King Kong

by Christopher Golden

  The Bell & Howell camera was all-important, more vital than his own survival.

  Now that he’d retrieved it, though, surviving wasn’t a bad idea at all. Some of those vicious predators were thrusting their heads up from ravaging the dead and dying brontos, their attention turning to the fleeing sailors. Now that was bad.

  Denham reached the steep, rocky incline that the others were already scrambling up. He cradled the Bell & Howell in one arm and used the other to climb, dammit. Some of the men carried packs, guns, and other equipment just as heavy as the camera, or more so, and he quickly caught up to them. They were slipping and sliding on the wet moss that covered the rocks. He assumed that Preston and Bruce were far above him. He could see Jack and Herb just a short way ahead, Herb having difficulty climbing with his artificial leg.

  One of the men above Denham, a sailor named Brandon, was staring back down the mossy, rocky slope, making a strangled noise in his throat. Denham turned to find that four of those carnivores had finally torn themselves away from the brontosaur feast and started up after the group.

  Some of the sailors panicked, choosing their footing too hurriedly, and sliding backward. The carnivores slid as well, but their powerful legs worked furiously, propelling them higher and higher, closer to the flailing sailors.

  Brandon shouted in fear as he lost his grip, falling, rolling down the slope, banging off the rocks, tumbling with such speed that he passed two of the carnivores. Then a third darted out its snout, jaws snapping down, and snatched the sailor in its teeth. Brandon screamed in agony.

  Denham grabbed hold of a rock, climbing faster. All around him sailors held onto weeds, rocks, moss, whatever they could to steady themselves, avoiding Brandon’s fate. Hayes shouted from high above, a triumphant noise, and Denham glanced up to see he’d reached a network of narrow fissures between huge rocks, almost like the sword of some ancient god had slashed into the stone. If they could get into those fissures, the dinosaurs would not be able to follow. Hopefully.

  He gripped the camera tightly, breathed evenly, and focused on not falling. If he was too slow, he would die…but he had a better chance if he was careful than if he lost control, falling to his death in those bloody jaws. Control was all that mattered now.

  Curses and shouts came from all around and above him. Herb had slowed down even further—he scrabbled against the stone and moss as best he could, but he could never be sure of his footing with a false leg, could not trust that prosthetic limb. He was too damn slow.

  Denham moved up toward him, inching sideways, bracing himself with his feet, camera cradled in his left arm as he tried to reach for Herb with his right.

  “Herb! Come on!”

  “Mr. Denham,” Herb gasped. He was as brave a man as Denham had ever known, fearless in the pursuit of the perfect camera shot, but now there was a bleak desperation in his eyes that chilled Denham.

  “Come on, Herb, grab my hand. Do as I say! Grab it!”

  Herb strained to reach for Denham’s hand, but too late. His artificial leg gave way beneath him, slipping from its foothold. Herb rolled down the slope, right into the path of a ravening carnivore. All of the predators fell upon Herb with a sick ripping of flesh and cracking of bones.

  Denham stared in utter horror at the grotesque tableau below him. He glanced at his empty hand, the one he had tried to grab Herb with, as though he did not understand why he had failed. Inside, he was hollow.

  Someone shouted his name from above and he started climbing again. While the monsters were busy with Herb, he made it to the fissures in the stone and slid through, still careful not to damage the camera.

  They were safe.

  Those who had survived.

  Hayes kept them all moving. Jack felt exhaustion overtaking him and tried to fight it, but he needed a rest. Still, Hayes kept them going through the fissures in the rocks and over the top of the next hill. For twenty minutes they moved over treacherous terrain, and eventually found themselves clambering down a jagged rock face into lush subtropical vegetation.

  This looked more like swamp than jungle. Even in the midst of his exhaustion and his fear for Ann, Jack found a moment to be amazed at the differences in terrain in just a small section of this volcanic island. This death trap.

  The group gathered slowly, one by one the survivors climbing down from the rock face. Bruce Baxter. Preston. Carl with his damned camera. Jack was relieved to see that Jimmy was alive, for he’d not caught sight of the kid throughout the bloody stampede. Lumpy and Choy, that odd pair, had also survived. And Hayes, of course. Intrepid Hayes. But the first mate now had a much smaller search party to command than before. Aside from the kid and Lumpy and Choy, there were only a handful of other sailors remaining, none looking very interested in taking orders from anyone at the moment.

  Cut, bruised, covered in dust, the bedraggled, dispirited group gathered in a clearing at the edge of the misty swamp that spread out before them. Sheer cliffs rose up out of the swamp on both sides of the shore. Jack very quickly realized that most of their guns and many of their other supplies had been lost.

  The sailors slumped to the ground in the clearing, utterly demoralized and terrified, some staring around at each other, and others avoiding eye contact with anyone.

  “Do a head count,” Hayes instructed Jimmy. “I want to know how many injured, and how bad—”

  “Injured?” Lumpy remarked. “Four of us are dead!”

  Denham and Preston came further into the clearing, apparently looking for a spot to set themselves down to rest. Lumpy glared at Carl, who quickly looked away. The director dumped the camera gear, obviously out of breath and unsteady on his feet.

  Only Jack was close enough to hear the filmmaker and his assistant as they spoke quietly to one another.

  “Carl?” Preston ventured.

  Denham responded with quiet despair. “What are we doing here, Preston? How could it end like this?”

  Carl was one of Jack’s closest friends—or at least had been when all this madness began. Jack knew he ought to try to raise the man’s spirits, but he had seen the desperation in Carl’s eyes, had seen him risk his life and jeopardize others for that damned camera, for a film that would make him a household name, and he didn’t feel like offering Carl Denham comfort at the moment. He had always known the director was obsessive, but until now he hadn’t understood how deep that obsession ran.

  Instead of addressing the mixture of rage and pity he was currently feeling, Jack walked away from them, went toward Hayes. He kicked mossy debris off a fallen tree, studying it. They had to keep moving. He was determined to find Ann, and equally determined to get everybody back to the ship without anyone else getting killed.

  “How much rope have we got?” he asked Hayes, kicking the moss off another fallen tree and seeing the potential there.

  “Are you out of your mind?” Lumpy barked. He gestured at the swamp. “We can’t get across that!”

  A number of the sailors muttered their agreement.

  “Don’t wanna go no further,” said a squat, grizzled sailor.

  “It’s over,” agreed another. “She’s dead and so are we.”

  Lumpy shrugged. “Bugger this! I’m off!”

  Jack stared at him. He looked around for support and was surprised to see that Bruce was guarded and tense.

  “He’s got a point,” the actor quietly said. “Englehorn sails in nine hours.”

  Jimmy rounded on him. “So? We’ve gotta find Miss Darrow!”

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Bruce asked the boy. “We’re gonna be stranded here.”

  “I heard you, and I ain’t going back!” Jimmy snapped.

  “Yeah?” Lumpy sneered. “Well, you were never destined to have a long and happy life.”

  Like a match to a fuse, that set Hayes off. “Shut it!” he flared.

  Lumpy quieted, but Bruce was not through with Jimmy. Jack heard the actor’s next words with numb horror blooming in his heart.

  “Sh
e’s dead, Jimmy,” Bruce said.

  Jack kept his breathing steady, but could feel the fury radiating from within. When Bruce became aware of Jack’s glare, he shifted self-consciously and cleared his throat.

  “Miss Darrow was a great gal, no question,” Bruce said, looking around at the others. “A wonderful person. We’re all gonna miss her.”

  When Jack spoke, his words came out a growl, through gritted teeth.

  “I always knew you were nothing like the tough guy you play on screen,” he said, his eyes staring daggers. “I just never figured you for a coward.”

  Bruce brushed him off. “Hey, pal, wake up. I’m an actor. Heroes don’t look like me. Not in real life. In real life they’ve got bad teeth, a bald spot, and a beer gut. They’re normal.”

  “Are you done?”

  Bruce slung his gun over his shoulder. “Go ahead. Make me the bad guy. I’ve played ’em before and let me tell you what I learned. There are no bad guys, Driscoll. Only bad writers.”

  He took several steps away, setting himself apart from the group.

  Jack watched him a moment and then turned to regard the rest of the group. Hayes was also surveying them with a wicked look.

  “Anyone else?” the first mate demanded.

  A couple of sailors shuffled over to join Bruce. Lumpy set his pack more firmly on his shoulder and looked expectantly at his closest friend.

  “Choy…”

  The Chinese man grinned, but Jack saw a glint of determination in his eyes. “Not me. I stay with the boys. I got Charlie Atlas training!”

  Lumpy groaned, rolling his eyes.

  “I complete the course!” Choy declared. “Perfect manhood very hard to kill.”

  Jack saw Lumpy’s expression, and knew that the man’s determination to leave had been defeated. He wasn’t going anywhere without Choy.

  Without further support, Bruce’s efforts at mutiny were doomed to failure. They were all going on, no matter what their fate.

  Preston was more than a little concerned about Carl Denham. The man had a lost look in his eyes. He’d grieved after Mike had been killed by the islanders, but this was different—Herb’s death was haunting him. Carl stared into the swamp as though searching for some sign of the ghost he thought ought to be there. His confidence, his certainty, had been shattered.

  While the others were debating who would go and who would stay, Denham turned to him.

  “I think I lost my way, Preston. Somewhere back there, we took a wrong turn.”

  “It’s not your fault, what happened to Herb. It’s no one’s fault.”

  “When there are no rules,” Denham rasped, “who’s to say what is right?”

  Preston looked him in the eye. “You make the rules, Carl,” he said firmly. “You’re the director.”

  Denham flinched, eyes widening slightly. He stared at Preston.

  “Isn’t that the way it works?” Preston asked.

  The Carl Denham he’d come to know and admire—for better or worse—was a man who was not accountable to anyone or any system of moral judgment. Right or wrong had always been a gray, amorphous thing to the director, dependent only upon what would benefit his ambitions as a filmmaker.

  Now Denham’s eyes lit up. Preston saw it all turning over in his head, as though he was suddenly waking from a dream. All he’d done was remind Denham who he really was, but it was enough to free the director from his indecision.

  “That’s absolutely the way it works,” Denham said softly, nodding. “And I’ll tell you something else. Herbert didn’t die for nothing. He died for what he believed in…and I’m gonna honor that.”

  Preston studied him. “Really?”

  Denham stood a bit straighter and when he spoke it was with the grandeur of the showman he’d always been. “He died believing there is still some mystery left in this world and we can all have a piece of it…for the price of an admission ticket! Goddamn it, Preston, we’re gonna finish this film for Herb…and donate the proceeds to his wife and kids.”

  Preston blinked, stunned. But only for a moment. He had always known that it wasn’t about money for Carl Denham. It was about spectacle. About being extraordinary.

  “That’s fantastic,” Preston said.

  Denham had been clutching his flask throughout their conversation, but now he raised it in a toast.

  “Here’s to the motion picture business,” he said, taking a swig of whiskey. “The greatest fantasy of all.”

  Amen to that, thought Preston. Welcome back, Carl.

  Kong propelled himself through the jungle with ease, barely disturbing the forest, moving with grace along a route that seemed well used and which Ann imagined must be familiar to him. She was held fast in his grip, flung wildly around as the great ape bounded across chasms and leapt over rivers. The jungle spun and blurred by and Ann did her best to brace herself against Kong’s fingers. She was not strong enough, and the constant jostling knocked her around like a rag doll.

  All she could focus on was the jungle and that grip, though thoughts of what would become of her when the gorilla reached his destination did flit through her mind. He’d certainly taken her to the place where he’d killed the previous sacrifices taken from that altar by the ancient wall, but Ann had been spared.

  Whatever happened now, it would be new territory for both of them. Ann had no idea how she would manage to escape, to stay alive, but she was sure Kong would have no idea what to do with her now, either.

  Even as these thoughts entered her mind, there came a blur from the green around them. Kong was knocking trees aside, and a pair of massive lizards leaped from the brush. Ann screamed, certain they were after her, looking to steal away Kong’s prize, to prey on his capture.

  They clung onto Kong’s arms, clawing furiously, snapping at Ann. Saliva flew from razor-sharp jaws. They weren’t merely giant lizards, but actual dinosaurs, and she screamed again as they continued toward her.

  Kong effortlessly thumped his arm against a tree, crushing one of the creatures. Ann clung to Kong’s fingers as he reached out and strangled the second beast with one hand, snapping its neck with a bone-crunching sound.

  The most stunning aspect of this entire scenario was how casual it all played out, how almost routine it seemed for Kong, as if this was just a recurring theme in this incredible animal’s day.

  Then Kong swung Ann roughly upward and bounded off into the deep jungle interior, her in one hand and the dead dinosaur in the other.

  It wasn’t long before they came to an ancient ruin of the sort she’d seen in various places across the island. Whatever the civilization was that had originally settled here, they had sprawled across the surface of Skull Island.

  As he ambled into the ruins, Kong dropped Ann into a heap on the ground, plopping the dead dinosaur beside her. Kong would have to decide what to do with her. New territory.

  Ann lay completely still, unmoving, pretending to be unconscious or dead. Kong circled around her, prodding her roughly with an enormous finger. Ann gritted her teeth, forcing herself to give no response.

  Kong growled, prodded again, but Ann lay still.

  The towering gorilla scratched his chest, but then seemed to become distracted and moved away. Kong sat on the edge of the ruin, surveying the jungle.

  Ann slowly opened her eyes and looked warily toward Kong. He didn’t seem to be paying any attention to her…but still she was cautious as she tried to survey her surroundings. Her whole body hurt. Exhaustion and the battering she’d taken as he’d rushed through the jungle with her took their toll, but she didn’t think anything was broken inside her. Not yet.

  If she was going to escape, she didn’t know how many more chances she’d get. Ann had to assume this would be the last.

  Surreptitiously, she glanced around. The ruin was a small courtyard—its walls were cracked and split by encroaching jungle creepers. Kong sat with his back to Ann, in the crumbling remains of an enclosed entry area, but the walls around her were still intac
t, which meant he was blocking the only way out.

  She lifted her head, risking a quick look around. The walls were too steep, but it turned out there was another way out after all. Across the courtyard was a narrow stairway leading down into the jungle.

  Inch by inch, Ann edged forward, crawling on her stomach toward the stairs. Kong abruptly shifted his weight, half-turning.

  Ann froze, let her muscles go slack, and closed her eyes to slits, attempting once more to look lifeless and praying he wouldn’t notice that she’d moved several feet.

  The instant he turned away, she started to move forward once more. Her breathing came evenly, her pulse was steady—by focusing only on the task at hand, she remained calm.

  Then, inches from her face, strange, unfamiliar insects crawled out of a crack in the flagstones. She flinched. No way could she drag herself over those.

  Only a few feet from the stairwell, she rose as quietly as possible and started toward freedom. It felt as though her heart would burst with tension, but then she had made it into the narrow passage, out of sight of Kong. She glanced only once over her shoulder as she hurried down the stairway.

  Ann paused at the bottom, listening for sounds that would indicate her escape had been discovered. All was quiet as she glanced back up the stairs. No sign that he’d noticed her departure. Gathering her strength, Ann emerged from the passage and bolted across the clearing around the ruins toward the cover of the jungle.

  Her only warning was a strange whoosh of air, then Kong’s fist slammed into the ground in front of her.

  Ann gasped and tried to change direction, but even as she did the other fist thudded to the ground, blocking her route.

  Kong growled angrily, glaring down at her.

  Ann was cornered. She spun to face him and he snarled at her, furious and deadly, the stink of raw meat on his breath. She darted under his arm in a last ditch attempt to escape. Halfway across the clearing, she tripped and fell, crashing face-first to the dirt.