishes washed, and chores done for the night. Mike and Abby sat in their traditional chairs, the rocker for him and an armchair for her. The children nestled on the rug with their blankets and stuffed animals, to enjoy an hour with Abbott and Costello, George Burns, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy.

But the children's favorite was the Mercury Theatre, and with good reason. It was his favorite too. Mike and Abby Lorrah bestowed upon their children their own love of books. She was a librarian, he a newspaper editor. Bedtime stories included Grimm's Faery Tales, chapters from Charles Dickens and Louise May Alcott, and more recently, Jules Vearn and H.G. Wells. Both of his children loved the fantastic journeys to the center of the earth and trips through time. As a child, Mike's father has read the same stories to him and his brother. He returned the favor by passing on the tradition. The Mercury Theatre, a group of young, unknown actors and writers, presented hour long dramatizations of works of literature. Tonight would be no exception.

His pocket watch read 7:55 PM, plenty of time to fine tune the frequency for the best reception. Such a warm front of weather was usually followed by a string of storms as cold, arctic air from Canada sank in the atmosphere when it met with the warm winds from the Gulf of Mexico. Thunderstorms had been rare that season, and the town of Grover's Mill was due for a big one soon. He only hoped it waited until after Halloween.

"Are we ready?" he asked the children, pretending to stall for time. The program would not start for another four minutes. He briefly tuned into an opera program, and moved his hands along with the music. As part of their weekly ritual, Jason and Sarah complained and whined until their father settled for the correct frequency. Teasingly, he left the opera singer on for a few more seconds until his children almost tackled his legs with frustration. He turned the dial to the right station, and left to find his chair once more.

Jason and Sarah cheered as the familiar theme music filled the room with its welcoming intonations. Mike sat down heavily in his rocking chair, pulling out the shirt tails of his flannel from his strained waist band. His wife looked up from her book, grinning coyly.

"I told you to start watching what you eat, dear," Abby said, staring over the top of her reading glasses at the growing gut he displayed. "I don't have time to let out your pants every week."

Sighing, Mike picked up his newspaper once again. The front page headline read EUROPE APPEASES HITLER ONCE AGAIN. News from Europe dominated the headlines nearly every day, with a second world war eminent. It would be harder for the United States to stay out of the fighting this time around. His father had been a soldier during the first war, and died in battle in 1921. Mike was only fifteen at the time, and made responsible to take care of the house and family, finish his education and see to it that his younger brother did the same. He later inherited the house when his mother died five years later after a long battle with depression.

The theme music had ended, and with a crackle of static, the show began.

The hypnotic voice Mike and his family had become so accustomed rang with clarity over the airwaves, his every word seeping with sincerity. His voice leapt into their minds until they truly believed he was there in the living room, telling a tale of a trip long past taken as if it were happening right then and there.

Mike immediately recognized the passage. A few words had changed, but that first paragraph, the one that had drawn him in as a child to discover the mysteries of the Martian war machines still held his attention as it had so many years before. His children were similarly mesmerized. Mike looked at his newspaper, but did not read it. Orson Wells had that affect on them all.

But Abby put away her book and carefully watched her children's expressions. Turning to her husband she asked, "Michael, I'm not sure the children are ready for this."

"Aw, Mom, you promised," Jason pouted. "I did all my chores."

"And if Jason gets to stay up, you said I get to stay up too," Sarah added. "You promised."

Abby barely registered her children's complaints. She and Mike believed that their children should make their own decisions, but she was wary in this instance. "Mike, we both know how the story ends, and I don't want to be up all night if they get nightmares."

Mike smiled, and left his chair to kneel between the supine bodies of his children on the living room rug. He placed his hands on their heads. "You two know that there is no such thing as a Martian, don't you? And that this is all just make-believe."

Jason and Sarah bobbed their heads obediently, eyes affixed on the radio as a fictional weather report was announced over the air.

"Welles makes it sound like it's happening today. Strange way to go about a radio play," Mike commented, returning to his chair as Ramon Raquello and his orchestra drifted through a musical reverie. "This should draw a lot of attention in tomorrow's paper."

A news flash by the Intercontinental Radio News-- a fictitious name Mike realized-- reported that unusual gas explosions on the surface of Mars were detected at an observatory near Chicago.

"Is this for real, Daddy?" Sarah asked, unsure. "It sounds like something real."

"No, honey. It's all part of the story. Recognize that voice? It's John Houseman. He does a lot of voices for the show. There's nothing to worry about."

Abby looked skeptical. "I don't know, Mike. H.G. Wells is not exactly popular reading. You said so yourself, it isn't the typical radio play. What if people don't realize that this is all make-believe?"

"That will never happen," Mike assured her.

"Why not?"

"Because there is no such thing as a Martian. America can't be that naive."

Abby shook her head. "You're naive if you believe that," she replied coldly.

"Mommy, we can't hear --," Sarah started to complain, but was shot down by an angered look from her mother.

Concern crossed Mike's face. Abby was rarely cross, especially in front of the children. He felt slightly guilty. "I'm sorry, Abby. I didn't mean to brush you off like that." But Abby slowly steamed in her seat, staring hard at the pages of her book. He wanted desperately to make amends. He didn't like to fight any more than she did.

"Listen, if they get nightmares, I'll stay up with them. I promise. It's just a story. If it gets too bad, I'll turn it off."

"Dad--" Jason started.

Mike gave his son a warning glance that said, ' that will be enough out of you' .

"It'll be fine," Mike said quietly, patting Abby's hand. She smiled back, but he wasn't convinced she believed him.

Despite the abundance of sugar coursing through their veins, the Lorrah children drifted in and out of sleep thirty minutes into the Martian invasion. When the language became too complex for them to understand, they lost interest in the play and slowly fell asleep on the rug. Sarah was the first to nod off, thumb securely held in her mouth. Jason pulled on her arm, just to watch her thumb find its way back to her mouth like a spring. Soon he tired of his game, and fell asleep next to her on the rug. They looked so sweet lying there, like little angels, Mike thought. He did not want to disturb their slumber by carrying them to their bedroom.

The sound of distant thunder rolled across the region as a forewarning of an impending storm. The northern skies danced with light, illuminating the darkened clouds that traveled from Canada.

Abby took off her reading glasses, and after stretching for a moment, she stood. Grabbing an old, worn quilt from the chest that stood near the fireplace, she spread the blanket over the sleeping children. The temperature had dropped nearly 20° in the last hour, and she did not want them to catch their death of cold.

Turning his attention from the window, Mike noticed that his wife was no longer seated next to him, but headed for the back of the house. "Where are you going, Abby?"

"To close the windows. I don't know about you, but when that storm hits, I'd like to keep the inside of the house dry," she answered with a smile. She never held a grudge for very long. "Besides, it's cold out there."

"I hadn't noticed," Mike replied, punctuating his statement with an involuntary shiver. The temperature really had dropped. The storm wasn't that far off. He had been so enraptured by the changing sky, how the water towers in the back field seemed to dance in the light, that all else had escaped him. He had even lost his bearings with the radio play, as John Houseman reported from somewhere in the middle of New York City about a Martian war machine unleashing a deadly poisonous gas across the land.

But before Abby left the room, the lights flickered. The voice on the radio warbled as the power fluctuated and finally died with the lights. Neither Abby nor Mike moved, unsure of what to expect next.

"Mike--" He thought he heard a bit of tension in her voice.

"It must be the storm," he answered as he walked to the door. He stepped out onto the porch, and was nearly knocked over by an incredible blast of wind. The power was out all over. All of the houses on their street were built based on the same design during the 1920's; three stories high, with both a front and back porch, a sloping driveway on the right side of each lot, and a large bay window facing the street. Now the houses were unfamiliar shells without the comforting lights that illuminated them. The large, chalky, tree trunk shaped street lights with their bulbous frosted glass ornaments stood like lonely sentries along the blackened street.

By the time he returned, Abby had already retrieved the holiday candles and lit the stubs of candle wax inside the carved pumpkins.

"Kind of appropriate, don't you think?" she said, lighting the last jack-o-lantern.

The children slowly woke from their hazy sleep, wondering why the lights had gone out. The pumpkins reflected light off the bay window. The candles flickered eerily with the draft. Caught up in the spirit of Halloween, Jason began poking and prodding his sister's belly, evoking the desired yelp of surprise. Mike joined in, lifting his son with one easy swoop. Everyone was laughing. But their laughter turned to panic when the air raid alarms began wailing. Mike and Abby dropped to the floor. The children started crying.

Abby huddled the children close to her body and tried to comfort them. Mike ducked underneath the bay window and waited. The wailing alarms stopped as quickly as they started, but even the silence had a fearful sense about it.

"Must be a false alarm," he said, listening to the frightened whimperings of his children and how his wife tried to soothe their fears. No one moved for what seemed an agonizing amount of time.

A number of bright headlights shone through the front porch window. Mike peeked over the window sill, recognizing his brother's dented and droning pick-up truck. He counted four others following closely behind. The blue and white emblem of the Department of Public Works on Brendon Lorrah's truck flashed briefly in the passing headlights. Ten burly men left the cabs and beds of the pick-ups, Winchester's clasped in their calloused hands.

Mike silently cursed to himself, careful not to let the children hear him. These were the same men who picketed the Public Works building months ago when they wanted a raise in pay. The strike turned ugly, and several people were hospitalized. Mike didn't have a high opinion of them then, either.

"Take the kids upstairs and lock yourselves in our bedroom. Don't come out unless I come to get you." Mike hoped that the urgency in his voice would quelch any protests from his wife. She hurried Jason and Sarah up the stairs without looking back.

Mike propped open the swinging screen door, his bulky frame filling up most of the door space. At six-foot-one, his growing gut was diminished by the shear size of his shoulders. His brother, though the same height, had no where near the bulk Mike carried.

Bud stopped at the base of the porch stairs, resting the barrel of his shotgun on his shoulder. "Mike, I'm glad you're home. We need some supplies."

"What for?" Mike asked, crossing his arms in defiance.

"Huntin' party. Why else?" Bud answered.

"Isn't it a little late to be out hunting?"

"We're setting up a garrison against them Martians. They've taken Grover's Mill, and New York City," one of the other hoodlums called.

Mike grabbed Bud's arm and dragged him into the house forcefully, ignoring the protests from the other hicks outside. Once inside, Mike shook Bud's shoulders hard. "Are you insane? What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I don't have time for this, Mike. Charlie heard that the Martians are landing all over the east coast. We can't let them take over." Bud headed for the basement stairs.

"It's a radio play, for Pete's sake! A bunch of actors are pretending the Martians have invaded the earth. Look, look--"

Mike rifled through one of the many bookshelves that aligned the living room. Books spilled onto the floor until he found the red and orange hard-back with a broken spine, well worn with multiple perusings through the years. He chased his brother down the stairs to the cellar.

"Look here," Mike said, turning his brother around. "H.G. Wells' The War of the Worlds. Remember this? Dad used to read it to us when we were young. This is what's happening. It's just a story, that's all."

Bud shook his head as he descended the rest of the stairs. "No. It's all over town. Everyone's getting ready for attack." He searched for the lantern that Mike always kept near the stair. After fishing for his lighter, he ignited the kerosene lamp. "Where did you hide the shells?"

"Have you even listened to the radio? It's just a story. Will you listen to me?!"

Bud found the box of shells, shelved high above a nine year old's reach. Grabbing it, he opened it hastily, spilling half of them in the process. Three-inch cartridges fanned across the cement floor and rolled under the hunting rack. Swearing under his breath, he planted the lantern on the floor and dropped to his knees, frantically searching for the fallen bullets. He stuffed them into his shirt and pants pockets as fast as he found them.

"Listen to me, dammit!" Mike shouted. "There is no invasion! It’s all a hoax! Somebody got frightened and set off the sirens. When will you let that fact sink into your thick skull, Brendon!"

That attracted Bud's attention, if only for a second. No one but their father called him Brendon. Without so much as a second glance, Bud was on his feet, cramming cartridges into the rifle with practiced efficiency. He placed the rifle on the workbench, and removed the revolver from under his jacket. The .38 cartridges were slick and small, and slipped through his anxious fingers, joining the missed rifle shells on the floor.

"Charlie saw their ship take out the water tower and the power plant," Bud explained, overfilling his pockets with cartridges and shells. His pant legs gathered more at the ankles due to the extra weight. Bud pulled his belt tighter an extra notch.

"It was lightning, Bud! There's a storm on the way. Besides, who are you going to believe, that imbecile or your brother?" Mike asked, grabbing Bud’s wrist.

Bud pulled away, nearly knocking over the workbench in the dark. Seven years his senior, Mike's frame filled most of the free space left in the crowded basement. Remnants of their father’s home based furniture shop, now used to stuff the rabbits, squirrels, and deer they took down during the hunting seasons, occupied most of the cellar area.

"Get out of my way, Mike. I have to go."

Mike didn’t move and did not plan on changing his intentions. "If Martians really have invaded New Jersey, what are you going to do about it? You’ve only got hunting rifles and a few pistols."

"Charlie’s got some dynamite, enough to destroy ten war machines, if need be. We won't let them take over without a fight," he replied, trying to push his way past.

Steadfast, Mike placed his hands against Bud's chest. The windows rattled with a new barrage of explosions. A chorus of sirens from all over the county began wailing once more.

"Why are you so gung-ho to fight Martians, Bud? Because the Army rejected you? I hate to tell you this, Bud, but a bum knee won't do you much good against an alien either," Mike said, making a grab for the gun.

Bud stumbled backwards to avoid Mike's reach, backing into the work bench again.

Mike recognized the glazed-over look in Bud's eyes, a signal that Bud was running on pure adrenalin. Twice, Bud nearly dropped the rifle in an effort to avoid him.

"Get out of my way, Mike. I've put too much work into this town to let some alien take it all away."

"You are not Dad, Bud! You do not fight in wars. You won't even take down a deer unless it's on its death bed. Just because the army wouldn't accept you doesn't mean you're not a man in this world. You think fighting Martians will prove to Dad that you're a man? Dad is dead, you can't prove anything to him anymore. How can you be so naive?!"

Then Mike's words registered in his own head. An optimist by nature, his words to his wife less than an hour hour before seemed so trite.

A clap of thunder broke his contemplation, and he realized that Bud was pushing past him. Mike grabbed his arm. "I won't let you go out there. Someone is bound to get hurt, and I don't want it to be you."

"I can handle myself," Buck replied, shaking off Mike's hand.

Mike grabbed him from behind. "Oh no you don't."

"Let go of me!" Bud bellowed, trying to throw Mike off his back.

They fell in a tangle of arms and legs. Mike fought to keep purchase on his brother's legs as Bud struggled to stand. Bud won, and raced for the stairs. Mike jumped to his feet and tackled Bud from behind, his burly arms wrapped around Bud's chest in a bear hug. Bud planted a well placed elbow into Mike’s throat, leaving Mike gasping for air. Picking up the rifle, Bud ran for the storm cellar stairs, stumbling over boxes and crates in the dark.

Somehow, Mike reached the cellar door before him, and blocked the way with his body once again. Another set of sirens resonated in the distance.

Bud raised the barrel of the rifle and pointed it towards Mike’s chest. "Get out of my way!"

Mike's face froze in astonishment. His heart beat faster, harder, until the pounding in his chest matched the throbbing in his head. "No!" Mike choked out.

"I swear, I’ll pull the trigger, Mike. Get out of my way!’

Ever the voice of reason, Mike slowly, cautiously, stepped towards Bud. "Not until I talk some sense into you."

"I’m not kidding, Mike!" Bud cocked the gun.

Oddly, Mike wasn't scared. "Neither am I. Put the gun down."

"No. Get out of my way."

Mike took another step, and Bud raised the barrel eight inches. Mike looked down the barrel of the gun, now aimed between his own eyes, and stared into the eyes of his brother. Somehow, he knew Bud would not shoot, yet his voice was caught in his throat.

Another explosion echoed behind the house, much closer than any of the others. It mixed with the sound of rolling thunder and crashing lightning, but the explosion was very distinctive. It sounded like dynamite, in the direction of the back yard.

In the confusion, Bud slipped past and ran for the staircase to the kitchen.

This time, Mike did not catch him. Bud took the stairs two at a time, scrambling up the steps faster than a jackrabbit. In the dark, Mike tripped over one of the many spilled boxes, and he did not censor himself from swearing out loud.

Bud slammed the kitchen door, and from the sound of heavy scraping in the kitchen, he had secured it with one of the chairs.

"Brendon! Don't go! Brendon, do you hear me! Let me out! Bud!"

Mike pounded on the cellar door until he heard movement in the kitchen. Bracing himself for another attack, he waited with hands raised. The door opened, and he rushed out.

Abby nearly dropped the candle she held between her trembling fingers as he raced past. Her face was ghostly pale, her hollow features enhanced by the flickering flame of the candle and the shadows left behind by the long, dark bangs of hair that slipped from the braid-work in back.

Shards of glass littered the wooden floorboards, and Abby tensed each time he stepped. Mike looked around; all of the windows on the north side of the house were missing panes of glass. The muscles of her arms were as tight as steel when he grabbed them to try and calm her down. "What happened?" he asked.

The words did not come easy. "They-- they blew up the water tower. Th--they thought it was a Martian war machine," she answered, her neck whip-cord tense.

"Where did Bud go?" Mike asked.

"N--n--north. They all went north."

Mike rushed back downstairs and grabbed his own rifle and an extra box of shells. Kissing his wife-- a small reassurance, but one he needed to give-- Mike draped his jacket over one arm and headed for the kitchen door. "Stay with the children."

"Don't go, Mike," Abby pleaded, choking back the tears.

"I have to try and stop them," he replied. "I'll be careful, I promise. I will come home."

The walk back to the upstairs room was not fast enough for Abby. The candle flickered when she moved to quickly. Halfway up the stairs, the power slowly returned. She didn't bother turning around to extinguish the lights or the radio. The children wailed again with the change of situation. The haunting music that marked the end of the Mercury Theatre's program emanated from the wooden box, gently harmonizing with the chimes of the grandfather clock that rang nine times. The entire first floor was empty when the music ended.