by Tim Lebbon
“Set up that fifty-cal!” Packard shouted. Weaver saw a flurry of movement as one of the soldiers set up a machine gun atop the cracked skull of what might once have been a triceratops. Bullets seared the air and ricocheted from rock and bone. Tracer rounds probed the mist for the elusive beast, but during occasional pauses in gunfire they all heard the unmistakeable growls, scampering of feet, and crushing of old bones indicating that the Skull Crawler was still out there.
Now that it knew they were there, it would not be leaving.
Conrad and Weaver rushed for cover against one of the Kong skulls as the .50 opened up. Its heavy, devastating fire punched holes through the smoke and mist, the gunner pausing and turning slightly when another camera flash came from elsewhere.
Marlow ran across the clearing, katana sword held in both hands, and it was as if the Skull Crawler was drawn to him. The mist parted and it darted towards the airman, mouth open and teeth dripping a bloody saliva.
Marlow slashed and dived, twisting out of the beast’s reach and leaping into an ancient, giant ribcage where San and Brooks were also sheltering. As it turned for him again, a burst of gunfire lashed along its ribcage, wounds bursting open and spraying blood. It writhed and twisted, lashing out with its tail and knocking the .50 cal machine-gunner from his perch. Then it went for Marlow once more, giant mouth snapping open and closed, old rib bones shattering—
—and Marlow leapt forward with the sword held high, slamming it down into the monster’s eye.
For a moment the scene froze. Gunfire ceased and faded into echoes, the creature grew still, and the only noise was the sound of broken bone falling around Brooks and San.
Deeper, into its brain! Weaver thought. Marlow caught her eye and she nodded, urging him on.
Then the Skull Crawler opened its real eyes, two feet back along its head from whatever feature Marlow had impaled, and a steady growl rose deep within its throat.
“Gills,” San shouted. “It has gills!”
“Write the paper later!” Brooks said, shoving her from the shattered ribcage and away from the monster. Marlow tugged the sword free and went with them as the Skull Crawler thrashed in pain, its head shoving Marlow along so that he went sprawling, stood, and ran again. Old broken bones flew, and a haze of bone dust rose like slow smoke.
“Come on,” Conrad said to Weaver. “Stay close!” He skirted around the Kong skulls and she followed, keeping the raging beast to their right as they worked their way around to where the soldiers were gathering. The camera flashes had ceased, and she thought of Randa deep in the belly of the beast. Surely he was dead by now? Suffocated, or chewed in half as he went down? She hoped so. To still be alive in there, feeling its stomach acids already eating at his skin, knowing what was to come, would surely be the greatest form of torture.
At least he’d died knowing that he’d been right all along, even if one of his theories had come to swallow him whole.
From her right she heard Packard yelling, “Engage! Engage!” and a flash of boiling heat seared her right arm and leg as a flamethrower spewed fire at the Skull Crawler. It shrieked and jerked away from the flames, and she saw the brief look of triumph on the soldiers’ faces. But then the monster charged through the flames, whipped its tail around, and the stream of fire flipped and roared at the sky as its bearer was pummelled into one of the Kong skulls. The gas canister on his back ruptured and exploded, shattering the skull and sending bone shards whistling through the air like shrapnel.
Weaver dived for cover, landing beside Conrad on a bed of broken bones. Someone screamed. Someone else’s scream was cut off by a gurgling, strangled cry. As Conrad pulled her to her feet, she grabbed her camera and snapped off a few blind shots.
The scene was one of chaos: soldiers ran and fired, but the Skull Crawler appeared unhurt; fires had broken out across the ground and among the skeletons of dead giants. Brooks and San were nowhere to be seen, but Slivko was writhing on the ground with a shard of bone protruding from his torso.
Packard and his men were so focused on battling the beast that they did not see what was happening behind them. The fire from the flamethrower had spread across the half-rotted carcass of some great beast, and out poured a stream of vulture-like birds. They were all talons and fierce beaks, wings beating at the flames, feathered bodies smoking, furious and vicious.
Instead of fleeing the scene of destruction, the birds turned their rage against the soldiers.
“Marlow, your sword!” Conrad shouted. The old airman lobbed his blade, Conrad caught it, and as he lashed out at the attacking bird creatures, Weaver and Marlow followed close behind.
Weaver edged towards Slivko, realising that the bone shard had actually pinned him to the ground. Shouts and shots continued around them, the Skull Crawler somewhere behind.
“Help me!” she shouted, and Marlow was already by her side, holding Slivko’s arms as she readied herself. Conrad continued slashing out at the birds whenever they came near, and feathers and blood spattered all around.
“I got you,” she said to Slivko, grabbing the bone shard, “but this is gonna hurt.”
“It’s mainly my jacket,” he said. “I think it might have—”
She pulled. Slivko screamed. The heavy splinter of bone she tugged out was smeared with blood, but it looked like a flesh wound across his hip. They’d have to patch it later.
“—just nicked me,” Slivko said.
Conrad lowered the bloodied sword and started shooting over Weaver’s head.
Weaver ducked and turned to see the Skull Crawler charging towards them. Bullets rattled into its heavily scaled body, some of them finding home and spouting gouts of blood, others ricocheting from scales with sparking puffs of dust. It went on, intent on adding to its meal with the four people before it.
“Get down!” Conrad shouted, shoving Weaver on top of Slivko and Marlow, pulling his father’s lighter from his pocket, igniting it and throwing it.
Useless, pointless, Weaver thought, fearing that in his final moment Conrad had resorted to foolish defiance in the face of oncoming death.
Then she saw the lighter spinning towards the small vent in the ground just ahead of the sprinting Skull Crawler, and she understood.
She crouched over Slivko and covered both of their heads with her arms, just as the vent’s gas ignited with a ground-shaking, ear-shattering boom. Heat pulsed across the open ground, singeing the hairs on the back of her neck and legs, and the explosion was accompanied by a high, pained shriek that seemed to split the air in two.
Weaver risked a look and saw the Skull Crawler sprawled across the ground less than thirty feet away. The searing burst of flame had caught it across the side like a blowtorch, blazing into its torso and splitting it open. Superheated insides were spilled across the ground, much of the mess cauterised black. It writhed and groaned, head scraping this way and that, claws scratching messages of pain into the dirt. It was almost pathetic, and Weaver felt a moment of sorrow for this dying beast. It was a hunter and killer, and that was all it knew.
Its movements lessened and she stood and started taking pictures again.
“Nice throw,” Weaver said, as she and Conrad helped Slivko to his feet. “Your dad would have been proud.”
The shooting had ceased and a spooky, uneasy silence hung over the scene. The dead Skull Crawler’s fat spat in the flames. Weaver lifted her camera to take some photos, but then she saw the extent of damage the surge of fire had wrought upon the beast. Its gut was wide open, heavy scaled hide ripped and ruptured ribs scorched to blackened spurs. She had no wish to see what might have been revealed inside its stomach.
The recent meals it had eaten.
Turning away, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply to try and swallow down the puke that threatened. She smelled burning meat and death. It was a smell she had always been at home with, but now it seemed harsher than ever before.
“Rally up, we need to keep moving,” Packard said. His remaining soldiers obeyed his orders, k
een to be doing something meaningful rather than simply looking at the results of the recent, shattering battle.
There was no time to dig graves for their comrades. Packard collected the dog tags himself.
Weaver took a moment to look around at the scene of devastation and catch her breath. They were all very lucky to still be alive. Conrad had saved them, and she was pleased to hear a few grateful comments from the Sky Devils. Even Packard gave him a curt nod.
The Skull Crawler would add one more, final skeleton to its own valley of bones.
TWENTY-SIX
Packard had seen two more of his men die, but all for a cause: to kill the thing that had first taken them down. To end King Kong. It was his driving force, the fuel that fed his interior fire, and the stench of more death in his nose did nothing to lessen his determination. He had smelled it many times before. This mission had become personal, and the outside world was now very far away. His war had never ended. It had simply shifted focus.
They climbed out of the valley of bones, and on the slopes they entered the jungle once more. Though his troops were traumatised, they still moved with true professionalism, alert to dangers and covering ground silently. Which was more than could have been said for the others.
He heard Marlow stomping towards him from fifty feet away.
“Look, this is crazy,” the old pilot said, drawing level with Packard. “You may outrank me, Colonel, but I’ve been here a helluva lot longer and I’m telling you that thing that just shredded us was the first. And we’re on their turf now. We need to turn back toot sweet!”
“Not with Chapman stranded out there,” Packard said with true passion. He had almost begun to believe his own lie. “No man left behind.”
“He’s not,” Conrad said. His comment brought the group to a standstill on the wooded slope, sun dappling through the trees, insects buzzing them. The atmosphere was loaded. Packard wondered whether he should have brought the ex-SAS man in on his plans from the beginning. That, or killed him.
“That thing we just killed got him.” Conrad held out a set of dog tags on their chain.
Mills took the tags, looked at them for longer than was necessary. Then he passed them on.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” Packard said. We’re still going to that crash site.”
“What’s at that crash site that you want so badly?” Conrad asked.
“Weapons,” Packard said. “Enough to kill it.”
“Kong didn’t kill Chapman,” Conrad said.
Packard pulled a handful of dog tags from inside his jacket and held them out. “But it did kill these men. My men! All dead!”
“No,” Marlow said, shaking his head. He looked like someone had just threatened to kill his momma. And Packard had almost started to respect him. “No way,” Marlow continued. “You can’t kill Kong. He’s just trying to protect this island from those things.”
“He’s right, Colonel,” Brooks said. “We can’t kill Kong. Those other creatures are the real threat.”
“The Skull Crawlers,” Marlow said.
“Right,” Brooks nodded. “There are more down there. Lots more.”
“And Kong keeps them in check,” San said.
“Take away a species’ natural competition and they’ll proliferate out of control,” Brooks said.
“And they have gills,” San said. “Marlow stabbed that thing there when he thought it was an eye.”
“Is this a goddamn biology lesson?” Packard asked. He was quickly losing his patience, but he had to be seen as in control. Not raging. Not mad.
“It means they could get off the island,” Brooks said.
“Then we’ll end them, too,” Packard said. “All of them. After we bring down that beast you call Kong.”
Marlow unsheathed his katana sword with a whisper of leather on steel, and levelled it at Packard’s face. “I can’t let you do that.”
Packard remained still and silent while his men aimed their guns at Marlow. They did so without fuss, but every single one of them meant it. He knew that each trigger was being squeezed to half of its limit. It would take only a twitch from Marlow for a fusillade of shots to be fired, and he would be torn apart.
“Hold it!” Conrad said. “Hold your fire!”
Packard stared from Marlow to Conrad and back again.
“When I was a kid,” he said, “it was always the ones that shrunk and ran or stared down at their shoes that got it from the older boys. Maybe that’s who you are. Me? I’m the one with a rock in his hand. Ready. And this is one war we will not lose.”
“You’re nuts,” Marlow said. “This is nuts!”
Packard moved quickly, ducking down and swinging his rifle around, pounding Marlow heavily in the ribs. Marlow gasped and buckled in pain, dropping his sword and pressing his hands to his stomach as he tried to catch his breath.
Mills darted in and grabbed the blade.
“Please,” San said, stepping forward towards the gun-wielding soldiers. “You need to listen to us.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Brooks said, supporting his friend and colleague.
“Your lies got my men killed,” Packard said. He clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to lash out at these people, these fools. “You’re the ones who made a mistake. I’m just putting things right.” They’d let their passion for science blind them against harsh realities. That’s why he was here. He was the realist.
“You’ve lost your mind,” Weaver said.
Packard spun and advanced on her, but Conrad had already grabbed her arm, staring at Packard as he said into Weaver’s ear, “Not our fight.”
Packard stopped and stared them down. He knew that Conrad meant business, and if it came down to it, he would offer a hell of a fight. But now was not the time, and that wasn’t what Packard wanted.
What he wanted was still out there somewhere, hiding in one of this damned island’s dark places.
“Whose side are you on?” Packard asked Conrad.
“You’ll find your Sea Stallion up that ridge,” Conrad said, pointing past Packard and neatly avoiding the question. “I’ll lead these civilians back to the boat. We’ll wait for you there.”
Packard couldn’t trust the captain, but he could also see no lie in the man’s eyes. Conrad wanted these civilians safe, and knew that where Packard was going, what he was doing, was far from safe. Besides, it would get the ex-SAS man out of Packard’s hair. That would be a blessing. If they remained together for too long, Packard knew they’d end up fighting for real.
He nodded to Conrad, then turned to his men. “Let’s send it to hell.”
* * *
As the soldiers followed their colonel, Conrad helped Marlow to his feet, handing him the sword that Mills had dropped. Marlow plucked a handful of leaves and cleaned the blade, then sheathed it, holding onto his bruised ribs. He didn’t seem shaken. Conrad wasn’t sure a man like this could be shaken after everything he’d been through. Not by a human, at least.
“We need to stop them,” Marlow said.
“Feel free to try,” Conrad said. “He seemed pretty open-minded and friendly. Or let them go, come with me, and maybe we get off this rock.”
“You told Packard we’d wait at the boat,” Weaver said.
“We do that and none of us gets out of here alive.” The implication was obvious. It wasn’t a decision that Conrad was comfortable with, but it was the only one that made sense.
“You’re sure you can do that?” Weaver asked.
“We really don’t have much choice,” he said. “Packard’s gone all Ahab on us, and I don’t think anything will change his mind. Come on. Let’s move out.”
“But Kong—” Marlow began. Conrad cut him off.
“I think Kong can look after himself.”
Taking a heading and leading the small group back down the valley side and towards the river, Conrad’s doubts began to grow. The giant ape might have spent his life fighting and defeating monsters, and he had the sc
ars to prove that.
He had only just encountered the greatest monster known as Man.
* * *
Packard led, and Mills and the others followed. Mills would have followed his colonel pretty much anywhere, and over the past few years they’d been to hell and back together, several times. Now was the first time he was having doubts.
Packard was as cool and calm under pressure as he’d always been, but there was something about his actions that screamed obsession. Logic and good sense had taken leave. As his unit was slowly being whittled down, it was obvious that Packard needed to restrategise, to take into account the fewer soldiers at his command. So why didn’t he? Whatever drove him also seemed to blind him. Mills was troubled, but for now he kept his concerns to himself.
They moved across the rugged terrain, making their way up towards the ridge line where the Sea Stallion had crashed. The going was difficult but consistent, with the group making headway through dense undergrowth and beneath the shadowy jungle canopy. They remained alert for dangers known and unknown. Recent events had shown them they had to be prepared for anything.
Mills wondered whether any of them were destined to make it home. That idea had crossed his mind many times before, but usually when facing an enemy they all knew and understood, to some extent at least. Contemplating his own death was part of what it meant to be a soldier, but he’d always succeeded in keeping those ideas remote from his actions, not something that might interrupt or distract. This was different. Thinking about their possible annihilation by some unknown creature, in an unknown place, was horrific.
No one would ever find out what had happened to them. In the cruel jungles and fields of Vietnam, at least the news and circumstances of your death would be transmitted home. You died with honour. Here, he might cease to exist without his death impacting the world at all.
They remained quiet, with communications kept to a bare, whispered minimum. When the slope became steeper and they had to use their hands to pull on roots and trailing plants, several men at a time would remain motionless, weapons trained above and below them. Then they changed position, those who had climbed now standing guard while others scrambled up. They made good progress that way, and soon they were nearing the long ridge line.
