by Tim Lebbon
Contents
Cover
Also Available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Epilogue
About the Author
Also Available from Titan Books
Also available from Titan Books
The Art and Making of Kong: Skull Island
Kong: Skull Island – The Official Movie Novelization
Print edition ISBN: 9781785651380
E-book edition ISBN: 9781785651397
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: February 2017
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2017 Legendary
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
PROLOGUE
This time, Marlow knew that he was going to die. It wasn’t the first time he’d jumped out of a doomed aircraft. Indeed, this was his third time, and if it wasn’t for the fact that he was his squadron’s ace pilot, he might consider himself cursed. He accepted that always seeking the heart of the action meant that being the enemy’s main target was inevitable.
But this was the first time he’d abandoned a plane without being in control.
He fell. His descent was no graceful drift towards the ground, nursed through the air by the comforting spread of a parachute. He was plummeting. Punched from the shattered cockpit of his P-51, he’d been forced back into the plane’s holed and tattered tail, his left arm and shoulder bruised and numbed by the impact. Now he could hardly feel them at all. He’d succeeded in opening his chute but he was spinning, lines caught around his flailing limbs, air roaring past his ears, breath sucked from his lungs. At this speed the impact would kill him, if suffocation and fear didn’t finish him beforehand.
His view was disjointed, images flashing past so that his panicked mind took a while to catch up and make any sense of things:
His damaged and smoking aircraft, gliding down and away from him in a large, lazy circle towards the land mass looming far below.
The island, remote and distant whilst he’d been engaged in the dogfight, now rapidly approaching and growing to fill his vision.
And half a mile away, the second parachute.
At least I got the bastard, he thought. I’m going down, but so is he.
Marlow took some small comfort in that news. This was the seventeenth Zero he’d shot down during his time in the Pacific theatre of war. His mother used to joke that number was unlucky for her, because she was that age when she met, fell in love with, and got pregnant by Marlow’s father. Turned out that number really was unlucky for him.
Struggling to take control of the parachute lines, he experienced a brief, almost startling moment of peace and clarity that shocked him into immobility. The scream of air rushing past his ears faded away, as did the spinning view of sky and island, sea and falling aircraft. He closed his eyes and saw his beautiful wife and the baby son he had never met. Saw them, loved them, knew them.
When he opened his eyes again the parachute gave a single hard jolt against his back and shoulders, then he was drifting rather than falling. He looked up at the opened canopy and grabbed the lines, experimentally tugging on the left and right.
Whatever he’d done, it seemed to have worked.
“Today’s not the day!” he shouted. Though the relief was almost overwhelming, he couldn’t spend any time celebrating the fact that his demise no longer seemed imminent.
If he didn’t do everything right over the next few minutes, falling to his death might have been the kindest end.
Looking down, he was shocked at how close he was to the island. He could only make out a portion of it through a heavy tropical haze. The gentle curve of a wide beach might have looked inviting if it weren’t for the dense, intimidating jungle that began close to the shoreline and extended as far as he could see inland. He could discern hints of a dramatic landscape—peaks and ravines, spurs of rock crowned with trees, dark shadows where valleys might hide anything from view.
The sea beneath him was a deep azure, its beauty almost hypnotic as its colours darkened and lightened again with each surging wave. A larger shadow seemed to pass along close to the beach, moving against the flow of water. Cast by a cloud high above, perhaps. A shoal of fish. As he saw what might have been the wave of a huge fin he tried to steady himself, look closer—
Something roared from off to his right, a huge, screaming rumble that seemed to shake the air and ripple his parachute. He twisted to look, and saw the blooming flower of fire rising from the Zero where it had crashed down onto the beach. Ammunition sparked and fired arcing tracers of flame through the air. The crashing aircraft had taken out a few trees, and big palm leaves burned as they feathered down through the flames. Smoke boiled skyward.
There was no sign of the Japanese pilot, nor his parachute.
Marlow prepared for landing. He was going to hit in the surf, just where the sea washed onto the beach, and though chance had carried him that way, he couldn’t have planned it better. He hoped the sand would be softest there, and perhaps an incoming wave would also dampen the impact.
The shadow in the sea had vanished.
He bent his knees slightly, ready to perform a textbook parachute roll. If he did everything that he’d learned in training, he’d be up on his feet again within ten seconds, and ready to fight once more.
As he struck and his right foot sank into the sand, pitching him hard onto his side, and the parachute lines jerked his bruised left arm painfully upward, he heard and felt the massive impact of his own aircraft smashing down somewhere close behind him.
He waited for the surge of flaming fuel to wash over him, the flames searing away flight suit, skin, and flesh. Marlow had always sworn to himself that he’d never go out like that. He’d rather fall to his death or eat a bullet than let fire boil him away. He’d had too many friends die that way.
For a second as the wave struck him, he felt his skin blistering and boiling. Then water rushed into his mouth and he was rolling, up and down, left and right, becoming confused as the parachute lines became even more tangled around him.
The wave receded. Gasping, squinting into sudden glaring sunlight, he looked around to try and make sense of what had happened.
The P-51 had buried its nose into
the sea two hundred feet from shore. Waves smashed against the aircraft, and steam billowed from places where fire might have taken hold. At least there was no explosion. Not yet.
To his right and further along the beach, the Zero burned.
Good. Hope the bastard parachuted into his own burning—
Then Marlow saw a shape beyond the burning enemy plane. Distorted by the heat and smoke, the running Japanese pilot quickly passed his downed aircraft and sprinted into view. He was screaming in fury. His katana sword swung on his belt.
Marlow struggled to release himself from the tangled chute lines, paused, changed his mind. There was no time. If he thrashed around he’d only get more tangled, then the bastard would have him pinned down, ready to cut his head off with one swipe of that blade.
He pulled his service revolver instead and knelt up, heaving against the weight of water dragging the parachute down. Aiming, he fired off six shots, certain that at least one would hit his enemy.
The Japanese pilot stopped fifty feet away, both hands pressed to his chest.
Marlow felt a cold sickness crawling in his stomach. He’d killed men before, shooting down planes and watching them spiral, crash, and burn. But he had never killed a man face to face.
The enemy pilot looked up at Marlow… and screamed, louder and more furious than before, as he started running again.
Missed! How the hell did I?
Marlow unclipped and hauled himself out of his harness just as his enemy began to shoot back. Out of bullets and with no time to reload, he ran for the trees. Bullets zipped past him like angry wasps. At any moment he expected to feel the sting.
Nothing.
The sudden change from sun-baked beach to shadowy, still jungle was jarring, but Marlow knew he could not pause for an instant. He recognised the wild beauty of the place, and knew also that it would be a deadly environment if he didn’t keep his wits about him. One clumsy step could send him sprawling. A move in the wrong direction might bring him face to face with a sheer rock wall, or a chasm that could not be crossed.
With his enemy close on his tail, any halt in his headlong advance would be the end of him. He was under no illusion that this was kill or be killed. They might both be marooned here, but they were still at war, and their blood was up. Their aerial combat had taken barely five minutes, but now their ongoing battle might last a lot longer.
He had to reach a place he could use. Somewhere he could hide, perhaps, and let the Jap pass him by. Then he could take time to reload his own weapon. Pursue. Stalk.
Either that, or he had to outrun him.
The ground beneath his feet soon started to climb. That slowed him down, but it would slow his pursuer, too. He shoved palm leaves aside as he ran, dodging hanging vines, pushing through dense ground foliage and hoping he didn’t step on a snake or feel the furry touch of a spider dropping onto the back of his neck. He’d never been anywhere like this, though they’d had basic training on board their aircraft carrier. He knew the dangers such an island could throw at him—dangerous animals, poisonous plants, disease-laden water. One mad Japanese pilot.
Another gunshot, and a bullet smacked into a tree several feet to his left. Marlow ducked right and forged ahead, arms sweeping plants aside as if he were swimming his way inland. That was too close for comfort. There was no time for caution. Whatever dangers might lay ahead were nothing compared to the one chasing him down.
The ground rose steeper and he dropped to his hands and knees, hauling on vines to pull himself upward. He couldn’t see very far ahead through the dense undergrowth, and he hoped that the slope did not become too severe. Crawling across a cliff-face would make him a sitting duck.
From behind him he heard a triumphant shout.
Marlow paused and turned, looking back and down at the Japanese pilot twenty feet below, aiming his gun. His flight suit was torn and scorched across one shoulder, his hair singed on that side of his head. His face was lacerated in a fine web pattern from broken glass. He was a vision from hell, and a demon intent on killing him.
His enemy grinned as he pulled the trigger.
The grin fell as the gun clicked on empty.
Marlow uttered a hard, sharp bark of laughter, then started to climb again. He heard his enemy following, and he knew that he had to get to level ground. There, they could face each other and fight. He looked more wounded than Marlow, and he’d take advantage of that.
The slope continued for some time. Marlow soon became tired, the humidity and still air drawing the energy and strength from him. He cast frequent glances behind at the pursuing man, and could not help but be impressed at his tenacity.
Impressed, and scared.
The slope grew even steeper, and the trees and shrubs seemed more tangled and intertwined than ever. Huge leaves held deeply shadowed areas where anything might be hiding, ready to leap out and bite, sting, or assault him.
As quickly as it had begun, the steep slope ended on a clear ridge. Marlow rolled onto his back and stood, sweating heavily and exhausted. He looked around for something to fling down at his climbing enemy—a rock, a log, anything that might dislodge him or injure him enough to make him vulnerable. But the Japanese pilot was closer than he had believed.
He saw his sword first, the blade rising above the ledge and catching the blazing sun.
Marlow turned to run, sprinted ten paces, then skidded to a halt just in time. The drop on the other side of the ridge fell away into deep, impenetrable shadow. He could have made his way along the ridge, but the going was marred with sharp rocks, and dangerous falls to either side.
Here was where he would have to make his stand.
Hearing footsteps behind him he quickly turned, left arm held up to deflect the swishing sword. The blade never met flesh. He stepped in close and punched with his right fist, connecting with his enemy’s throat. The man croaked and dropped the sword. It struck the rocky ground and bounced.
As the pilot glanced to the left after his fallen blade, Marlow kicked his left knee, hard. He screamed, fell, and Marlow dropped on top of him.
The impact shook the ground.
He punched again, again, and each time his fist connected with the man’s cheek or jaw, the ground seemed to shake.
Weird… Marlow thought, but he had no time to wonder.
The pilot bucked beneath him, and Marlow heard the clean shush of a knife being drawn. He rolled aside and went to stand, but only managed to rise to his knees before the man came at him, blade in his right hand, blood smearing his face red.
Marlow caught his wrist as the knife swung around towards his neck. The men struggled, a match of strength, face to face and close enough to smell each other’s breath. Marlow stared into the man’s eyes and saw something of himself in there.
For the shortest moment, both men felt the force of hate between them diminish.
A huge impact punched up through the ground into Marlow’s knees, knocking him onto his side. Winded, he rose to his hands and knees, gasping as he struggled to draw in breath.
Struggled, too, to make out what had happened. Something had landed on the ridge with them. A huge object. A dark black boulder bristling with a mat of… something. Black cacti, perhaps. Thick, spiked, the stuff seemed to twitch and wave as the heavy thing it grew upon suddenly flexed and spread across the rocky ridge.
Another massive crash knocked Marlow onto his back, as another object landed thirty feet in the other direction.
Something rose from the dark valley beyond the ridge. Earthquake! he thought. Volcano! The steadily growing roaring sound could have been either. But this was no trauma of the earth. It was something else entirely.
The dark shape climbed higher and higher, the things that were its hands crushing rocks and changing the shape of the ridge as they applied pressure to lift the being even higher before them. It blotted out the sun, and in its shadow Marlow and the Japanese man were lessened. Its mere presence made a folly of whatever they were fighting for.
<
br /> The roar settled into a grumble vibrating through the ground.
It was only when Marlow saw the two huge, impossible eyes regarding him that he began to comprehend. But comprehension did not bring understanding.
Marlow and his enemy waited for whatever would come next.
ONE
“The world’s gone batshit crazy, and it’s drooling on our doorstep.” Bill Randa looked from the car window as Brooks drove, and if he closed his eyes and opened them again quickly, he might imagine that he was somewhere far different from the America he knew and loved. These weren’t the streets he was used to, or the ones he wished to see. These weren’t the times he had dreamed of when he was a kid.
“You should be more positive,” Brooks said from the driver’s seat. “Positivity’s good for your health.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Sure.”
“Stay positive when you’re stuck in that.” He pointed along the road at a gas station ahead. A snaking line of cars was queued by the roadside, parked along the hard shoulder at least four hundred yards from the station. Several police cars were parked beside the line, and the cops were out of their vehicles, each of them confronted by drivers. Some were tired and bored, sitting on their bonnets and shielding their eyes from the sun. A few were angry. Arms waved, the officers remonstrated, and Randa imagined shouting and swearing beneath the steady rumble of traffic.
As they passed the forecourt, he saw just how chaotic it was. Only one pump seemed to be working, but after queuing along the road for so long, it seemed that any concept of waiting ended once entering the gas station proper. Randa was glad he wasn’t involved. His organisation had access to government fuel supplies, and though that sometimes gave him a pang of guilt, he was also relieved.
“People are upset,” he said. “Who can blame them? It’s a sign of the times. And talking of which…” He pointed to the left as they passed a series of apartment buildings. More than one of them had banners slung from balconies, most of them reading PEACE NOW! or similar exhortations. “Vietnam, Watergate, riots in the streets. Cities burning. It’s like the end of times.”
