Kong: Skull Island

by Tim Lebbon

  A creeper moved beneath his hand, slipping down the rock wall. He paused and held his breath, ready to jump if the plant stem started falling. Then it flexed. Conrad paused, not certain what he’d felt, and then the creeper started moving before him, sliding up the sheer cliff face and pulling him with it. He loosened his hand and slipped, scrabbling for purchase and closing his hands around other clinging plants smothering the cliff ’s surface.

  Above him, something curled out from the cliff and dipped down towards him.

  The snake’s head was as large as his own, and with jaws open wide it could easily have surrounded his body and swallowed him down. He could not see its tail. It must have been far below him, maybe thirty feet, and with the curl of creature even now dipping down towards him, he feared the monstrous snake was at least sixty feet long.

  He reached for his pistol and slipped some more, hooking his left arm around a dried stem that instantly parted from the cliff, swinging him out over the sheer drop. He heard the ominous sound of crackling, dried wood.

  The snake hissed. Its head dipped towards him, fangs dripping venom, eyes dim then bright again as a protective film flickered back and forth across them. Its body stiffened and prodded him, swinging him even further out on the old plant that was now the only thing holding him up. Ahead of him, the cliff face and the snake’s looming head. Below, a drop that would almost surely kill him.

  Conrad tried not to panic. His pistol was on the wrong side, so he reached down with his left hand and pulled his knife, taking his time, knowing that if he panicked and dropped the blade he would be out of options. He’d have to let go and fall. If he was lucky and the impact didn’t kill him, or if he managed to grab hold of other undergrowth to arrest his fall, the snake would arch down and swallow him whole.

  He brought the knife up and around just as the serpent went for him. Gripping hard, his hand passed into its mouth, knocking its head aside, blade slashing through its darting tongue and severing it at the root. A lucky shot, but one that pained the serpent so much that it thrashed and coiled, shoving itself out from the wall and almost taking Conrad with it. The creeper he was grasping tore from the rock, and as he fell he leapt for another plant, gripping it with one hand just as the writhing snake smashed into the wall beside him.

  He bit the blade between his teeth, almost gagging on the taste of the snake’s blood. Then he started climbing.

  Whatever pain it was in, the serpent still focused on its prey. He felt the tail loop around him, circling his stomach far quicker than he believed possible. Two loops, three, and then it started constricting.

  Conrad tensed his muscles, fighting the snake’s powerful grasp. He groaned through clenched teeth, still holding on to vines covering the cliff face. Just as he let go with one hand and went for the knife, the snake pulled him away from the cliff.

  For a terrifying moment he was suspended out over open air, with a long drop beneath him and the cliff too far away to reach. The snake was curled around several heavy branches, holding him steady as its head extended out towards him. It was shaking, a heavy shiver that passed all along its body and transmitted into his core as it began to draw tighter, tighter. He could no longer hold out against the pressure, and when he exhaled and tried to draw in another breath, he was not able. Darkness grew around the edges of his vision. The snake’s head was feet away, those fangs as long as his fingers, edging closer, closer…

  Conrad grabbed the knife from his mouth and slammed it down into the top of the snake’s head.

  Its coils loosened instantly and he began to slip. Tugging his knife free, he grabbed one coil of its body and felt himself dropping as the snake began to slide from the cliff. At the last moment he leapt, pushing off from the snake’s heavy body and striking the surface, scrabbling for purchase, nails clawing at stone and vine stems until his left hand lodged between a creeper and the cool rock. It jarred his shoulder and brought him to a halt, and he hugged himself close to the steep surface, curling his leg around another creeper, gasping for breath as the snake fell away from him and out into open space.

  It landed several seconds later, a heavy, meaty thud that he felt through the cliff. He looked down, but already it was lost in the undergrowth growing below. Bushes rustled and trees shook as it made its escape.

  Breathing heavily, trying to ease back the delayed panic, Conrad sheathed his knife and pressed close to the cliff face. He took a few moments to catch his breath. He’d been close to death many times, but never that close.

  After a while he started climbing again. This time he was careful to ensure that whatever he grabbed hold of was plant, not animal.

  Three minutes later he reached the ridge line. He rolled onto his back, panting heavily. His hands were shaking.

  Control, he thought, take control, breathe, it’s just you, that’s all, take charge of this time, this place and you’ll survive. His heartbeat calmed, and when he opened his eyes his vision was clear. He was staring up at streaked white clouds and a blue sky that could have been anywhere.

  Standing, Conrad looked north and saw what he had climbed up here to see—a wide, uninterrupted vista of the island’s interior.

  The island was even larger than he’d suspected. To his right he could see the sea, but ahead and to the left it was only land, the mountainous horizon quite close but with the suggestion of more island beyond. It was a vast, heavily wooded terrain, with plenty of places for huge things to hide.

  He pulled the compact binoculars from his belt and started searching.

  He soon found a narrow river that snaked from his right towards the island’s interior. It was visible in places, but where it wasn’t he could follow the course of its valley, rising and skirting the foothills of the central mountains, losing itself in the far distance. From here and there, several columns of smoke still spiralled up from the seismic charges and the sites of downed helicopters. The beast had done a good job on the Sky Devils, wiping out one of the US Army’s most efficient attack squadrons in the space of fifteen minutes.

  They needed to head inland, then north across the central mountains. Their extract point was to the north of the island. How to get there without any serviceable aircraft or a boat was a problem they’d have to face when the time came. For now, at least he had an immediate plan in mind. Reach the river, track it, cross the mountains.

  It looked so very far away.

  He shifted his view left and right, looking for any trace of—

  His view went black.

  Conrad lowered the binoculars so that he could see a wider scope, and there it was. The monster had just crested a hill in the distance, still snarling and spitting, beating its chest and causing a sound that reminded him of aircraft breaking the sound barrier, again and again.

  He watched the big beast scramble down the hillside, trees bending and breaking before it, piles of rock tumbling down. It seemed to be in a rush, and he soon saw why. It was making its way to one of the craters created by a seismic charge. A fire still blazed there, consuming the jungle in two long, uneven lines. Smoke billowed skyward, the oily colour of living things dying, both plants and animals.

  The monster stared back in Conrad’s direction and roared. His blood chilled, and he couldn’t help but think that the scream was for him alone. He ducked down on the ridge line, pressed flat against the ground. He was too far away for the giant gorilla to see him, he was certain. Yet he felt its eyes upon him, and sensed its hate.

  It stopped roaring and stood still for a moment. It stared down as if examining the crater. Then it started trampling the fires, scooping up huge handfuls of soil and smothering the flames. It worked until just a few wisps of smoke curled skyward, then it sat, snorting and exhausted, touching wounds on its arms, chest and face. Quieter now, less threatening, Conrad saw something painfully human about the giant beast.

  He was entranced. This thing had killed so many, and yet it had done nothing wrong. They had come here and dropped the first bombs. The beast
had attacked in self-defence.

  He turned and stalked back the way he’d come, taking more care on his descent of the cliff. At the bottom he paused every few steps to make sure the snake was not still there, in truth enjoying these last few moments when he could be alone.

  Soon, he would meet with Weaver and the others again. He already knew what their next move should be.

  Go home.

  TWELVE

  Packard and the few survivors he’d found moved quickly through the jungle. They had discovered many bodies at the several crash sites they had visited. A couple were still alive, bleeding out, horribly wounded and doomed to die. His men. His comrades of war, slaughtered all around him, crushed like insects into the soil. In all his years, he had never seen such carnage brought down upon the men he loved.

  As the beast had fled, Packard imagined that they had locked eyes. In that moment he had silently vowed revenge.

  The beast had roared laughter at him and then walked away, dismissive and aloof. A mocking departure. A challenge.

  Bastard, Packard thought. I’ll get you, bastard.

  They found Reles beneath a tree. He was battered and bleeding but alive, even though he did not appear eager to accept the fact. As he saw Packard and the others approaching, his smile broke into a grin.

  “Reles, come on, your heart’s beating,” Packard said, waking him with a slap to the face. “I can hear it from here. Get up. That’s an order.”

  “Colonel.” Reles clambered to his feet, groaning and wincing.

  “You okay?”

  “We were just attacked by…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish his sentence.

  “Yeah, I know. You’re okay. See if you can get me a radio that works.”

  Packard looked around at the men he had left. There weren’t that many. Shocked, bloodied, wide-eyed, he had to rally them and lead them. That’s what he was here for, and they’d be looking to him for comfort.

  He couldn’t give them that. Maybe he could give them something else.

  Reles appeared by his side, shaken but pleased to be with his companions again. He handed Packard a survival radio.

  “Group, this is Fox Leader, request situation report. Group! This is Fox Leader… any station! Radio check, over!”

  “Leader… this is Fox Six… Chapman…”

  “Chapman!” Packard said. “Come in. Say again your last position.”

  “Leader… Flores KIA… I’m lone survivor. My location at crash site… four klicks west, highest mountain peak. November Alpha, bearing three-zero-zero.”

  Packard tugged a grid map from his pocket. Formed from Landsat photos, it displayed some of the landforms known, and also contained the codenames allocated to them by his team.

  “Roger your last, Chapman. West, highest mountain peak. Over.”

  “Roger,” Chapman confirmed. “November Alpha three-zero-zero.”

  “Fox Six, stay put,” Packard said. “We will come to you, Chapman. There’s enough ordnance in the Sea Stallion to kill that thing. Survey your radius and scout for an ambush site.”

  “Fox Six confirm,” Chapman said. “Scouting radius. Holding near Sea Stallion. Heading—” His transmission broke into a series of crackles and white noise.

  “Fox Six, come in,” Packard said. He tweaked the frequency control. “Chapman, come in. Jack?”

  The signal was gone.

  Packard glanced sidelong at Reles, standing close by with his pistol drawn. Despite the shock at what had happened to them, he and the rest of his men were acting like the professional soldiers they were. Three had taken defensive positions around the crash site. Others were searching the wreckage for ammunition and supplies. One of the men gathered dog tags from the dead.

  “Looking for an R and R day, specialist?” Packard asked Reles. “Or are you ready to move?”

  * * *

  Mills sat on the ground with his back against a tree. He had his M-16 resting across his legs, but every time he looked at it he laughed. He’d once killed a man with this gun, gut-shot him from a distance and then moved in closer to put a bullet in his head. It hadn’t felt good. There had been none of that gung-ho bravado that some men displayed, and Mills firmly believed that few people could kill a man without dying a little themselves. Kill or be killed was never an all-or-nothing exchange.

  He’d had nightmares about that killing ever since.

  He looked at the gun, thought of shooting the beast that had brought them down, and laughed again.

  Cole approached from the crashed Huey. He’d been rooting among the still-smoking wreckage, even though it had burned and exploded soon after they’d got away. He had a ration can in his hand. It must have been thrown clear in the blast.

  Mills could hardly believe that Cole was actually eating tinned fruit.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Cole?”

  “Eating’s for the living,” Cole said.

  “We just got taken down by a monkey the size of a building!”

  “Ape.”

  “Huh?”

  “It was an ape. And yeah, that was an unconventional encounter.”

  “That’s it? That’s all your brain is doing right now?”

  “There’s no tactical precedent,” Cole said, shrugging. He spooned in another mouthful of fruit. “We did the best we could in the situation.”

  Mills stood and was about to say more when he heard a sound behind him. A rustle in the undergrowth. That thing wouldn’t rustle, he thought, but he crouched and span around, bringing his M-16 to bear.

  “Hold your fire,” Packard said as he pushed into view from behind some hanging branches. Reles and some other guys were with them, lugging arms, survival kit, and other supplies.

  “Jesus, sir, I’m glad to see you made it,” Mills said.

  “Unless this is heaven and your ugly asses are the angels,” Packard said. “How many other survivors?”

  “Seven from our squad,” Mills said. “Three confirmed KIA—Hodges, Saraf, Galleta. A few others missing, but I saw some of their Hueys hit and go down, and…” He held out three dog tags. Packard took them and shoved them inside his jacket. More letters for the colonel to write, Mills thought.

  “What about the civilians?” he asked. “Where’s Randa?”

  Mills jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there. Sitting on a rock. He’s gone kinda quiet.”

  “Quiet,” Packard said, and Mills had never seen such an expression on the colonel’s face before. He hoped he never would again. “That’s okay, Mills. I’ll make him talk.”

  * * *

  Weaver hated breaking her camera equipment. These were her tools, and cracking a lens felt like losing a limb. She saw her world through the camera, and sometimes she wondered whether true reality existed only on the other side of the lens. Perhaps it was a buffer between her and the cruel truth. A safety system, like a heavy glass screen between a watcher and a wild animal enclosure. She felt confident only when she was behind the camera, and that was when she was at her best.

  She didn’t like to think about what might happen if that shield was ripped away.

  She sat to assess the damage. The lens must have been cracked in the crash. It was ruined, but she was lucky that she carried two spares in her strengthened and waterproof camera bag. The rest of the camera seemed in good working order, and she changed the film and pocketed the used one. It was precious. It might already grace the future cover of a National Geographic.

  She noticed that her hands were shaking, and she rested the camera on her legs and clasped them into fists. She was stronger than this. She’d proven that again and again in the field.

  “You okay?” Brooks asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  Brooks, San, and Nieves had joined them at the crash site, arriving dazed and dragging their equipment. She guessed that none of them had witnessed violent death before. Or if they had, certainly nothing like this.

  No one had witnessed anything like this before.


  They stood close together, huddled like kids waiting to be told what to do next.

  Where the hell is Conrad? she asked herself yet again. He was the most able among them, and she’d seen a change in him since the crash. Quietly and without fanfare, he seemed to have taken control. He was also the only person among them who she felt comfortable with. She wasn’t used to feeling like that with a trained killer. It was strange, but she didn’t question her instincts.

  Slivko had been fiddling with a handheld radio since the crash, checking batteries, searching channels, turning it up and listening for voices in static. She could have told him half an hour ago that the radio was toast.

  “All units, is anyone airborne? I say again—”

  “They’re all down,” Conrad said. He emerged from the trees, breathing heavily. He swapped glances with Weaver as she stood. “Every one of them.” He nodded to Brooks, San, and Nieves, and assessed the equipment they’d brought with them. Weaver saw something different in him, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was. He’d seen or experienced something out there. She’d ask him later.

  Everyone remained silent, waiting for him to speak. He was that type of guy.

  “Right, listen to me. We’re on the south side of the island, and the place is bigger than we first thought. There’s a river, couple klicks from here. If we stick to the banks it should lead us to inland, and from there we’ll make it to the northern shore.”

  Slivko was staring at him, mouth open. He looked around at all of them.

  “So that’s it?” he asked. “We’re not gonna… talk, or anything?”

  Conrad was already approaching Brooks and San. “You two. What was that thing? What do you know?”

  Nieves was staring past all of them. He had been since they’d arrived at the crash site, and Weaver was surprised to finally hear him speak. She thought perhaps he’d gone into shock, and she knew that could be a deep, dark place.