by Tim Lebbon
It slashed the monster and flung it sideways across the marsh, smashing into the rock pile Weaver had just left. Its tail flipped around, and Conrad’s breath caught in his throat as he saw Weaver struck and sent spinning fifty feet into the sea.
Her body struck the waves and went under.
“No!” he shouted as the same wave knocked him down. There was nothing he could do. He was too far away, and he couldn’t tell whether anyone on the boat had seen what was happening.
Finding his feet, Conrad started making his way back towards the shore. She would drown before he got there. That, or some unseen beast would rise from the depths and take her away beneath the waves.
All he could do was try.
Kong had also noticed, and Conrad was shocked by the change in the giant ape. His fury seemed to seep away in a flash, and he took a first huge step towards where Weaver had disappeared beneath the surface. He remembered standing atop that ridge and Kong appearing before them from down in the valley, Weaver reaching out and touching his face, and even then thinking that some sort of contact had been made. That connection seemed even more obvious now.
With Kong’s attention distracted, the Skull Devil grabbed the advantage. Ignoring its terrible wounds, it pulled itself upright and charged the ape.
Conrad looked across at the boat, bobbing now closer to shore, and the men trying to fix the machine-gun on its deck. While Marlow struggled to fit a new ammo belt, Reles snatched up a big hammer and gave the gun two heavy whacks that echoed across the marsh.
They paused, then Reles opened fire once again.
The rounds slammed into the charging Skull Devil, driving it back and down. Wounds upon wounds, it seemed at last that the gunfire was having an effect. The monster writhed in the marshy ground, struggling to turn away from the volley of gunfire but succeeding only in presenting its other flank. Reles was a good shot, and very few bullets missed. Conrad could sense that much as the Skull Devil wanted to flee this stinging fusillade, the fight with Kong was a greater draw.
Meanwhile, Kong had taken full advantage of the Skull Devil being incapacitated. With two huge bounds he was at the water’s edge, bending down, reaching into the sea.
Conrad could only stand and watch; amazed and terrified.
The gunfire ceased. Marlow was at the helm now, swinging the boat around and heading back to shore close to where Conrad stood. He was up to his thighs in stinking marshy water, and if the Skull Devil had come for him then he’d have been trapped and helpless.
But he still couldn’t bring himself to move.
Kong brought his hand out of the sea, fist closed. He stood to his full height and opened his fist, staring down into his hand at whatever he held there.
Weaver, Conrad thought. Please let that be Weaver.
And please don’t let him eat her.
The ape seemed mesmerised by the shape in his palm. He was so tall that Conrad couldn’t make out Weaver, but he did see slight movement—an arm raised, perhaps, and the swing of wet hair as she rolled onto her side. Kong brought his hand closer to his face, and it was as if the rest of the world no longer mattered.
That was when the rest of the world bit back.
The Skull Devil charged, screeching and vicious, shedding blood from its countless bullet wounds yet appearing strengthened by them, not weakened. Pain drove it on. Fury gave it an edge.
Kong closed his fist protectively around Weaver and braced himself. Then he ran towards his approaching enemy.
Just before they met, the Skull Devil reared up ready to bite, its long, wicked tail whipping around to slash at the great ape.
Kong had other plans. He brought his heavy fisted hand up and around and slammed it straight into the monster’s mouth. He swung his shoulder, using all his immense weight to shove his fist deep into the creature’s gullet, deeper, further, until his arm was buried in the Skull Devil’s innards right up to his massive bicep.
Kong roared as he withdrew his arm and fisted hand, the beast’s teeth scoring deep lines in his fur.
The Skull Devil swayed on its feet, blood pouring from its open mouth. Then its eyes dimmed and it dropped into the marsh, one last, heavy rattling breath leaving it before its flexing torso grew forever still.
The silence was startling. Kong stood still for a moment, breathing heavily as he stared down at his vanquished enemy. He shoved the carcass with one foot, and again, testing to see whether the monster was feigning.
The Skull Devil was dead.
Kong’s shoulders drooped a little as he stepped over the huge corpse and approached Conrad.
Conrad had to force himself not to step backwards. It would have done no good, but instinct urged him back, the same instinct that would have brought his arms in front of his face if a building were falling upon him. From the corner of his eye he saw the boat bobbing less than fifty feet away, and he was aware of the survivors watching Kong, and him.
He didn’t look. He could not tear his eyes away from the massive beast now standing close to him.
Kong dropped to his knees with a booming splash, sending tremors across the marsh. He placed his blood-soaked fist on the ground, and uncurled his fingers to reveal Weaver lying there, safe and awake in his palm. His fur was caked in blood and gunge from the dead Skull Devil’s insides. His hide was ripped and bleeding, and blood dripped and washed around Weaver. But she appeared untouched. He tilted his fist and she slid to the ground, grunting as she landed and sitting up. She was soaked to the skin, trembling from her cold dip in the sea, but she did not appear scared. She left her hand on Kong’s. As he went to stand and pull away, Weaver held on. Only briefly.
Kong stood. They were in his shadow, perhaps forever. He stared down at them, and they looked up at him, locking gazes for a moment that might have been the longest of Conrad’s life. Then he turned, swaying slightly, and started walking away. He was limping. His vast body was covered in open wounds, and there were also older scars there, marks where the fur had not grown back that illustrated older, more mysterious battles. Conrad wondered at what these battles might have been, and whether the dead beast now sinking into the swamp was responsible for some of those wounds.
None of them had any idea how old Kong might be, or what ancient combats he might have fought. His was a history that remained shrouded in the mists of time, and Conrad believed that was as it should be, just as with any god, or any legendary king.
Conrad ran over to Weaver and grabbed her hand, helping her to her feet. Neither of them spoke. There were no words.
They watched Kong splashing across the marsh and then approaching the tree line. Weaver pulled away and grabbed at her camera bag, drawing a camera out and checking it, wiping the lens, aiming it at Kong.
He paused close to the trees and turned back, looking at them one more time.
What’s he thinking? Conrad wondered. Is he as amazed at us as we are at him? He doubted that. He thought perhaps King Kong was the most amazing creature on their planet, known or still hidden away.
Weaver lowered her camera without taking a shot.
“No Pulitzer?” Conrad asked.
“Maybe some things are better left as myth,” she said, echoing his thoughts. Her voice sounded shaky. He took her hand again and squeezed, and they both took comfort from the contact.
They watched Kong as he walked into the jungle, trees shaking at his passage and then closing behind him. They could make out his route for a while, and then all grew quiet. Even then they continued watching. To move would be to move on. Despite all the horrors, neither of them wanted wonder to leave them behind.
THIRTY
Later, they finally left the river estuary and headed out into the open ocean. The boat was hardly seaworthy, but it held together reasonably well. They took turns operating the manual pump, and Marlow stood proudly at the helm. Weaver thought he looked like someone going somewhere special, as well as leaving something behind. He’d be forever existing in two worlds. Perhaps they all wou
ld.
Weaver sat alone on deck, looking ahead but thinking back to those moments when she’d believed she was going to die. The Skull Devil’s tail had sideswiped her and sent her spinning through the air, consciousness wavering from the impact. If she’d landed on land she would have died, and even landing in the sea had felt like hitting solid ground.
A heavy impact, the breath knocked from her, and the gagging, cloying taste of sea water filling her mouth and rushing down her throat.
From there, it felt like a dream. She was sinking, darkness closing around her as shadowy shapes wavered at the edges of her perception. Perhaps they had been long sea weeds, or maybe the eager, welcoming embrace of a creature on the seabed waiting for this imminent taste of something new.
Then darkness closed around her and pulled her up and out of the water. She hardly remembered any of what followed. From what Conrad had told her, she was glad. It was the sunlight that welcomed her in again, as Kong’s hand opened to reveal Conrad standing twenty feet away, the blue sky above him, Kong’s warm, protective hand beneath her.
She hadn’t wanted him to let her go. She’d held on. But Kong had known the truth—they were from two different worlds, and even though he’d saved her, they belonged far apart.
Sailing away from the island, she realised the deep truth of that. It was difficult leaving something so amazing behind.
She looked around at the other survivors—San, Brooks, Mills, Slivko, Reles—and saw the same look in their eyes. They had all been offered a glimpse at something remarkable. Through the horrors they had witnessed, despite the death that had circled them and taken many of their friends, they all understood how privileged they were.
At the helm, Marlow was holding the tattered photo of his wife. Conrad rested a hand on his shoulder. Two good men, and as Weaver raised her camera and framed a shot, Conrad looked down at her.
“What do you see?” he asked.
“A face tells a story,” she said.
He smiled. “So, did you get the shot? The one that’s going to change the world?”
“One image of Kong and this place would be overrun by government and soldiers. This world, this one here, doesn’t need changing. The one out there is another story.”
“Word will get out,” Conrad said, quieter, looking around at the other survivors. “It always does.”
“Not from me,” Weaver said.
Ahead of them the storm loomed, surrounding the island and all but hiding it from the outside world. They were heading for a break in the storm, and she knew that there were rough seas ahead. She also knew that they would make it through. They had all come too far, and seen too much, for the sea to take them now.
While Marlow braced himself at the helm and prepared to ride the first of the waves, Weaver put her hand in her camera bag and felt the film cartridges. They were all ruined, damaged by sea water despite their packaging. She wasn’t even sure why she was keeping them. At any other time the loss would have devastated her, but not now. Now, she didn’t mind. She’d already decided that the ring of storms they were approaching was there for a purpose.
Skull Island was a wild place set apart from the rest of the world. It and its inhabitants, both human and inhuman, deserved to be left alone.
Weaver would not be the person to break its secret.
EPILOGUE
Conrad was so exhausted that his eyes felt heavy and his limbs were not his own. All he wanted to do was sleep. The powers that be, however, seemed to have other plans for him.
Even before arriving back at port, he and Weaver had been helicoptered off and whisked to a private facility for debriefing. The others had been taken on different helicopters, and he assumed that they were also here somewhere. Probably in very similar rooms, having answered identical questions. He wasn’t fazed. He understood what was going on because he’d been in similar situations so many times before.
But he was pissed off. They hadn’t even been given clean clothes. Coffee, yes, and food. While his stomach was comfortably heavy, the coffee he kept topping up was the only thing keeping him awake. He stank. Weaver stank, too. They’d gone beyond joking about it.
They both carried wounds that had been tended and dressed. The deeper scars would be kept for themselves. Maybe they’d even help each other tend them. He hoped so, and he thought Weaver hoped so too, but recent events made such considerations seem petty. After what they’d been through together, going out for a drink seemed so… mannered.
“Why are you still keeping us here?” he asked the one-way mirror. He suspected there were at least a couple of guys and a camera behind there, recording every sigh, every nod of the head, and every look he and Weaver shared.
“We’ve told you everything we know,” Weaver said. She didn’t sound as tired as she looked. “We want to go home. We want to…” She sniffed her shirt. “…change.”
“We get the point,” Conrad said. “We really do. We never went to any island.”
“What island?” Brooks asked. He and San had entered the room behind them, and Conrad was angry at himself for not hearing, but only for a second. He was too tired to be really angry, and he’d allowed himself to relax too much to care.
At least Brooks and San had been given the opportunity to get cleaned up. Showered, dressed in civilian clothing, they still carried bruises and abrasions from their expedition. Deeper in their eyes, Conrad saw marks that would not be so easily washed away.
“Sorry for the cloak-and-dagger stuff,” Brooks said. “Bigger budgets mean more fingers in the pie. You know how it is.”
Conrad only shrugged.
“Welcome to Monarch, by the way,” Brooks said.
“Little drab,” Weaver said looking around. “Might need someone to come in and decorate, brighten the place up.”
“So come work here and hire one,” Brooks said.
“You’re doing the hiring now?” Conrad asked.
“Randa might be gone, but we’re continuing his work.”
“We know you’re tired,” San said. “We know you’ve been debriefed. But if Brooks and I can have one last moment of your time?”
Conrad and Weaver exchanged a glance. He saw her concern as well, and he marvelled yet again at how attuned they were. Perhaps that drink wouldn’t be so petty. Maybe it would lead on to greater things.
“Good news never follows that sentence,” Conrad said. “So what have you got?”
San dropped a folder on the table and slid it to them, still closed. It was marked with the Monarch logo—two triangles with their points touching.
Conrad flipped open the cover and saw the first of many pages of text, communication extracts, poor photographs, and other information. He feared that they hadn’t come as far from that island as he’d believed, and he remembered the stink of the marsh, the alien regard of the Skull Devil’s eyes.
“Skull Island is only the beginning,” Brooks said.
“There’s more out there,” San said.
“What do you mean, ‘more’?” Conrad slid the folder across to Weaver, but to begin with she didn’t seem eager to look at it. She realised as well as him that to do so would be to change their lives.
“This world never belonged to us,” San said.
Brooks flicked on a projector. “The only question is, how long until they try to take it back.”
He began to cast images onto the plain painted wall. They were of ancient cave paintings, eroded sculptures, timeworn hieroglyphs showing fantastic and terrifying creatures of all shapes and sizes. Some of them were recognisable—he saw a Kong-like figure battling a giant winged beast. Others were more mysterious. A huge lizard on its hind legs, at war with a giant dragonfly. A hammer-headed beast in combat with a many-tailed, skeletal bird.
More. Much more, all of it terrible.
Conrad gasped. Weaver went to say something, but her voice broke. There really was nothing to say.
All they could do was look, and let the fear settle around them.
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* * *
Several days passed before they set him free. To some he was a hero, an amazing survivor from a war that was already fading into history. They even talked about arranging for him to meet the president one day soon. To others he was a celebrity. His story had leaked out, and there was talk of book deals, the offer of a movie of his life, and more.
He had only told them a small part of his story. When they probed, he feigned forgetfulness, giving them bizarre and surreal tales that eventually forced them to accept the fact that his time on the island had driven him mad.
He was fine with that. He’d prefer madness to fame and perceived heroism. From the first moment they had emerged from out of the storm and back into the world once again, there was one place he’d wanted to go.
Now he was there, and Marlow had never been more afraid. Sitting in the cab a few doors down from the house, he remembered Gunpei Ikari, his greatest friend.
* * *
They hold each other by the throats, knives raised, blood burning in their eyes and murder on their minds, and then Kong rises before them, lessening them with his gaze and making nothing of their reasons for fighting. Like that, their fury fades away.
Seven years later, he and Gunpei are sitting around a camp fire in the wreck of the Wanderer. That day has been a hard one for them all—a Skull Crawler surfaced and took away three village children, and Kong chased it halfway across the island before battering it to death. They are quiet and contemplative, sipping some of the Iwis’ ale and sharing a comfortable silence, as is so often the case.
“What’s your most frightening moment?” Gunpei asks. He speaks English, and Marlow speaks Japanese, and their talk is usually a flowing merger of the two languages.
“Today took the biscuit,” Marlow says. “You?”
Gunpei is silent for a long time, staring into the flames. He’s quiet for so long that that Marlow thinks he might have forgotten the question and let his mind wander, and he’s fine with that. It happens to them both. With so much time to fill, their imaginations have become fertile ground.
