The Forbidden Zone

by Whitley Strieber

  Then the moonlight went yet again, and they could see nothing outside but dead, inky blackness.

  The truck lurched and shook, being dragged farther into the woods.

  He turned the key, listened to the engine cough, cough again, die. Again he turned the key. The truck jerked forward, stopped. Again and again he tried the key.

  Finally the engine struggled to life.

  He threw the transmission into reverse, started to let out the clutch. The engine roared, the truck pitched, the tires whined in the damp, loose soil. A stink of hot tires filled the cab. Oil pressure and water temperature began to rise toward the red lines.

  When another of the hands flopped against her window, Ellen practically leaped into his lap. The claws tapped furiously against the glass.

  The truck engine was powerful, but the gauges were climbing steadily and it was only a matter of time before a gasket or a tire blew.

  Mound Road was just a short distance behind them.

  Something shook the truck as if it was a toy. Brian jammed on the gas and the engine's whine rose to a shriek, the tires wailed.

  Despite all this effort the truck lurched forward, moving deeper yet into the woods.

  The hand must still be embedded like a hook in the hood, reeling the truck in. Brian threw the gearbox into first and smashed the accelerator to the floor. The truck shot forward much faster than the hand had been dragging it. In the glow of the headlights Brian could see the arm, which had been wire-tight, flopping in helpless tangles across the hood.

  He threw the door open, leaped into the tangle and grabbed for the hand. The extreme stretch of the arm had caused it to lose its strength. Under him, however, the coils pulsated and wriggled. They were warm, getting hot, getting rapidly thicker. Faster they pulsed, faster and faster.

  By the time he had grabbed the hand at its wrist, it could resist. As he tugged it toward the windshield, away from the hole it had made, the muscles pulsed. The arm was now the thickness of a bicycle tire. Under his fingers the flesh of the thing bubbled like a thick, hot liquid.

  From the woods came a flicker of purple light. He was surprised to feel deep, warm stirrings come up from the depths of him.

  While he paused, confused by this unexpected sensation, the coils surged faster, getting thicker and thicker.

  Then Ellen appeared, also yanking the hand. It came out of the hood with a clanging screech, the claws doubling up on themselves so fast they made a sound like the crack of a whip.

  "Drive," she bellowed, "for the love of God, driver

  He threw himself back into the cab, ground the gears, backed out onto Mound Road.

  They were free. "Thank God," Ellen whispered. "Oh, thank God."

  He went bolt upright, he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

  "Jesus," Ellen said.

  Stretching off into the distance was a line of cars, all heading toward the judge's house. Against the sharp spikes of the pines that blocked the view of the house from here could be seen a constant flashing of purple light.

  Every car was filled with people—men, women, children.

  Worse, he knew them, they were familiar faces. "It's Will Torrance—hey, Will!"

  "Don't stop, Brian!"

  Brian hardly heard her. He put on the brake, staring in amazement at his fellow townspeople. "Look, there's Mike Mills, Betty's boy, and his wife's with him! And the Robertsons and old Mr. Hanford—"

  "Brian, get us out of here!"

  With a hissing sound, a great shape slid out of the nearby woods, flowing toward them like a massive snake. Before he could react, pale purple light flashed right in his face. Reflected in the rearview mirror, it emanated from the headlights of a car behind him. He recognized this vehicle, low, mean, red. A terrific wave of pleasure hit him. He felt himself spring erect, found his eyes glaring hungrily into the reflection.

  It was all he could do to shove the mirror out of adjustment. That broke the spell.

  He returned to his senses. "Ellen, open the glove compartment, get out the shells. Can you handle a shotgun?"

  "Not yet."

  "Then be real careful, please. Put a couple of shells into the breech, lean out the window and fire. But don't look into that friggin' light!"

  "I know about the light."

  She was clumsy with the shells, she dropped two or three of them, but finally got some loaded. The Viper was right on their tail. A floodlight was filling the cab with purple iridescence.

  It was the light of heaven. He began to go weak. The truck's speed dropped as he unconsciously lifted his foot.

  A roar followed and the cab went dark. Ellen screamed, threw herself back from the window, tossed the smoking shotgun to the floor.

  Instantly the pleasure ceased, and Brian felt a brief, black sense of loss. Ellen pitched back against the seat.

  "Ellen?"

  She did not answer.

  3.

  He turned onto Kelly Farm Road, drove hard for five minutes. He had only one thought: the worst thing in the world was somewhere in these woods, and Loi was alone.

  When Loi saw the way the truck was racing up the drive she came onto the porch, then hurried toward the driveway. He jammed on the brakes. "We gotta get inside," he yelled.

  Loi reacted instantly, pulling Ellen's door open. "Oh, Brian, look at her legs!"

  "Get her into the light!"

  They took her onto the porch. Loi pulled away torn cloth. The lower part of Ellen's pants legs were shredded. For a moment Brian thought he'd accidentally shot her. Then he saw the pattern of the injuries—dozens of puckered, red dots, each leaking blood and pus.

  "What is this, Brian?"

  As best he could, he swallowed his terror. He peered out into the dark.

  "Pour water on her head," young Chris yelled, seeing that they were supporting her and assuming that she'd fainted.

  "Get inside at once," Loi told the child, "at once!"

  Astonished at sweet Aunt Loi's change of voice, the boy retreated.

  With Loi's help Brian walked Ellen into the living room. He shut and locked the front door. "Loi, the windows."

  "What?"

  "Lock them!"

  His tone of voice caused an automatic response: she raced through the trailer doing as he asked. Then she returned to the room. "Tell me the problem."

  "Something's out there," Ellen breathed. "Something—"

  "It's beyond belief," Brian said.

  "What is?"

  "You don't want to know," Ellen said.

  Brian remembered those hands, the pared nails.

  "Well, we have to see to you," Loi told Ellen. "That's the first thing." She went into the bathroom and returned with alcohol and cotton pads. "Boys," she said, "go in your room." She looked at Ellen. "You will suffer, I'm sorry."

  She poured alcohol over a pad and began methodically washing the injuries. To Ellen it felt as if her skin was being rubbed with a hot iron. To prevent a scream she bit her lip.

  Brian was looking out the living room window, his hands cupped around his eyes. He was watching for any kind of unusual movement. The driveway seemed empty, but he didn't believe it, not for a moment.

  "Brian," Loi said. "Call the state police."

  He obeyed instantly, realizing that he should have done it before, even from the truck. He dialed, listened to the familiar clicks—and got nothing.

  Again he dialed, hoping that he'd done something wrong.

  The phone was stone dead. He held the receiver out, stared at it.

  There was a plan at work, a strategy. Whatever was out there, it could not only act, it could think ahead, it could be cunning.

  He had to get the shotgun out of the truck. And now he also had to use the cellular phone to call for help. With a quick, nervous motion he stepped onto the porch.

  There wasn't a sound, not a cricket, not a grasshopper or a frog. It was like being in a cave lit by the moon.

  The ten feet to the truck seemed a very long way. From the da
rkness around the side of the trailer he heard a distinct whisper, almost a word, but not one he could understand. For a moment more he listened. Nothing. It could have been a raccoon snorting at him, but he didn't think so. He moved closer to the truck.

  When the whisper came again he whirled. There was something out by the ruins of the old house.

  He went quickly to the truck, got in, opened the glove compartment and dug out the box of shells, loaded it with the five that were left.

  When he turned around he was horrified to see Loi corning across the driveway. "Go back in!"

  "No."

  "Go back in the house, run!"

  She came up to the truck. "Give me the shotgun." She held out her hands. He gave her the gun and she took a position in the middle of the drive, porting the gun across her chest. "Now make your call." Her voice was trembling.

  Brian turned on the ignition and started the phone. He waited, but no dial tone came. Finally he turned off the truck.

  "It didn't work either?"

  "No."

  She was staring out into the dark. He followed her eyes and was appalled to see a thick, black hose of a thing lying across the drive thirty feet behind the truck.

  "It is like a snake," she said, "it hides in its stillness."

  He ran into the trailer. Loi came rolling after him across the driveway, wielding the shotgun.

  "It's unwise to run from a snake, husband." She leaned the gun against the wall near the door and pulled up a dining chair, seating herself across from Ellen, who was nursing her legs, tears of pain in her eyes.

  "We've got to get out of here," Ellen said. Her voice was a moan.

  "Ellen, it's in the driveway." Brian touched her cheek, full of compassion for her.

  Loi folded her arms. "Brian Kelly, you will tell me all that has happened since you left."

  "All right! I'll be very specific, but I warn you, Loi, this ain't gonna help your sleep!" He described what he had seen.

  She nodded, taking it calmly. "The demons."

  "We're dealing with anomalous taxonomy. But it's entirely physical, believe me."

  Ellen lit a cigarette. Silently, Loi reached over and took another from her pack. She didn't like smoking much, but she was too worried. She didn't mention the sensations that were radiating up from her uterus, the dull, long pains.

  "It'd help if there was a name," Ellen said. "I wish I knew the name."

  "There is no Bureau of Monster Nomenclature," Brian commented.

  A long, sighing scrape crossed the roof. "That's the sycamore blowing."

  "No, Brian." Loi took off the shotgun's safety.

  A moment later a mournful howl rose, then died away into the night. The three of them huddled together.

  "That could be one of the Flournoys' cows," Brian said. "If she's lost her calf."

  Silently, Loi pointed to the trailer's low ceiling. All three of them knew that the sounds had both come from directly overhead, and that the Flournoys' dairy herd was at least a mile away on the other side of dense forest.

  To Brian the howl had seemed much more human than animal. It had been a conscious sound, full of the deepest woe, as lonely and sad as any he had ever heard.

  Then there was another noise, this one from the driveway. It was distinct, something scraping through the gravel. Loi positioned herself before the door. To a stranger her face would have appeared to be without expression. But Brian knew different. She was expertly concealing her fear; she'd looked like this during the hemorrhage. "Watch at the windows," she said softly.

  He went to the living room, window, parted the drapes. For a moment he didn't understand what he was seeing. Thick black cables surrounded his truck, thrusting up out of the ground. "Give me the flashlight," he said, trying to discern some detail.

  Ellen thrust the light into his hands. He turned it on, pressed it against the glass to reduce reflection. Each cable led to a hand, and every claw was buried in the body of the vehicle.

  The cables went taut, the truck shuddered, the ground beneath it began to seethe. Dust clouds rose and the truck went down. When it was half underground there was a pause. Then the hands shook, the vehicle shuddered, more dust rose.

  "My God!"

  Loi abandoned her post, joined him at the window.

  The truck sank slowly into the driveway. As it disappeared the gravel surged like disturbed water.

  Moments later, all was still.

  The lights went out. Ellen screamed, Brian cried out, lurched back into the room. Both boys rushed out of their bedroom, crying and fumbling among the confused shadows being cast by the flashlight in Brian's hand.

  "Get into the middle of the room," Loi said. "Brian, push the couch against the door."

  "What's wrong, Uncle Brian?" young Chris cried.

  He started to speak, but the words died in his throat. He couldn't tell the truth to an eleven-year-old, he didn't know how. "There's a—we think it's a bear. There's a bear outside."

  "Oh, those little blacks ain't any bother." Chris started strolling toward the door. Brian froze as the boy put his hand on the knob. "You just shoo 'em off."

  Loi got to him, drew him back into the room. "Not that kind of bear," she said.

  Joey started to cry. Loi got the boys away from the windows, then went once more for the phone. Silently, she shook her head.

  "The floor's hot," Chris announced.

  Brian bent down, felt with wide sweeps of his hands. Hot, so hot in places that it stung. Mary is burning, Kate is burning.

  What strange meaning was ghosting about behind the facts? He felt the floor again. A lot hotter.

  The first fire—Mary and Caitlin's fire—had started exactly the same way, under the floor. "We've got to get out of here!"

  "Brian, we can't!" Ellen's voice had a desperate edge.

  A line of dancing orange flames appeared along the wall behind the television. Loi lunged for her precious laughing Buddha. Before she could get it, Brian grabbed her, lifted her into his arms. "Not her," he shouted, "not her!" A sheet of fire rushed up the wall. Ellen and both boys shrieked. The flames boiled dark red and orange across the ceiling.

  Mary and Katie were howling, dancing in a curtain of fire.

  It would be fast, he knew that, almost instantaneous. He threw the door open, pushed Loi out, grabbed the nearest bit of shirt and pulled. Joey. "Ellen, Chris, come on!"

  Ellen was pressed against the kitchen closet, the narrow little pantry that never offered enough space, her face as expressionless as a statue. Frozen by fear.

  Brian went for her, knocked her to the floor just as the fire tumbled from the ceiling. The linoleum began curling like bacon. He knotted her shirt in his fist and tugged. Help came in the form of Chris, who half dragged, half pushed her.

  Then they were on the porch, and a hungry maw of flame was all that remained of the doorway. Brian pitched away from the slicing heat, Ellen flopped and flailed, regaining her balance. Chris shrieked as fire danced on his back. Loi leaped on him, rolled him in the gravel.

  When the flames were extinguished she cradled him. Sobbing, his brother crying with him, he buried his face in her bosom.

  "We're gonna get you to the hospital, son," Brian said. He couldn't imagine how.

  An owl's muttering made him look up, and he saw in the fire-bright trees a white barn owl, its baleful eyes staring.

  With a sighing roar the trailer exploded. Brian shepherded them toward the barn. "We'll get the tractor," he cried over the rush of the flames.

  "It only goes ten miles an hour, Brian," Loi said.

  "Well, it's what we've got!" Maybe they could use it to go cross country to Route 303. "Form a chain, everybody holds a hand." Thus linked, they began the journey across the driveway and down through the weed-infested barnyard.

  "Look for things like cables on the ground," Loi said.

  "And if you see any purple light anywhere—turn away," Ellen added. "No matter how it makes you feel."

  The boys, who
had been silent with shock, began to whimper. "My back hurts," Chris said.

  "Be brave, guys," Loi told them. She was between them, holding their hands firmly. "Be as brave as the bravest man in the world."

  Behind them the fire flickered and hissed. Brian couldn't stand to look back. His wife simply walked along, her head down, putting one foot in front of the other. This was like a natural catastrophe, a storm, an earthquake, or it was like a war. She'd probably walked a hundred miles just like this, a refugee.

  There was a low, vibrating sound in the air around them. Fifty feet ahead of them dust was rising from the roof of the barn,

  glowing in the moonlight like smoke. Brian remembered that sound and grabbed his wife, trying desperately to shield her with his body.

  It came again, like an immense groan from deep in the earth. His teeth vibrated, the boys howled, Ellen clapped her hands to her ears. The barn shuddered, seemed almost to be going out of focus. The whole front wall loomed over, and Brian saw that it was collapsing. "Run!"

  It hit the ground with a huge thud and a cloud of dust, and in the dust the rest of it came to pieces, beams crashing down, walls, finally the roof itself tumbling into the destroyed heap.

  Brian didn't even stop to look for the tractor. "We've gotta try to walk out," he said. But in his heart he asked a question: why don't you just kill us? Why torture us like this? He knew the answer, it was no mystery. People were not being killed, they were being summoned.

  Well, not everybody was willing to go, Brian thought angrily.

  They came straggling along behind him, still clinging hand to hand, and started out the long, dark driveway.

  From the grass on both sides he heard steady rustling. He just kept going, not even hoping anymore. His understanding of the world had been gutted. There was nothing left to do but struggle blindly on.

  Loi drew the boys closer to her, her eyes searching the shadows.

  "You can hear it," Brian said. "That slither."

  Ellen hesitated, then took a jerky step back.