Twilight Zone The Movie (18 page)

The Bermuda Triangle.

How many times had he read about that vast mysterious expanse of ocean in which hundreds of ships had vanished without a trace over the centuries, in which thousands of voyagers had unaccountably disappeared forever?

And not just in the distant past, either; the phenomenon was still occurring today. Only now it wasn’t just ships that disappeared. Within recent years their ranks had been swelled by countless numbers of aircraft that had taken off on routine flights, only to be lost in limbo. And not just single-passenger planes, either—among the missing were huge commercial flights. Even military missions had flown to their final fate somewhere in the vast expanse of sky above the Triangle.

Valentine vaguely recalled the strange story of a squadron—Navy, wasn’t it?—that had set out from the Florida coast on a routine training exercise, only to disappear without warning following frantic radio signals that indicated that the pilots had somehow lost their bearings in the midst of strange cloud-formations suddenly surrounding them. When radio signals abruptly faded, a search party was dispatched—a larger aircraft, carrying a crew of fourteen. It too had vanished into empty air.

But
had
the air been empty?

Nobody knew. For that matter, there were still hundreds of thousands of square miles of the earth’s surface; impenetrable jungles, desolate deserts, teeming jungles, mist-shrouded mountains, and forever-frozen polar wastes, which remained unexplored. And the oceans, roaring relentlessly over 70 percent of the globe, had still to yield their submerged secrets to the eyes of men.

Through the years, tens of thousands of sailing ships had made a safe passage through the Bermuda Triangle, tens of thousands had traversed the aerial routes above it without incident. But still the fact remained: so many ships had sunk into the sea’s dank depths; so many planes had plunged into oblivion in the shrouded skies above.

And not in the Bermuda Triangle alone. There were many places where similar perils dwelt—travelers by sea or air had met an unknown fate in dozens of other localities scattered all around the globe. And scientists were still baffled by the presence of inexplicable phenomena in certain areas where compasses failed to function, natural causes produced unnatural results, and even the laws of gravity seemed suspended. What was it they’d come up with? Valentine seemed to recollect reading something about electromagnetic force-fields. A properly worded phrase, but one that explained nothing. Once, learned men believed that the air around and above them was filled with unseen presences. Today, they told us it was filled with unseen electrical disturbances. But no one really knew.

Some scientists still scoffed at the notion that the Bermuda Triangle and the air above it contained such forcefields, just as their academic ancestors had doubted the existence of demons.

But they had no proof. And while they argued, ships and planes and people continued to vanish on their voyages.

Valentine had a sudden image of a group of medieval theologians, hotly debating the question of how many angels could dance on the point of a pin. Then the vision was shockingly superseded by a phantasm of the grinning presence he’d glimpsed on the wing of the plane.

We didn’t believe in such entities anymore, even though religion still retained them as realities. Strange, wasn’t it? Despite the so-called advances of modern science, those religious beliefs still remain unchanged—beliefs in actual angelic presences and demonic dreads. Yet no man had even seen an angel, and no man had even seen a demon.

Except himself.

Valentine shuddered involuntarily as he sank further down in his seat. His eyes remained closed, but now the inner image rose before them once again—the insane image of the grinning, grotesque apparition astride the outboard engine on the wing, eyes flaming with a fire fueled in hell, its mouth gaping wide to reveal a forklike tongue darting forth from between the yellowed fangs. Now it began to crawl across the surface of the wing, inching its way toward him; then rising, it confronted him just beyond the window. Its clutching claws extended into cruel talons, ready to tear and rend, its fanged mouth opened wider in horrid hunger. In a moment it would spring forward, shattering the glass, its talons impaling him, tusks tearing his living flesh.

It was so close now that he could feel a belching blast of carrion breath, see the corded throat-muscles rise in rhythm with an ear-shattering roar of—

Thunder.

Valentine opened his eyes, realizing the source of the sound he’d heard; realizing too that what he had glimpsed was only the culmination of a nightmare.

But the thunder was real, and so was the throbbing of his heartbeat, half heard above the cabin clatter of the pitching plane.

He raised himself in his seat, turning to stare at the drawn window-blind. It
had
been a nightmare. The blind was closed, there was nothing beyond it; nothing out there at all except the storm. What a dream that had been!

But he was fully awake now, fully aware of his surroundings, and there was nothing to fear. Nothing to fear but fear itself. Nothing outside that window.

He turned away slowly to face the seat back directly before him. Perhaps if he closed his eyes again, sleep would return; a quiet peaceful sleep without dreams.

Valentine tried to lean back, tried to lower his lids again, but his eyes refused to close.

What was the matter with him now? Had he gone so far over the edge that he was even afraid of falling asleep?

That blind—

Valentine took a deep breath. Only one way to put an end to such nonsense. Forcing himself upright, he inhaled deeply once more. Then, leaning forward, he reached out, yanking up the blind.

And there, grinning at him through the window, was the face. The hideous mocking face of his nightmare.

Valentine screamed.

He jerked his head to one side, but not before catching a glimpse of the creature’s upright hand. Clutched in its claws was a metallic object—a tangled cluster of steel fragments that looked as though they’d been torn from the plane’s engine.

Valentine screamed again. As his head swiveled in the direction of the aisle, he saw them running toward him—the junior stewardess, the fat man from the forward seat, the uniformed copilot.

Valentine fragmented his scream into words.

“It’s out there. It’s real!” He began to sob hysterically. “What’s happening to me?”

Then they were upon him, pinning him against his seat. Staring past the circle of troubled faces he caught a glimpse of the little girl standing in the aisle behind them. She was holding something before her face and for an instant her features were obscured by a flash of light. Then Valentine realized what was happening. The little brat had taken his picture!

Impulsively he struggled to rise. Hands darted out from the circle around him, pushing him down. The copilot turned his head, shouting an order that Valentine was unable to hear above the roar of the engine.

Gasping, Valentine managed to free his right arm, but only for a moment. Just long enough to stab his forefinger in the direction of the window.

“There it is!” he shouted. “Look—”

They
were
looking now and as they did so, their expressions changed. Valentine stared up, searching their faces for a reaction he did not find. And when they turned back to him, there was no horror in their eyes; only pity.

Somehow that was even harder for him to bear than horror. Still sobbing, he forced his gaze toward the window. Beyond the rectangular pane there was only darkness.

The face had disappeared.

Crazy. I’m going mad,
he told himself. But they were all crazy, all these nice, normal people who were holding him down as if he were some kind of wild animal, ready to spring at their throats. And as the fat man eased off from his kneeling position on the armrest beside him, Valentine noted something that was crazier still. Just before the bunched-up trouser leg slid back down to cover the man’s bulging calf, Valentine saw that he was wearing a gun strapped to his ankle. Valentine blinked.
What gives here? Don’t tell me I’m hallucinating again.

A moment later the explanation came as the fat man turned to the copilot and pulled a wallet from his jacket pocket. Opening it, he exhibited a badge.

“Sky marshal, eh?” The copilot nodded. “Good thing you’re here.”

Valentine relaxed momentarily. At least the presence of the gun was explained now; its reality assured him he wasn’t
that
crazy.

Now the senior stewardess was coming down the aisle. As she moved toward the group, he noted that she was holding her right hand behind her back. Valentine groaned inwardly. Was she going to feed him more pills?

As she approached, the copilot turned to glance at the passengers clustering concernedly in the aisle behind him. He spoke with quiet authority.

“I want you all to please return to your seats. I’d like a word alone with Mr. Valentine.”

He nodded at the younger stewardess. She moved beyond the range of Valentine’s vision, herding the curious onlookers toward the rear of the plane. But the little girl still stood behind the senior stewardess, and now she stared down at what was concealed behind Miss St. John’s back, her eyes widening.

“Handcuffs!” she exclaimed. “Far out!”

Valentine glanced up in shock as the senior stewardess brought her right hand forward, abandoning any further attempt at concealment. The steel cuffs dangled before him, glittering under the light of the reading lamp, but his eyes never left her face. She reddened before his accusing gaze, her expression conveying a mixture of contrition and concern.

Across the aisle, the fat sky marshal sank into the seat formerly occupied by the little girl. Miraculously, the child’s mother had managed to remain asleep through all the confusion, but now she awoke and stared with blinking eyes at the handcuffs, which the senior stewardess was holding, then at the little girl standing beside her. She nudged the fat man as she spoke. “Don’t tell me they’re going to put those things on my kid! What has she done this time!”

The fat man turned to her and began to whisper an explanation. Then Valentine lost sight of the duo as the copilot reached over him and gently slid the window-blind down.

“Now then,” he said softly. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing at all,” Valentine told him. “I’m sorry I shouted.”

For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether or not the copilot could be trusted with the truth. Then his eyes strayed to the handcuffs, which the senior stewardess held before her, and the answer came quickly. He couldn’t trust them and they certainly weren’t trusting him. No sense trying to tell the truth; obviously they wouldn’t believe him. He’d have to play it their way. “I had a nightmare,” he said.

The copilot nodded. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Valentine. But you’ve got to understand my position. This plane is flying in a severe storm. There’s no immediate danger, but frankly we’ve got our hands full up front as it is. Now I have a passenger acting irrationally, threatening the safety of my aircraft. That leaves me with two choices. If there is no further disturbance, I can ignore the problem. Or else I can ask the sky marshal over there to apply these handcuffs.” He paused, letting the message sink in. “What would you do, Mr. Valentine?”

Valentine hesitated before replying. He scanned the faces before him, reading the question in the copilot’s eyes, the senior stewardess’s concern, the little girl’s gleeful excitement. No, he couldn’t afford to tell the truth—not the whole truth, anyway. But somehow he had to impress them with their peril. Taking a deep breath, he spoke quickly.

“I’ll level with you. Being suspended up here at thirty-five thousand feet in the middle of a storm, with no visible means of support, scares me.” He took another deep breath, then continued. “On the other hand, reason tells me I’m perfectly safe. Under normal circumstances we ought to get through this all in one piece. Trouble is, these circumstances are not normal. You know it and I know it. We’re in trouble. And if we ignore that fact, we’re all going to die—”

“What fact?” The copilot frowned. “What exactly are you saying?”

“There’s something wrong with one of your engines.”

The copilot’s frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“It is not working,” Valentine said.

“Which engine?”

Valentine met his stare. “Outboard number one.”

The copilot and the senior stewardess exchanged troubled glances, and then the uniformed man bent over Valentine, speaking softly. “How could you know that?”

Valentine shrugged. “I just know it,” he said. “Don’t ask me how.”

Now it was the copilot’s turn to take a deep breath. “All right, Mr. Valentine. Maybe you had a hunch, or maybe you just made a lucky guess, but it’s true. Nine minutes ago, engine number one was struck by lightning. There was a flame-out. The point is, we still have three engines functioning perfectly. There’s no reason to alarm the other passengers and no reason to alarm yourself. Take my word for it—we’re perfectly capable of remaining airborne under our present power without any further problems.” He glanced down at his watch. “I estimate we’ll touch down in twenty minutes.”

So that’s that,
Valentine told himself. At least they’d got the message and maybe there’d be no more trouble now; all he could do was hope that the flight crew did their job. If he said any more, it would only make matters worse. He glanced up at the copilot and smiled. “Thanks for the explanation. What you say makes sense, of course, and I promise I won’t trouble you any further.”

As the copilot nodded, the aircraft pitched violently. For a moment Valentine lost his cool. “Go fly the plane!” he cried.

The voice of the old lady rose from the seat behind him. “Good idea! We’ll behave ourselves, won’t we, sonny?”

Once more the copilot glanced at the senior stewardess, then turned and started down the aisle. As he disappeared from view, the senior stewardess leaned forward. “Don’t worry, Mr. Valentine. You heard what he said—we’ll be on the tarmac in twenty minutes.”