Dedicated to all the brave people fighting for the freedom of Ukraine.
This is the realm where death and destruction reign supreme. Where total annihilation of nature caused by the ferocity of man left permanent scars on the face of the planet. The area denoted as “completely devastated, impossible for human life” as a result of the Great War. The Zone Rouge.
Walking through the village of Billy-sous-Mangiennes, located within the Meuse department of northeastern France, Ted Walden thought about what had happened in this peaceful corner of French countryside more than a hundred years ago and why he’d come to visit. Ted was a writer well-known within refined literary circles for his deep knowledge of human nature and realistic, multi-dimensional characters. He was fascinated with the Great War, a convulsion of human civilization, impossible to imagine and hard to comprehend. Yet this was Ted’s intention. He’d come here to write a book about this deadly conflict. Ted wanted to revive heroes and villains of this savage struggle. The ordinary people who used to be peasants, carpenters, fishermen, and cooks before they had marched to the front to kill each other and destroy everything they had labored so hard to create.
Following deserted streets of the tiny village, he passed a gray, one-story building of the City Hall and stopped by a semi-detached house. It looked as old as all the other buildings in this quiet, rural place. He’d rented this sad, gloomy abode for two months from an old French woman, who used to live here but had relocated to Reims two years ago. Unable to sell the property, she offered it for rent to occasional tourists and stray travelers for a token fee. With no one looking after it, the house was in a pitiful state, with a leaking roof, holes peppering wooden floors, and walls barely covered by shabby remains of what used to be beige paint.
While opening the front door, Ted noticed a strange figure. A very old man crossed the street and approached Ted. The man was dressed in all black, his brown face weathered by sun and wind, his hair long and completely white. He looked like a ghost from times immemorial, somehow banished to exist among humans and long forgotten. The left side of his face was damaged by an ugly burn, a glass eye staring nowhere from the maimed socket. Yet, something about the old man was vaguely familiar, something strange and incomprehensible, something that made Ted shiver.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” Ted greeted the man. “My name is Ted Walden. I will be your neighbor for a couple of months. What is your name?”
The man looked at Ted with his eyes hidden underneath the lowered eyebrows and scowled. “Go away. You are not welcome,” he mumbled with a toothless mouth.
“I am sorry. I did not mean to offend you.” Ted stepped away from the bizarre figure. “I am a writer. I am working on a book about the Great War. I want to study the landscape, the people, the monuments and recreate the spirit of the times so people could understand them better.”
“Go away,” the old man said again. “The War killed us all. It will kill you, too.” He turned away and moved slowly down the street. Ted shrugged and stepped into the house.
He could not fall asleep that night. The shapeless face of the old man kept appearing in front of his eyes, distorted and dark, uttering forewarnings and prophesies of impending doom awaiting the writer. Once Ted thought he heard the distant cannonade but then realized it was the sound of the approaching storm. Unable to sleep, he turned on the light by the lone desk and started writing.
In the next several days, Ted visited many local sights and historical landmarks of World War I. His great-grandfather had fought and died somewhere around here after he had volunteered to join the War and help the Allies. Ted saw the former German base’s remains at Camp Marguerre, which had turned into a dwelling for a colony of bats. He also visited La Batterie de Duzey, where he studied what was supposed to be a large German gun used to bombard Verdun fortifications, now replaced with a smaller French cannon for exhibition. He walked through old battlefields, those open to the public, searching for inspiration and the spirit of the monumental strife that uprooted these ancient forests. But all was in vain. He felt like a tourist sightseeing. The landmarks were excellent but not genuine, appearing superficial and cursory.
Notwithstanding the failure to capture the epoch long gone, Ted learned about the prohibited areas where people did not dare to go, where the earth was poisoned and laden with unexploded shells, where death filled the air. A young, talkative woman in Muzeray told him about strange, disfigured animals inhabiting these forbidden regions. Locals did not venture beyond the barbed wire with posted signs “Danger de Mort,” which indicated a threat to life due to munitions still buried in the ground. Once in a while, a stray tourist would find the courage to explore the banned area, only to disappear there. Ted knew about the Zone Rouge, which no one had been allowed to enter for over a century. An artificial desert created by the Great War.
After coming back to his house from Muzeray that day, Ted decided to take the risk. He needed to explore Zone Rouge. He was sure it would provide him the inspiration he was so desperately seeking. The writer slept well that night, not noticing how a shabby old man appeared after dark and sat down on the other side of the street, watching Ted’s house and mumbling something unintelligible.
The following day, Ted went to Longwy to buy a metal detector. The writer knew the places he wanted to visit were dangerous, and he understood what precautions he needed to take. Stepping into the prohibited area beyond the warning signs, he felt raw anticipation and excitement. The old battlefield was still intact, preserving the memory and spirit of the War. The forest was replanted, but the soil was never restored. Ted recalled that tens of millions of shells were fired during the battle of Verdun, and about one in eight did not explode. He strolled carefully through the uneven landscape crisscrossed by what used to be trenches and dugout holes, now woven together by a dense forest of German black pines—a forest of healing and oblivion.
Occasionally, Ted would encounter a concrete fortification sticking out of the grass-covered clearing between the trees. He walked mindfully, taking pictures and videos as he proceeded through this century-old place of deadly conflict. A few times, the metal detector warned him about the potential danger lurking in the soil, and Ted stepped to the side, probing around discreetly.
Coming back to his house, thrilled with the discoveries of the day, Ted planned the next steps. He had to get intimate with the Great War. The visit to the Zone Rouge was a critical first step. Ted imagined being in the trenches with shells exploding around. His hands trembled, he was sweating profusely, his breath was fast and uneven. But Ted yearned for more. He needed to visit La Place à Gaz, the part of the Zone Rouge where the vegetation never grew back, a black patch on the face of the earth, where only death remains. In 1928, an enormous stockpile of chemical weapons left after the War was buried in trenches and set on fire there: phosgene, chlorine, mustard gas, tear gas, and anything else humans had invented by that time to torture, incapacitate, and destroy each other with the use of chemicals. “The place of gas.” The terminal, toxic, grisly wound that would never heal.
Entering Billy-sous-Mangiennes in the evening, Ted noticed a lonely boy on a bicycle and wondered what the kid was doing there alone at such a late hour. The boy spotted Ted, turned his bike, and quickly caught up with him.
“Hello, mister,” the boy said in English.
“Hello, what is your name? How do you know I am not French?”
“It does not matter.” The boy was dressed in black shorts and a white t-shirt, a normal kid enjoying riding his bike. “I need to warn you, mister.”
“Warn me? Of what? You don’t even know me. I, for sure, don’t know you.” Ted’s eyebrows rose up as he spoke.
“Do not go there, mister. That place is not for the living. The forest has reclaimed it.”
“What are you talking about? Go where? What forest? Why is it not for the living?”
“You know well what I mean. The forest of oblivion. Do not go there, mister.” The boy turned his bike around and started moving away from Ted.
“Wait! How do you know? Who are you?” Ted yelled, running after the kid, but was unable to catch up.
“This is the last warning, mister. Go back where you came from.” The boy turned the bicycle at the corner of the building and disappeared from Ted’s view.
Losing track of the weird kid, Ted stopped running and scratched his head. Another bizarre accident was unable to diminish his determination. Ted reasoned the locals did not like strangers, were tired of tourists, and attempted to scare him off. But he knew why he’d come to this place. The course was set. He would name his new book The Zone Rouge. Ted Walden’s masterpiece.
The next morning, equipped with the metal detector and daily supply of food and water, he set off to find La Place à Gaz. It was supposed to be only a few miles away from the village, inside the Spincourt forest. Ted had uploaded the local maps into his smartphone and did not expect many difficulties along the way. Advancing through the thickets, he observed a familiar scenery of mutilated earth covered with a veil of greenery and trees. Finally, guided by the smartphone, Ted arrived at the clearing in the woods. He would have called it a lawn if it weren’t colored gray and, from afar, appeared devoid of any signs of life. Ted noticed a barrier ahead, having some semblance of a fence winded around with razor wire. It was relatively easy to circumvent, especially for someone wielding a metal detector. Coming closer to the dark patch, Ted realized his first impression was wrong. He knew the soil was poisoned with heavy metals, and nothing was supposed to grow here. The concentration of arsenic had been found to be tens of thousands of times higher than in typical soils. Yet, to his utmost surprise, he observed plants growing out of the venom: velvet grass, moss, bizarre bright-green, goblet-shaped offshoots, and fern-like silver-gray plants, which looked like alien metal structures sticking out of the barren ash. Making a mental note, Ted decided to come back the next day and pick some of these plants for further laboratory analysis. He was intrigued and thrilled with his findings.
Suddenly, Ted heard a noise as if someone broke a twig in the bushes behind him. He turned around but did not see anyone. Yet, he had a strange feeling someone was watching him. Ted felt very uncomfortable and exposed. He decided to retreat and return the next day. Ted started walking back, very slowly, with a lot of caution, attempting to retrace his steps. A little later, he heard the noise again and registered a shadow of a large animal wading through the thickets. Ted thought he had probably scared a deer. He gave the animal enough time to run away before continuing on his return journey. But then, suddenly, the animal jumped out of the bushes, crossed his path, and disappeared into the forest on the other side of the clearing. It was a horse—a large, graceful, brown horse with white mane, white nose, and white spots covering her sides. Ted was perplexed with this encounter. He wondered why anyone would let a horse roam free in a place where buried munitions could blow it up at any moment. He shook his head and continued on his path. It was not his business.
When he was about to cross the fence covered by razor wire, a few steps later, Ted thought he heard German speech in the underbrush. Reasoning this must be a group of adventurous tourists, he called to them but received no answer. Mindful of potential dangers on the trail, he decided not to pay too much attention to the distractions. The risks were too high.
The next morning Ted was eager with anticipation to come back to La Place à Gaz. This time, however, he was armed with a 9 mm Smith & Wesson, just as a precaution in case some large wild animal would attack him. Ted was certain his strange encounters in the village and the forest were due to locals trying to scare him away. He chuckled as he put his gun in a holster. Ted Walden would not be frightened so easily.
Following a familiar route, Ted was about halfway to his destination when he stumbled upon a corpse of a horse. Not a complete horse, though. The front half of it laid in front of him, covered with blood and intestines as if the animal had been torn apart by the explosion. He realized it was the same horse he had met the day before. The poor creature had probably stepped onto an unexploded shell in the ground. Ted frowned and kept moving on until he reached the fence surrounding the prohibited land of La Place à Gaz. This time he was not so fortunate. While trying to find the way around the razor wire, Ted tripped and fell on the other side of the fence, inside the forbidden zone, hitting his head with a stone covered by gray ash. After Ted had regained his consciousness, he realized he fell into a cavity in the ground, probably a remnant of a wartime trench. Ted tried to get back on his feet and, to his bewilderment, overheard German speech in the bushes to the right. He cried for help, but there was no response. Finally, Ted was able to get on his knees but was immediately forced to fall on his stomach as the shots of a distant machine-gun reverberated through a tranquil forest. Ted had no idea what was going on. Carefully, he reached out for his gun and peeked out of the trench. Flabbergasted, he stared at the black earth, dead trees, and clouds of smoke where just a few minutes ago there had been a beautiful landscape of lush greenery and deep blue sky. The next moment the shock wave of the explosion rolled through the trench, deafening and throwing Ted back on the ground. When he opened his eyes and looked around, he saw several people dressed in uniforms, screaming something in German, running in between the dead trees.
Rubbing his eyes, Ted tried to rationalize what was happening to him. Most likely, this was all a result of his fall. He had hit his head and suffered from a concussion, resulting in hallucinations and loss of conscience. He should get back to his senses very soon. Then Ted heard someone calling his name. He looked up and recognized the old man he had encountered upon the arrival to the village. Only the old man was not old anymore. His features had changed as if he had gotten decades younger. The man was wearing a blue French uniform from the times of World War I. When he turned his head and looked Ted in the eye, the writer, horrified and shocked, realized there was no skin or muscle on the left side of the man’s face. Instead, his skull was covered with patches of green moss through which silver-gray fern sprouted.
“Ted Walden, you ignored the warning. The forest has claimed you. You are with us now.”
The man started laughing with the unnatural laughter of a madman, still looking at Ted.
“What forest? Who are you?” Ted whispered.
“The forest of oblivion,” the man said and plucked fern’s leaf from his cheek. Then he detached something from his belt, threw it to Ted, and walked away, singing, “Over there, the Yanks are coming.”
Ted looked at the object in his hand and recognized a type of dog tag, an identification label worn by the military personnel during the Great War. “John Walden,” he read the name on the tag. His great-grandfather. It was impossible, baffling, and dreadful. Then the realization came. It was not the locals who tried to scare him off, and it was not a concussion. It was reality. The reality of the Great War he was so eager to experience. The payback. The forest of oblivion reclaiming what the insane humanity had devastated. And he had to pay his price, too.
Panicking, Ted gazed out of his cover and saw groups of German soldiers running away from the cloud of gas, slowly crawling from behind. He tried to stand up and run, but his legs did not obey him. By the time he had gotten out of the trench, it was too late. The cloud engulfed him. In vain, Ted cried for help. Convulsing in agony, he lost first his sight then his breath. Finally, in the last glimpse of consciousness, Ted remembered the words of his ancestor: “the War killed us all. It will kill you, too.” The prophecy came true as the writer vanished into the forest of oblivion. The Zone Rouge.
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