King Kong

by Christopher Golden

  Though the ocean lay to one side and the sky was wide above, Jack Driscoll felt more than a little claustrophobic on that narrow strip of beach. With those graven images and the closeness of the cliffs, he felt as though they were surrounded by the ghosts of the ancients here.

  And then it occurred to him that it was more than that; the island itself was a kind of phantom remnant from another age.

  As Denham got all of his people into place, Jack found a spot just a bit away from the others to watch. Ann and Bruce hit their marks, Mike and Herb took their places around Denham. Preston stood by, ready to do the director’s bidding. Several times he rushed forward to make an adjustment to the actors’ wardrobe, or to give Ann a quick turn so that her best profile was to the camera.

  The sailors had helped unload, but now they stayed by the whaler, watching the proceedings with the curiosity of those who have seen a film and never imagined the mundane work that went into its creation.

  “You’re feeling uneasy, Ann,” Denham called to his leading lady.

  Her expression reflected his direction, and watching her face, whose beauty took Jack’s breath away, he marveled at her ability to summon emotion from deep within herself. She was a natural actress, and he was certain that emotions she was dredging up had been hard won.

  “Tilt up to the statue, Herb,” Denham said. For once he was allowing the camera operator to do his job.

  Herb did as instructed, and Jack tried to picture in his mind what the images would look like on screen. The beautiful, anxious girl with dread in her eyes, the imposing, almost grotesque features of the towering statue.

  “The feeling is growing,” Denham told Ann, “washing over you. You’re trembling, Ann. You’re overwhelmed.”

  The director pointed to Baxter. “Comfort her, Bruce!”

  The matinee idol went into action. He slipped his arm around Ann’s waist and swept her backward, practically dipping her, and leaned in to kiss her in a clinch so typical of the silver screen.

  What the hell? Jack thought, face growing warm. Denham said comfort her—

  “Wait a second! Stop! Stop! That’s not in the script!” Jack barked.

  Baxter looked up at him with what seemed genuine surprise and innocence. “I was improvising.”

  Jack sneered. “That wasn’t improvising, pal, that was molestation. She would never kiss you. She’s not available…emotionally…to men. Isn’t that right, Miss Darrow?”

  Ann inclined her head just a bit. Jack was talking about her character, but they both knew his reaction was about more than that.

  “It did feel a little…premature,” Ann agreed.

  Bruce looked at her as though she’d grown a second head. “What are you talking about? I told you I loved you on page fifty-three!”

  “That doesn’t give you a free pass, Bruce,” Denham chimed in. The director paused for just a moment, forcing actors, writer, and crew alike to turn to him. “You’re sitting this one out.”

  Baxter’s eyes went wide and he gave a little shake of his head. “I know what’s going on here. And it’s time we all acknowledged the truth of the situation.”

  Jack tensed. Here it comes.

  “You can dress it up any way you want but there is no escaping this one singular fact,” Baxter went on.

  They all stared at him, awaiting his revelation.

  When the actor finally spoke, it was with dreadful gravity.

  “My part is getting smaller.”

  Jack arched an eyebrow and regarded him coolly. “I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about your small part.”

  He let the double entendre and the accompanying insult hang there like bait, but Baxter either hadn’t gotten the jibe or didn’t go for it.

  “From day one there has been an unusual amount of focus on the female’s side of the story,” the actor said, almost petulantly. “I’m telling you, Denham, this clam is trying to sideline me!”

  Jack took a step closer, ready for an argument. Baxter was a pompous ass, badly in need of a career boost, but he was used to having films built around him and obviously didn’t like sharing the spotlight. He needed a good punch, just to shake him up, get him to see that the world didn’t revolve around him, and that some scripts—those written by Jack Driscoll, at least—had more going on than some bullying tough guy.

  But Jack didn’t get a chance to say anything. Carl Denham was the director of this picture, and he clearly didn’t like the fact that Baxter had seemingly forgotten that.

  “For Christ’s sake…” Carl began, about to give Baxter a piece of his mind.

  But the actor wasn’t done. “I won’t play second fiddle to a girl! It’s screen suicide!”

  That did it.

  “You don’t have a say in this!” the director snapped, irate, as if lecturing a schoolboy. “Shaddup!”

  Even Jack blinked at the vehemence in Denham. They all looked at him in shocked silence. Carl shook his head in exasperation and then fixed a hard stare at Baxter.

  “You can’t run a film like a democracy. If it’s not a dictatorship, it falls apart. Now let me finish this goddamn picture so I can have a nervous breakdown!” he shouted.

  Then he took a breath and turned, quite calmly, to the camera operator. “Herbert. Roll camera.”

  As the boys argued, Ann was at first amused, but as she stood listening to them, her mind began to wander. As they had made their way to shore, the imposing presence of the statues had chilled her. The memory of that face beneath the waves lingered, and she was sure it would bring nightmares. It was as though each of those terrible images was filled with some dreadful intelligence.

  She glanced around at them again now, unsettled. Ann turned to the primitive, ancient faces carved in the rock behind her, and it was as though she could hear in her head the chants of whatever primeval tribe created them. A strange thrumming sound filled her head. As if entranced, she walked to the base of one of those idols and put her hand against the rock. The sound in her head intensified.

  The quiet dread raced through her, one that she could not have even described. The urge to return to the whaler and rush back to the Venture was overwhelming.

  Then Denham called her name. Quietly.

  “Ann,” he said. “Look up slowly, Ann.”

  It was his director’s voice, and suddenly she was back on film again, in character, trying to feel all of the emotion he wanted to extract from her, to bring it up from within her and reveal it with only her face and her eyes.

  She did as he asked.

  “That’s it, “Denham said. “It scares you. You can’t look away. You’re helpless. You want to scream, but your throat is paralyzed!”

  The dread she’d felt, that thrumming in her head, the haunted gaze of those ancient faces, all grew stronger in her now. Denham seemed to be speaking to her from another place, another world, and she knew her fear was real.

  “What do you think she’s looking at?” she heard Preston whisper, but the voice was far away.

  “There’s just one chance,” Denham continued. “If you can scream. Try to scream, Ann! Try!”

  And she wanted to. It was as though she’d been wanting to scream all along, ever since she’d seen the idol in the water, ever since she’d set foot on the shore, and now Denham was giving her permission to put voice to the terror inside her.

  She opened her mouth, but only a small sound came out, the shriek dying in her throat.

  “Throw your arms across your eyes and scream!” Denham shouted. “Scream, Ann! Scream for your life!”

  Her lips parted, drew back, and she let loose with a scream that came up from deep within her, from her terrified center, eyes wide and staring at some unimaginable horror, the source of her nameless dread. Ann screamed with all of the fear she had ever felt.

  As the sound died, she looked at Denham, at Jack beyond him, and all of the others. They were staring at her, concern and surprise on their faces, as though they were truly fearful for her. But it was
acting, of course. Ann told herself that now, tamping down the tension and the dread of this place.

  Only acting.

  And then, as the last echo of her scream disappeared, there came another sound.

  An unearthly, bestial cry that was part scream itself and part roar came from somewhere deep within the island’s jungle interior. The sound was inhuman and yet she had no doubt it was a reply to her own primal scream.

  For several moments, those gathered on the beach could only stare at one another, frozen into silence by that terrible cry.

  On the deck of the Venture, Hayes was standing with Jimmy and Captain Englehorn, discussing the efforts to repair the ship, when they all heard that bestial scream. The three turned as one toward shore. From deep within the island they saw a flock of startled birds rise into the air, panicked.

  Running from something, Hayes thought. But what?

  That scream, more like a roar, came from the jungle.

  Bruce Baxter was fighting for his professional life. Carl Denham was supposed to have helped revive the actor’s dwindling career. But every step of the way, he’d been able to see both Denham and Driscoll conspiring to make the film more about Ann’s character, or at least more about the relationship, than about Baxter’s heroic male lead. That was dangerous.

  Bruce could do just about anything. Ride a horse. Fence. High dive. And better than almost anyone. Looks, talent, and brains. But he couldn’t compete with Ann.

  All of that had been going on in his head while he watched her act, right up until that scream. Then he heard the roar, that terrible sound from the jungle, and he wished he was a little boy again, to crawl under his bed and hide.

  Suddenly his career didn’t seem so important anymore—not nearly as important as his life.

  “What was that?” Bruce asked. “A bear? That was a bear, wasn’t it?”

  All eyes were scanning the cliffs. Denham hurried to the far edge of the cove.

  “Herb! Get the camera!” the director commanded.

  Denham had found a way up inside the cliff. Some kind of entrance. Bruce took a few steps nearer to get a better glimpse. It was a ruined stone stairway, leading up into the darkness of some kind of tunnel. Whatever ancient culture had carved these idols and built the wall had made this as a passage to whatever lay above in the ruins.

  Denham gestured to the others to follow him, and started into the blackness, up those stairs.

  “Where are you going?” Bruce asked, incredulous. “Fellas? Is this a good idea?”

  13

  TWO OF THE SAILORS stayed with the whaler back on the rocky beach. Everyone else gathered round the foot of the ancient staircase that Denham had discovered. Carl led the way, with Herb and Preston right behind him. They entered the darkness and started up the stone stairs—hewn from the cliff face—without waiting for the rest.

  Bruce, Mike, and the other two sailors—Pardue and Young—were the last to reach the tunnel. Jack and Ann beat them to it.

  At the base of the stairs, Jack paused to peer up into the dark silence. The tunnel had high, vaulted ceilings, as though the stairs had been constructed inside a natural cavern. Far ahead and above he could see daylight at the top of the stairs. Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dark, what little illumination there was allowed him to see the handiwork that had gone into making this passage. Primitive symbols had been engraved in the walls, the stairs themselves were a remarkable feat.

  He started up. Ann was following and he glanced back in time to see her hesitate, a troubled expression on her face.

  “Ann?”

  “I want to go back,” she said, clearly rattled.

  Jack moved toward her, reaching for her arm. This was entirely unlike the Ann he knew, albeit briefly. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Distracted, she glanced around a moment before meeting his gaze. Jack saw that she was truly skittish, like a young deer, ready to bolt at any threat. He found the island pretty unsettling himself, and was more than a little concerned about the condition of the Venture. But he was fascinated by Skull Island as well. The archeological and anthropological value of this place—the ruins of an ancient civilization—was immense.

  He was surprised Ann didn’t feel the same. Yet he was also not going to downplay whatever had her so disquieted. She was not some delicate flower, given to general anxiety. And if she wanted to go back, he would take her.

  Jack turned and called up the stairs. “Carl!”

  He started up, and he could sense Ann reluctantly following. Denham, Herb, and Preston were far ahead now and he could make out their silhouettes against the light at the top.

  “Jack, you’re not going to believe what’s up here!” Denham called back down. “It’s incredible!”

  “Hey, wait up!” Jack gave Ann a regretful look and continued up the stairs. Carl being the director, it was up to him to decide if Jack would be allowed to take Ann back to the ship.

  Carl turned to look back at those still coming up the stairs through that tunnel. He had a beatific smile on his face, as though angels had just lifted a weight from him.

  “I owe you one, buddy,” Carl said to Jack. “That goes for you, too, Ann. Herbert…Preston…”

  “Carl!” Jack tried to interrupt.

  Denham wasn’t listening, however. He was so enraptured by his surroundings and what they meant for him that he was lost in his own thoughts. Overwhelmed with emotion, he now shook his head, grinning.

  “Sorry, Jack, I gotta say it. You believed in me. All of you. I want to thank you for standing by the picture. It means so much to me. Seriously. You saved my life.” Carl paused, swallowing hard, overcome. “I love you guys.”

  Jack stared at him, stunned. In all the years he’d known Carl Denham the only emotion he’d ever revealed so nakedly was his passion for the cinema. On either side of the director, Jack could see Herb and Preston gaping at him with the same obvious amazement. He could only imagine that behind him, Bruce and Mike were doing the same.

  Then all that emotion shut off like a movie screen going dark, and Carl’s eyes sparkled with exuberant purpose once more. The director was back.

  “Ann—let’s get a shot of you at the top of the stairs.”

  Ben Hayes rushed along the deck of the Venture, shouting at the crew. They were already frantic, but he didn’t mind adding to their hurry. They had to be ready to float by high tide so they could get the ship off these damned rocks and away from this island.

  “They need more shoring timbers in the engine room!” he shouted at a couple of the younger lads as they ran past. “Quick! Now!”

  Away from this island. He glanced up at the carved head that towered above the Venture like some mythical monster or vengeful god. Hayes scowled. They never should have come here in the first place. He had told Englehorn that very thing, but the captain had taken Denham’s money—or at least the check that the bank said was no good—and wouldn’t hear of it. All of the men had been in peril. Now that it seemed the worst was over, Hayes was ready to call them all lucky and return to the sea. Perhaps they could pick up cargo somewhere still, so the trip would not be a total loss.

  He spotted Lumpy further along the deck, talking to Choy, and was about to tell them both to go down to the engine room and help out. But then he spied a pale face looking out from a place behind one of the lifeboats.

  Jimmy was there, tucked away, out from under the running feet of the crew, reading his book.

  Hayes sighed and started for the boy. Jimmy looked up just as he arrived and tried to clutch Heart of Darkness protectively against his chest. But Hayes reached out and slid it from his hands and the boy let it go, reluctantly. He had a finger holding his place, and Hayes took it and opened it to that page, looking down at the words there, at the ideas and images that were touching Jimmy’s mind even now. At a tale of a boat, and a jungle, and a man obsessed. Hayes remembered the story well.

  “We could not understand, because we were
too far,” Conrad had written, “and could not remember, because we were traveling in the night of First Ages, of Those Ages that are gone, leaving hardly a sign and no memories. We are accustomed to look upon the shackled form of a conquered monster, but there, there you could look at a thing that is monstrous, and free.”

  He handed the book back to Jimmy, who closed it and held it to him again, an ashen expression on his face.

  “Why does he keep going up the river?” the boy asked. “Why doesn’t Marlowe turn back?”

  Hayes had no idea the true extent of the horrors that the boy must have seen and lived to end up in an animal cage, filthy and bruised, and think he’d found a fine home. But he knew Jimmy would be struggling for a long time to understand men, and to figure out what sort of man he himself would be.

  “There’s a part of him that wants to, Jimmy,” Hayes said with a shrug. “A part deep inside himself that sounds a warning. But there’s another part that needs to know…needs to bring light to the mystery and defeat the thing that makes him afraid.”

  Even as he spoke, Hayes was thinking of Denham, another man who felt the need to bring light to the mysteries of the world. There was nothing Denham loved more, and his obsession for committing such things to film had nearly gotten them all killed. Hayes wondered how it could be that Denham didn’t understand that every time he put a mystery on film, he was destroying it, making it no longer an enigma. Denham seemed to have a hunger to prove himself more than an ordinary man by exploring, uncovering…

  Hayes had read about Joseph Conrad in an article somewhere. The author had supposedly loved maps, loved the blank spaces on them, the regions unknown, and hated that as he got older those blank spaces were filled in, the mystery erased. How was it that Conrad had seen it, and Denham could not?