King Kong

by Christopher Golden

  “What do you mean?” Preston asked, a quaver in his voice.

  “Seven years ago…me and Mr. Hayes, we were working our passage on a Norwegian barque,” Lumpy replied, and glanced at Hayes.

  “We picked up a castaway, found him in the water,” the first mate said, continuing the tale. “He’d been drifting for days.”

  “His ship had run aground on an island. Way west of Sumatra,” Lumpy went on, his Cockney accent thickening. “An island hidden in fog. He spoke of a huge wall, built so long ago, no one knew who had made it.”

  Denham knew they were hoping to frighten him, but the words had the opposite effect. A tremor of excitement went through him. He glanced at Preston.

  “What did I tell you?”

  “A wall, a hundred foot high,” Lumpy said. “As strong today as it was ages ago.”

  Preston stared at the cook, mystified. “Why did they need to build a wall?”

  The mess room went silent a moment. The sailors exchanged a glance that chilled Denham.

  “Have you ever heard of Kong?” Hayes asked.

  “Kong? Sure,” Denham said offhandedly. “It’s a myth. A Malay superstition. What is he, a god or a devil? I forget.”

  Lumpy held up the sharpened knife to punctuate his words. “The castaway, he spoke of a creature neither beast nor man, but something monstrous living behind the wall.”

  Denham waved the words away. He’d heard a thousand such tales, and so had every one of the sailors aboard the Venture. Typical island legends. “A lion or a tiger,” he said. “A man-eater. That’s how these stories start.”

  But Preston was spooked. “What else did he say?”

  “Nothing,” Lumpy replied, glancing at the blade in his hand before regarding them all gravely. “We found him the next morning…he stuck a knife through his heart.”

  Preston’s eyes went wide and his face was ashen. Jimmy looked even worse, pale as a corpse.

  “Sorry, fellas,” Denham said, trying to break the grim mood. “You’ve got to do better than that. Monsters belong in B-movies!”

  But Hayes and Lumpy were implacable.

  “If you find this place,” the first mate said, expressionless, “if you go ashore with your friends and your camera…you won’t come back.

  “Just so long as you understand that.”

  Late morning, the day after the merrymaking on board the Venture, Bruce Baxter made his way back to his cabin for a wardrobe change. Denham was taking reaction shots of him and wanted him in a variety of different getups.

  On the way along the claustrophobic corridor, he bumped into the boy, Jimmy, who was always tagging along after Mr. Hayes, the first mate. The boy didn’t even excuse himself and when Bruce shot him a look, there was something shifty in Jimmy’s eyes.

  But then he was at his cabin and his thoughts were already drifting back to the film. Until he opened the door and stepped inside.

  Someone…and he was sure he knew who…had drawn a thick black mustache on his face, on each of the movie posters that hung from the walls. Bruce gritted his teeth and felt himself flushing with anger. His fists clenched at his sides and he tensed, about to start after the little hooligan, teach him a lesson.

  He started to turn away, but then caught sight of himself in the mirror. The view gave him pause. Bruce glanced at the poster of Rough Trader, at himself with a mustache, and then he studied his reflection again.

  Maybe he did look good with a mustache, come to think of it.

  Try as he might, Jack just couldn’t stop thinking of Ann. He had felt the connection between them, an electric circuit that ran from him to her and back again. Not that he claimed to understand it. The Driscoll men had never been known for their outward displays or professions of affection, nor had Jack himself spent much time giving any consideration to the subject.

  All he knew was that he was drawn to Ann…and so far it had been somewhat frustrating to wonder if she felt the same way.

  That night, unable to sleep, he’d sat up typing late into the night, working on the comedy play that he was writing. The current title was Cry Havoc, but he wasn’t sure if it would stick. Right now, the story was more important, the feeling. The humor.

  All through the next day he’d pretended to be working on Denham’s script but instead made progress on Cry Havoc. By nightfall, Jack had a first act he was mostly pleased with, but the only way he was going to know if it was any good was to have someone read it. And not just any someone.

  Ann Darrow.

  Without giving himself a moment to hesitate or to wonder if what he was doing was appropriate, he went to her cabin. Night had already fallen and the dim lights on shipboard cast a gauzy yellow pall on the walls that made shadows all along the dingy corridor.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked.

  “Hold on,” Ann called out from within. Seconds went by and Jack clutched the sheaf of papers in his hand. Then he heard her voice from the other side of the door, asking who it was.

  “It’s Jack Driscoll, Miss Darrow.”

  There was a long, quiet pause before she opened the door.

  “Good evening, Mr. Driscoll,” she said, so fragile in her pajamas and a shawl for warmth against the chill of night on the ocean. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  She wasn’t cold, as he’d feared, or even distant. Instead, Ann was pleasant enough, and curious.

  “I’ve been working on a new play,” he said quickly. “I was wondering if you’d be interested in reading it. A writer gets lost in his own head sometimes, and it would be helpful to have your opinion.”

  Ann’s eyes shifted to the manuscript in his hand and she smiled, then stepped back to open the door wider. “I’d love to.”

  She snatched the pages from him and went to her bed, where she folded herself up cross-legged, reading without any further effort at welcome or hospitality. Jack was simultaneously pleased and nervous. He’d never written anything even remotely like this play before. Normally he didn’t like to show anyone anything until it was completed, for fear that it would impact the course of the work. But on this, he wanted Ann’s thoughts.

  For long minutes he remained silent while she read, flipping pages, a broad smile growing upon her face. Several times she laughed softly. Eventually, she glanced up at him.

  “This is funny,” she said, and with her tone, she clearly added, I didn’t think you had it in you. “You’re writing a stage comedy.”

  “Yeah. I guess I am.”

  “You know who would love this?” Ann said, getting excited now with the possibilities. She came up off the bed, flush with the energy of her enthusiasm. “The Eastside Theatre.”

  “I’m writing it for you,” he said flatly, before he could stop himself.

  Ann looked at him, obviously taken aback. A troubled expression crossed over her face, and he saw now that at least a part of it was doubt. Though whether it was about his words, or her own feelings about them, he did not know.

  “Why would you do that?” she asked.

  “Why would I write a play for you?”

  “Yes.”

  Jack could only stare at her, unsure how to respond. Wasn’t it enough for him to show her how much he was thinking of her?

  “Isn’t it obvious?” he asked.

  “Not to me,” Ann replied.

  “Well, it’s in the subtext,” Jack went on, growing frustrated now. What did she want from him? Couldn’t she just accept it and be happy?

  “Then I must have missed it.”

  “Look, it’s not about words,” Jack insisted.

  Ann gave him an uncertain look. She understood. She had to. Jack moved toward her, reaching out to hold her arms.

  “Sometimes,” he said, “you have to be brave.”

  And he pulled her into his arms, and kissed her.

  She made no effort to push him away.

  9

  THE DAYS WERE BEGINNING to blur one into the next for Bruce. It had rained several times, though mostly in
the early morning. Otherwise they’d had almost miraculously beautiful weather. It had reached the point where the perfection had grown a bit boring. Denham was running out of bits he could film on shipboard and seemed to be more and more distracted as time passed. Bruce presumed that the director was just as bored as he was. They all wanted to reach their destination so they could get on with the process of shooting the film they came out here to make.

  One morning at breakfast, several days after Jimmy had drawn the mustaches on his posters—and hadn’t Captain Englehorn gotten an earful about that?—Bruce was sitting in the mess room picking at his food.

  His only company at the table was Herb, Denham’s camera operator. The sailors all ate early, and Bruce rarely dined with more than a few of them. Denham was at an adjoining table, alone in his thoughts, perusing through an atlas spread out in front of him.

  Herb had come in a few minutes after Bruce, and just around the time Bruce was about to start eating, the camera man had plunked a hideously gray prosthetic leg onto the table and set about tending to it with an oil can and screwdriver.

  Bruce had tried to ignore it, but it was as though the leg was a magnet for his eyes. He poked at his breakfast and eventually gave up and simply stared at the prosthesis and Herb in turn until the other man noticed him.

  “It’s my spare,” Herb said. “Needs an overhaul.”

  Bruce raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t even known that the camera man was an amputee. Herb tapped his trouser leg and the substance beneath made a hollow sound.

  “Sea lion up in Nova Scotia,” Herb said.

  “Your leg was bitten off?” Bruce asked, appalled.

  Herb leaned closer and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial rasp. “Not just my leg.”

  Up at the counter where the food was prepared, Lumpy was cracking walnuts. With the image of Herb’s leg and…parts…bitten off by a sea lion, the sound was obscene.

  “That’s tough,” Bruce said.

  “Tough? It was a tragedy.” Herb shook his head. “Mr. Denham should have won an award for that picture. Best footage we ever shot. You see…Mr. Denham doesn’t care about his personal safety. It’s not about the individual. You have to expect sacrifice and loss. That’s what he taught me.”

  Herb looked Bruce straight in the face. “The only thing that matters is bringing back the picture.”

  Bruce was simply aghast. The tragedy was that Denham hadn’t been recognized for his brilliance, and here was Herb without a leg? No wonder the director and camera man worked together—they were made for each other.

  Bruce tried to go back to his breakfast, but his appetite was all but gone now. As he glanced again at Herb, he saw Preston come into the mess. That kid, at least, seemed to have his head screwed on straight. Or, at least, Bruce normally thought so. But this morning Preston was disheveled and looking more than a bit anxious.

  Preston walked right over to Denham. The director hadn’t touched his breakfast; instead he was entirely focused on the atlas.

  “Carl,” Preston prompted. “We have to talk.”

  “What about?” Denham asked, not bothering to look up.

  “The weather,” Preston replied.

  Bruce forgot all about Herb’s missing leg. The tension radiating off of Preston was palpable, and it was obvious that Denham felt it, too, and heard it in his assistant’s voice. The director raised his head. Preston pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, quite self consciously.

  “More specifically,” Preston went on, “the likelihood…of fog.”

  Denham was up immediately, anger and frustration etched into his face, and he hustled Preston out into the corridor in the blink of an eye.

  Bruce stared after them, wondering what the hell that was all about. But not for long. Whatever their problem was, as long as it didn’t interfere with the making of the film, he figured it was theirs to worry about.

  None of his business, as long as it didn’t affect him.

  Denham felt his every nerve ending fraying, energy coursing through him and he didn’t know what to do with it. He nodded, almost bouncing on his feet, and his hands at his sides curling into fists and uncurling repeatedly.

  “You have something of mine.”

  Preston shook his head, but it wasn’t a denial. It was clear he just couldn’t summon the words he wanted to say. Edgy and evasive, at last he flattened himself against the corridor wall and gazed at Denham, his eyes full of a question he didn’t want to know the answer to. And maybe with a little disappointment as well.

  “Twelve men died, Carl.” Preston pulled the map—the same map Denham had been trying to find for days, worried about whose hands it had fallen into—out of his pocket and waved it under his employer’s nose. “On this island. The one that’s hidden in fog. The one you’re looking for…”

  Denham pressed his lips together in frustration, hands up, angrier than he had been in a very long time. He ought to have been relieved that it was Preston who’d taken the map, but it wasn’t something he could appreciate at the moment.

  “The fella who drew that was out of his mind!” Denham said. “He was found half drowned in the middle of the ocean. It’s the ravings of a madman!”

  “His crew,” Preston said coldly. “They were mutilated.”

  “I’m telling you, he was delusional!”

  Preston just stared at him. “Didn’t you read the small print? Something tore them apart.”

  Denham sighed. “See what happens when you get upset? You’re starting to unravel.”

  “You’re putting our lives at risk…it’s not…it’s just not…you can’t do this—”

  Denham wasn’t going to listen anymore. He was done with this. A hysterical assistant was something he didn’t need. He reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of candy. Something to placate his assistant. “Preston, you’re perspiring. I think you should have a mint.”

  But the kid ignored him. “What about Jack? Ann? Herb and the others? They’re your friends.”

  Denham sniffed. “Yeah, they’re my friends. And they’re all on the goddamn payroll.”

  “Well, they trust you, Carl!” Preston replied, voice rising. “And you’re using them!”

  On the deck of the Venture, Ann stood leaning against the rail with fresh script pages in one hand and a half-eaten apple in the other. Though the sky today was still mostly blue, from time to time a gray cloud would pass by overhead, casting a shadow on the sea below, or across the deck of the steamer. Though they were now in tropical waters, when the breeze shifted just right it brought a chill that made her shiver.

  Lost in her reading of the script, she nearly dropped both the pages and her apple when she heard an angry shout through the porthole behind her.

  “That’s bullshit!”

  The voice belonged to Carl Denham. Ann frowned and turned to look with surprise at the porthole. Denham was a driven man, used to barking orders and to declaring his passions. But so far she’d never seen him angry.

  “Tell them the truth!” a different voice replied, with equal vehemence. It took her a second to identify it as Preston’s.

  “Are you kidding me? They’d walk!” Denham declared. “I don’t need you spookin’ the cast!”

  Ann felt a dreadful shiver go through her. What were they talking about?

  “They should be scared!” Preston snapped. “I’m scared!”

  “I don’t care if you’re crapping your pants! Keep your mouth shut, understand?” Denham said.

  Ann stared at the porthole, growing uneasy with every word.

  Preston saw the anger flaring in Denham’s eyes and he nearly flinched from the fire he saw there. For just a second he thought Denham might actually hit him, but instead, a look of calm detachment settled on the director’s face.

  “Do you know why I took you on, Preston?” Denham asked, as though he were about to share a secret. “Think about it. Why would I want to hire some messed-up kid who failed to make it through law school? The
truth is…I felt sorry for you.”

  Shocked, Preston didn’t know how to respond. He had given up everything for this man, had worked his heart out, and now Denham was going to slap him down? The only thing worse was the possibility that he was speaking the truth. Preston didn’t know if he could handle that.

  “You may come from money,” Denham went on, “but fundamentally, you’re a charity case.”

  Preston was gaping at Denham, trying to summon some kind of snappy comeback, but at those words he had to look away. Whatever Denham’s faults, Preston looked up to him for his passion and his art. To Preston, Denham was a giant. And that giant had just crushed him underfoot.

  He felt Denham tug the map from his fingers and didn’t even try to hold on to it.

  “Funny thing is,” Denham said, his tone very different now, “you proved me wrong. You’re good, Preston. You’re more than good. You are one hell of a personal assistant. You’re smart. You’re loyal. You have good instincts. You could go far in this business.”

  Slowly, unsure, Preston raised his eyes to study Denham.

  “But here’s the thing you need to decide,” the director said sagely. “Are you afraid…or are you a filmmaker?”

  That night, the fog rolled in. Up in the wheelhouse, Hayes stood and watched Captain Englehorn steer, trying to see through the thick white mist. Hayes didn’t like it. Not at all. They were so far from the shipping lanes now that if the Venture had trouble, no one was ever likely to run across them. The captain had made his choice. Whatever his motivations for going with Denham’s chosen course, Hayes wasn’t privy to them. Unless it was just the money, and Ben Hayes hoped to God there was more to it than that.

  The tension between skipper and first mate had been growing for days. But Hayes would say nothing more out of loyalty. It was Englehorn’s error to make, and Hayes’s job was to follow instructions.

  They proceeded at half-speed, moving through the darkness and the gloom. As quiet as it was in the wheelhouse, Hayes started when the radio operator stood and went to the captain, handing him a note.