Kong: Skull Island

by Tim Lebbon

  Seeing the huge buffalo was not the first time she’d considered what else might be on this island with them. The ape, the snake that Conrad had encountered, and now this buffalo, all meant that the island would be home to countless other unknown creatures. Fascinating animals, she was sure, and horrors too.

  The terrain grew more challenging, and soon the pool was lost in the jungle behind and below them. The ground rose and fell, plants grew thick and spiked, and Conrad worked hard to clear a route. Some of the plant life around them she recognised, much of it she did not. She was no botanist, but she knew for sure that some of this undergrowth was found nowhere else on the planet. She’d heard of carnivorous plants before, and knew that there were several species that trapped and digested insects. When they saw one with large upright cups filled with water, it was Conrad who investigated the dark shapes contained inside.

  “What is it?” Slivko asked. Conrad grabbed the stem and snapped it so that the bulb spilled its contents across the ground. There were several birds in there, a lizard, and a wasp the size of Weaver’s hand, all in varying stages of decay.

  “Don’t touch,” Conrad warned. “Acid.” Weaver took a picture.

  They moved on in single file and remained alert, Nieves and Slivko pausing frequently to look around and take stock. Jungle sounds and smells assailed them. Weaver knew from experience that it was when the constant sounds lessened and faded that they would have to take care. The jungle seemed to know when something bad was about to happen.

  In such situations attention could wander. Weaver walked into Slivko where he’d come to a standstill. He barely seemed to notice the impact.

  “What?” she asked, immediately on edge.

  “Conrad?” he whispered. Ahead of him was the path Conrad had been cutting through the undergrowth, trailing creepers dripping sap where he had sliced them through. A snake hissed and curled away up a drooping branch. The scurrying shadow of a large spider disappeared into a carpet of trampled leaves. “Conrad?” Louder. No answer.

  “What’s happened?” Weaver asked.

  “I lost Conrad.”

  “What do you mean, lost him? He was right in front of us.”

  “And then I looked around and he was gone,” Slivko said. He nursed his M-16, sweeping the undergrowth ahead of them. “Conrad?” he called, louder than before. Then as he drew a breath to shout Weaver caught movement from the corner of her eye. She span around and crouched, wishing she had accepted a weapon from Slivko after all.

  Conrad emerged from the jungle, looking from Weaver to Slivko.

  “Keep your voices down,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to wake up anything with teeth.”

  “Where’d you go?” Slivko asked.

  Conrad pointed back through the trees he’d just emerged from. Deeper in, Weaver could just make out a patch of depressed foliage.

  “Combat boots did that. It’s fresh, maybe only fifteen minutes.”

  “The others must be close!” Weaver said.

  “No one can move quickly in this jungle,” Conrad said. He eyed the whole group, assessing their condition and obviously satisfied, for now. “Come on. This way.”

  They followed him again, shifting direction and heading up a steep slope towards a tree-smothered ridge line. There was little to be seen, even from that high up, because the foliage was so dense. They took a quick breather, then continued down the other side.

  Weaver was fascinated watching Conrad work. He was clearly tracking the other group, although most of the time she couldn’t see what he did. He paused frequently, checking branches and leaves, crouching to look at the ground, touching scuff marks on tree bark, sniffing the air. She was close behind him, observing but not wishing to interrupt his flow, when he froze.

  She sensed his tension as he looked across the valley that suddenly opened out before them.

  They had reached the edge of a tree line, and now another startling truth hit home.

  “This island was inhabited!” Brooks said.

  Ruins filled the valley, vast structures of angular grey rock, almost chalk-white in places, some vaguely pyramidal and some more like long, high walls. Creepers and undergrowth had smothered some of the lower reaches, but the higher ruins remained relatively plant-free. They protruded from the jungle in several places, and Weaver could make out a pattern that connected all the ruins into one huge settlement.

  There was writing on the stonework in no language she had ever seen. It was bright red, like blood.

  That’s not ancient, she thought. The sun would have bleached it, rain washed it away. That’s recent.

  “Not was inhabited,” Conrad said. “It is inhabited.” He drew his pistol and held it down by his leg, and Weaver felt a deep pang of unease.

  Something about the whole scene changed. It was a fluid motion, something that almost fooled the eye and made Weaver sway and feel queasy. The constant heat that stuck her clothes to her body with sweat seemed to fade, and a chill pulsed through her veins.

  People were appearing as if from nowhere. Close to them, men and women manifested from the jungle, their movements the only sign of their existence. Their camouflage paint was perfect, blending them into the jungle in shades of green and brown that made them almost invisible. Further away, other people were moving towards them from the buildings, their bodies also camouflaged with pale paint and coloured shapes that blended them in with the edifices.

  Their clothing was similarly decorated, hoods and swathed skirts matching the colours splayed across their exposed skin.

  They came with strung arrows and heavy spears aimed at the small group.

  Slivko raised his M-16, and Weaver saw Conrad lifting his pistol, his body tensing into the beginnings of a shooting stance.

  No, she wanted to say, but she also realised the danger this situation presented. She became the observer, raising her camera, dreading what she was about to see and record. And in that moment—one of a thousand when she had been preparing to witness and document violence from the outside, rather than from within—she realised that she was always the observer. She’d believed all along that the camera brought her closer to the truth.

  In reality, it insulated her from it.

  “Woah!” a voice shouted. “No need for that! Everybody keep your wigs on, now.” A bearded man emerged from the jungle and ran towards them through the painted men and women. He was taller, paler, so obviously not one of them, yet none of the tribespeople even looked at him.

  He was dressed in a torn and tattered Air Force jumpsuit that had been patched and sewn multiple times, a parachute harness fashioned into a belt, and well-worn combat boots.

  “What the…?” Brooks said from behind Weaver.

  Quite, she thought.

  Conrad shifted his aim to this new target. The man skidded to a halt with his hands held out, and then he smiled, poor teeth grinning through a mass of beard. It was his eyes that really defused the situation. Weaver could see the joy there, the honest delight at seeing them all. She already knew that he would have such tales to tell.

  Conrad slowly lowered his gun and gestured for Slivko to do the same. The soldier only half-lowered the M-16, and the two groups stood facing each other, weapons to hand, with this wild bearded man the only thing between them.

  “Combat boots,” Conrad said, as if that might explain something.

  “Look at you!” the man said. He was almost dancing on the spot. “I didn’t believe it when they said you were coming! I was up all night just thinking about how many times Gunpei and I dreamed of this moment, and now here it is! Twenty-eight years, eleven months, and eight attempts to get back to the world, and instead it comes to me. Not that I’m complaining. I never saw anything more magnificent in my whole life. You’re more beautiful than a beer and a brat on a summer day at Wrigley. And you’re real.” He came forward and touched Conrad’s shoulder, flinching back as if expecting him to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Yes you are! Hey, that was a hell of an entrance. Wha
t were you bombing out there? Not smart.” He grew even more excited as he suddenly remembered something else. “And what are those wingless planes with the eggbeaters on top?”

  “Helicopters,” Conrad said.

  “You crashed here?” Weaver asked.

  The man seemed to gather himself, realising that this small group were staring at him with shock and surprise.

  “Oh, yeah, sorry. Lieutenant Hank Marlow of the Forty-Fifth.” He raised his eyebrows, grinning. “I even put on the old flight suit for you.” He nodded at Slivko. “You can put that down, now. You really should. The Iwi won’t hurt you.”

  Slivko lowered his M-16. “There’s something out there, man.”

  “Oh, there’s a lot out there!” Marlow said. “Come on, we gotta get back home.”

  “Home?” Conrad asked. He glanced at Weaver. She shrugged.

  Then she raised her camera and Marlow posed for her with a wild, delighted grin.

  FIFTEEN

  Conrad let Marlow and the tribespeople lead them down towards the valley floor. Their footsteps were loud and clumsy compared to these island people, who seemed almost to flow rather than walk. Even Marlow made barely a sound as he moved. Conrad could only marvel at how good they were at not attracting attention to themselves. If this island proved to be as dangerous as he was beginning to suspect, that was an essential survival instinct.

  They passed through the ruins that were not really ruins, and Conrad had a chance to observe more closely. Some of the buildings did appear abandoned, or meant for some obscure purpose he could not identify, although he guessed they were still maintained to some extent. There was no telling how old they were.

  They emerged close to the river, and there were more tribespeople waiting by several skiffs moored at the bank.

  “We need to find our people,” Conrad said.

  “You will. I’ll help you.” Marlow gestured at a skiff. “For now, though, you’re safest with us. Who knows what the hell you’ve woken out there with your noisy arrival.”

  Conrad considered for a moment, then climbed into the skiff, followed by the rest of their small group of survivors. Marlow joined them in their boat, and for that he was glad.

  Their skiff was pushed from the bank and into the river’s gentle flow, and several others joined them, tribespeople using long poles to shove them along. It was almost peaceful, serene, and Conrad risked a momentary lapsing of his guard. He closed his eyes and lifted his face to the sun, enjoying the heat on his dirty, sweat-streaked skin. A moment like this was valuable in recharging his batteries.

  He had a feeling that he’d need them fully charged before long.

  He heard the familiar shutter clicks of Weaver taking more photos, then the sounds of her changing the film in her camera.

  Marlow watched her taking pictures. He could see her fascination with the silent tribespeople, as well as with Marlow himself. Conrad saw a man who had been waiting to tell his story for a long time. That very soon proved to be the case.

  “Don’t worry about their silence,” he said. “They didn’t speak to me and Gunpei for the first two months.”

  “Who was Gunpei?” Conrad asked.

  “The Japanese pilot who shot me down. I shot him down, too. Both great shots! We both parachuted out, landed on the island, tried to kill each other, and then…” His eyes grew distant.

  “The villagers found you?”

  “Yeah. We weren’t sure if they were gonna eat us or treat us like kings.”

  Conrad glanced around at the tribespeople he could see in this skiff and others. Their faces were harsh and impassive, both men and women. He’d become adept at reading expressions, realising that the eyes and face told so much about a person’s intentions long before their actions revealed themselves. That had saved his life more than once.

  These people were inscrutable. They looked capable and calm, but their eyes and decorated faces gave nothing away. They might as well have been wearing masks.

  “I’m hoping it’s the latter?” he asked Marlow.

  “Somewhere in the middle,” Marlow said.

  “That’s reassuring,” Weaver replied. “I think. So you and Gunpei became friends.”

  “Over time, he became the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “Did you say you were told we were coming?” Nieves asked.

  “Yep. Two days ago,” Marlow said.

  “They told you?” San asked, and when Marlow nodded she said, “How?”

  “Truth be told, it was over my head like most everything that goes on here. These folks live on top of the trees, and compared to them we live down in the roots. Some of them don’t even seem to age. Listen, I’m like the janitor around here.” He shrugged, seemed content with what he’d said. “Yeah. That’ll kinda put it into context for you.”

  “What’s that?” Conrad asked. They were approaching a cliff face, tall and imposing, and the river disappeared into a wide cave mouth at its base. He didn’t like it. They were being steered somewhere unknown, and once in the cave darkness would descend. He had a small pocket torch, but these tribespeople would be able to do whatever they wished.

  “Beyond that is home,” Marlow said. “Hey, trust me. You’ll want to see this. All of you.”

  Conrad looked around at the others. Although nervous, most of them also seemed excited. For the first time on this journey, the unexpected inspired curiosity over fear.

  They entered the cave mouth, the soft shush of the river echoing into a greater roar, light quickly fading away. But it was not total darkness in there. Creatures scurried across the low ceilings, beaming with a bright phosphorescent glow that gave a soft background illumination, like ever-moving stars. The river was flat and even, the walls steep, and Conrad had the distinct impression that some of it had been carved rather than eroded. Yet another unanswered question about this mysterious place.

  “You’re okay with this?” Weaver asked, leaning in close to whisper to him.

  “Not really,” he said. “But if they’d been a threat, I think we’d know by now.”

  “I hope so.”

  “They know the island and what’s on it,” he said. “They’ve been here for… forever? So if they can survive here, so can we. We’ve got to learn everything we can from them if we’re going to get away.”

  As he spoke their surroundings grew lighter, and eventually they emerged from beneath the hillside into another valley.

  This one seemed steeper-sided and more enclosed than the wide valley they’d just left. The river was narrower and faster moving, and they quickly drew close to the left bank. Stone columns stood beside the river, topped with pedestals upon which stood strange statues. There were other structures all across the valley, some of them similar to the ones they’d seen before, yet with less of an abandoned look. There were more patterns and symbols painted on these buildings, differing in colour and shape. It lent them an alien, ethereal beauty.

  A few minutes later the river widened into a lagoon. The expert boatsmen steered the skiffs around a small headland and towards shore, and the village that sprawled there. The structures were quite different from the larger stone buildings they’d seen, and included many homes built on stilts. Incorporated into the village, grounded on the curved lagoon’s bank, was a wrecked ship. Its superstructure seemed to be part of the village, with homes built against it and rope ladders slung from its upper decks down to the ground. Its rusted metal hull was also decorated with the colourful, angular lines that also appeared on the other buildings.

  The vessel was so out of place that Conrad blinked a couple of times, shaking his head to clear his vision.

  Drawing closer, he could just make out its name. The Wanderer.

  “Looks like we’re not the first people to never, ever leave this island again,” Slivko said.

  “We’ll get away,” Conrad said.

  As their skiff ground against the shore and many more tribespeople came to meet them, he began to have his doubts.
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br />   * * *

  Chapman was the only survivor from the downed Sea Stallion. He’d checked on the co-pilot but Warzowski was dead, his neck broken in the crash. As for the door gunner, Muller was nowhere to be found. The heavy machine gun still hung from its mounting, but the door surround was torn and slashed and several streaks of blood were drying across the walls and ceiling of the passenger cabin.

  Chapman’s radio was glitchy, and his brief communication with Packard had been fragmented at best. He was certain that every other chopper had been brought down. He’d debated his alternatives and decided to remain with the ruined chopper, for now. At least here he had some food, shelter, and enough weapons to start another war.

  He was exhausted, suffering from heat stroke, and his dressed wounds were causing him pain. He was most worried about the deep laceration across his left forearm. It should have been stitched, but he’d made do with gluing the pouting edges of the wound together.

  He needed water. Several storage drums had been holed in the crash and the water leaked away, and he’d already drunk his way through the canteens that had survived. He’d assumed that the jungle would have abundant water sources. Now was the time to find out.

  After just fifteen minutes trekking downhill he came to a blue lagoon where the river widened into a bowl-shaped valley nestled between three mountains. He collapsed in the shadow of a rock on the bank, hoping and praying that this was fresh water, and not fed from the sea.

  He crept forward through the mud of the riverbank, leaning out, cupping his hands and letting them fill with water. He sipped. Clean, fresh water. He sighed with relief, then scooped another handful.

  An impact punched up through his hand and knees, sending a shimmering ripple all across the surface of the lake. Water dribbled from his mouth as he froze, breath held. What the hell was that?