The Island of the Skull

by Matthew John Costello

  The crew hadn’t been too happy before; you just never lost that bone-chilling cold soaked into your bones. That they blamed Denham was clear to the director. He started shrugging off their looks, though he did overhear two crewmen asking when the hell they’d be heading south.

  South.

  Back to the relative warmth of New York City. The sailors had a relatively short memory. Some of them had been on the streets till they had been recruited by Englehorn for this trip. Hard times in the US of A—and a job in the freezing Arctic had to be better than starving in the gutters of New York, or maybe living in a Hooverville shack of cardboard. At least here they had a bunk, and what passed as food from Lumpy’s mess.

  They should be grateful….

  But being out here changed things. Englehorn seemed unflappable. He just kept smoking his pipe, looking at the weather, complaining about the promised appearances of schools of orcas…that never materialized.

  And not for the first time Carl Denham had to wonder…What the hell am I doing?

  It was one thing to lead a film crew and actors into the rain forest of British Honduras looking for giant constrictors (and finding them, damn it!). Or his trip to the Congo searching for the lost elephant graveyard. And well, not finding that one, but still coming back with incredible footage, and even a few credible performances.

  And that’s what it used to be about—the footage! Characters facing amazing things never seen before, things that only Carl Denham could deliver.

  But was that enough anymore?

  His friend Jack might be right.

  Maybe…Denham needed a better story, better actors.

  Which meant—a writer!

  And that was the other thing about this trip, another difference.

  They returned from Central America not only with a great picture, but with a cargo full of wild animals. The zoos of the world tried to outbid one another, especially for some of the exotic snakes that they brought back. Englehorn was a good captain—but he was great at wrangling animals.

  And even though the young creatures didn’t survive the trip back from the Congo, still the Africa movie turned a profit even before Denham sold the picture to Joe Kennedy’s outfit.

  Apparently, he liked the young starlet Denham used.

  But now, the big studios didn’t want Denham’s stuff. Now he dealt with smaller outfits, with money men who didn’t care what kind of film they showed.

  So this—despite the sick rise and fall of the ship—was where he belonged. In the world, looking for the incredible place to tell an incredible story.

  The Venture smashed down into a watery valley and Denham grabbed the railing.

  Could be this was getting seriously dangerous.

  In which case he really should try to get below.

  But getting below meant making his way twenty feet or so to the entranceway, while all the while the ship jerked up and down.

  Twenty feet, with no railing.

  The ship rose up again, and Denham turned to see the stern nearly disappear in the trough, the white froth atop the gray sea looking as though it was grabbing for the ship.

  This isn’t good, Carl thought. No matter how competent a captain Englehorn was, this just was looking bad.

  The ship began another plunge forward, into the trough of yet another swell.

  Denham’s stomach heaved yet again—even though it was empty.

  San Francisco Bay

  Sam stopped and let his light play on the scene. Tommy had obviously gone in, attracted by the waterlogged radio equipment, all so ancient. Maybe he touched something, or grabbed a shelf for support.

  Something gave—perhaps a bolt holding a shelf to a wall.

  And one tall shelf shifted, pinning the kid. Pinning him, but he was damn lucky that nothing happened to his air hose.

  Finally Sam let his light fall on the kid’s faceplate. The other diver’s eyes looked as if they were set to bug out of his head.

  But he was alive; air still pumped into the helmet.

  Sam held up a hand, and made a patting gesture in the water.

  Nice and easy. Steady. Calm.

  Easier said than done when you’re sixty feet down, and pinned inside a small room. Was the kid panicked? Hard to tell, but Sam had to be ready for the possibility that as he got close, Tommy might do something stupid.

  Sam looked at his own lifeline. DiGiacomo would be expecting some tugs signaling that all was okay.

  Not a good idea. Not now, when the rope snaked into the hull, past rusty jagged bits of the hull and exposed metal of the bulkheads. The rope could easily get cut, and then DiGiacomo would think that Sam was in trouble.

  Another diver down, another rescue mission.

  No, better he let DiGiacomo think that he just forgot.

  He took a step closer to Tommy. A small cloud of muck flew up from his feet. The cloud rose then swirled around the room, caught by some current that snaked its way through the wreck.

  Three days left in the Navy, and I got this, Sam thought. It’s like the guys he spoke to who were in the Great War…and how they saw their buddies buy the farm just days before the whole thing ended, days before they were due to be sent home.

  Moving close, Sam saw that the shelf looked as though it had slipped away from the wall and swung into the diver. The suit looked uncut…a good thing. But the weight obviously had Tommy pinned.

  No time for anything fancy, no time to go back up and get some tools.

  Sam would have to move it as best he could and hope that Tommy could help.

  Though the possibility was equally strong that he could make things worse.

  And for a second, Sam had a quick flashback. He was back in Sheepshead Bay, back on the Brooklyn dock as the fishing boats came in. And with a few of his friends…he dived for nickels thrown by people into the unbelievably murky water.

  Once he went down, chasing a nickel spiraling away, catching it just as it nearly hit the bottom—but then feeling something catch him.

  Some bit of wood, maybe an old chunk of dock, an old mooring pole with a big nail head sticking out. A nail head that just caught his swimsuit, holding him.

  That amazing rush of panic.

  Suddenly aware that all the air you have is what you hold in your lungs, your last breath, just before you dived.

  That awareness making the desire to breathe irresistible.

  Reaching behind, then around, feeling for where his suit was caught, finally feeling the metal trap, the chunk of nail now dug into the suit.

  More precious moments, and then the desire to breathe becoming a fire in his lungs.

  Beginning to pray. Back then, a kid in Brooklyn, he prayed a lot.

  Prayed for everything.

  Finally, tugging the material of the suit, feeling it move, then, finally, slip off the nail head.

  Racing to the surface.

  To the taunts, the laughs, the question—did you get it?

  Did you get the nickel?

  Not telling them that in his moment of terror the prized nickel was, of course, let go, released, lost forever in the muck.

  He pretended that everything was fine when he climbed out.

  You didn’t talk about fear, not with your friends.

  But Sam knew how powerful it was, and if Tommy lost it, they could both end up dying down here.

  Another heavy step, another mucky cloud, and now Sam reached for the metal structure of the shelving for the first time….

  6

  Baffin Island

  SUDDENLY THE VENTURE TURNED INTO a small bay made by twin spits of rock, and the mad roller-coaster ride just as quickly calmed. The boat still rocked back and forth, but it didn’t feel like each eddy of the sea could break over the bow and try to bring the ship down.

  And that’s a good thing, Denham thought.

  Yeah, let the storm settle, then figure out where the hell they could go.

  Looking for the elusive killer whales.

  What is i
t with me and elusive things? Denham thought. Nice kid from Sturbridge Village, a little bit of college, then—something happened. Small-town America had proved too small for him. He liked being out here, the world full of surprises, danger, excitement. And who knows what hasn’t been discovered yet?

  …But how long would they remain undiscovered before everything was found that could be found? No more hidden treasure, no lost graves, no creatures never seen before. The clock was ticking, and Denham knew, as best as he could understand it himself, that he wanted to be one of those people who found those things, capture them on film, and showed the world…before the well completely dried up.

  He looked up, and the Venture kept chugging into the small bay. He saw outcrops sending up water, warning signs that rocky traps lay hidden under the foam.

  The engines of the Venture slowed. Denham looked up to the wheelhouse, and saw the silhouette of Englehorn, pointing at the shore.

  Then back to the water, as they passed an outcrop only about twelve feet away.

  Denham thought: Maybe we should stop right here, drop anchor. Would be a nasty place to take a gash to the hull.

  Then the door from belowdecks opened, and some of the crew spilled out scrambling, racing. The engines stopped, and the fore and aft anchors, both fastened to a heavy metal chain, began running to the bottom.

  Denham looked back to the rocks. A few good swells, and an unachored Venture could easily be thrown against them.

  But then a voice—Hayes.

  “Captain! Aft anchor secure.”

  Then, from the front, one of the other crew: “Fore anchor down, Captain, and holding.” And Denham could feel it. The ship held, pinned from both front and back, locked in place. There was still enough give in the placement of the anchors that the ship wobbled some in the churning sea. But she didn’t really move; she’d take no gashes to her hull today.

  Nice to know, Denham thought.

  And now, for the first time, he looked up from the roiling sea, from the minelike rocks dotting the bay, up even from the rock-strewn shore to see:

  Low-lying hills, and a small snow-covered valley cutting through them, and then, in the distance:

  Smoke. Three, maybe four thin plumes of whitish smoke rising straight into the air, like thin bony fingers up to the steel gray sky.

  People. On this godforsaken, barren piece of rock.

  Fortune. Fate. Call it what you will, things always turn up for me, thought Denham. Something always happens.

  The world is a big place, full of big surprises.

  And there are only so many people like me to take advantage of them.

  Preston had come out of the depths of the ship, looking green. Must have been a bad hour for Denham’s assistant, puking up his guts in the closed quarters below.

  “Suck in some air, Preston. Looks like you need it.”

  Preston nodded and then leaned over the side and barked at the water, though, Denham could see, his stomach was thankfully empty.

  “Maybe you need something more than some nice clean air, hm?”

  Finally Preston stood up, nearly cross-eyed.

  “A little shaky, Preston? Should have rid out the storm topside. Best way to deal with weather like that.”

  His assistant nodded without too much enthusiasm.

  “Anyway, my man—look over there!”

  Denham pointed at the smoke. Preston was barely able to lift his head.

  “Some people somewhere. Eskimo, I imagine. How long has it been since Flaherty’s Nanook? What do we know about these amazing people? Their lives, their survival—and the animals they hunt, eat, wear. Fortune just gave us a gift, Preston. A new wrinkle for our story. What’s that expression, fortune favors the prepared?”

  “What—what if,” Preston could barely burble out the word, “they don’t want us filming them. Remember that tribe near Guatemala?”

  “That turned out okay.”

  “Okay, because we had enough guns to make them think twice about cutting our heads off.”

  “Right. No one lost their heads. And Eskimo? Everything we know about them tells us they welcome visitors. We’ll bring some stuff to trade, some food, biscuits, cookies, maybe some of Lumpy’s canned meat. You better tell Baxter we’ll be adding to his role.”

  “He looks greener than me. And you want to give them some of Lumpy’s food? How will they open the cans, Carl?”

  “See, you always look for the problems. I see solutions. Opportunity. That, out there, is an opportunity. Why don’t you tell Herb we’re going to want the camera soon, and get Mike moving too—I’m gonna want sound for this.”

  “Now?”

  Denham rolled his eyes. “Yes, now. We still have hours of daylight.”

  Preston nodded at the wheelhouse. “And Englehorn is okay with this?”

  “Englehorn works for me, right? Besides, he sure doesn’t want to get back to the open sea yet. So this is perfect. Hey, maybe we’ll stay for a few days. I’ll go get things moving, you see Herb and Mike.”

  Denham started up to the wheelhouse, already planning how he would lay out this little shore expedition for Englehorn.

  A last glance at the smoke, and he had to hope that those telltale plumes didn’t vanish before he hit the rocky beach with his shore party.

  San Francisco Bay

  One yank, and the shelving didn’t budge.

  Sam felt Tommy’s hand on his wrist, and Sam turned to look at the pinned diver’s face. The kid looked scared. He said something, barely audible through the thick glass and incessant bubbles of the compressor feeding him air, the release valve sending a noisy air exhaust to the surface.

  But Sam could make out the two words on the second try.

  “It…hurts!”

  Hurts. Sam knew the kid was trapped, but if he was hurt there was something else going on here that he hadn’t seen. He tilted his head up and down, searching Tommy’s suit. Up, down, scanning the suit. Sam could see one shelf edge pressed tight against the kid’s chest—that was the one Sam was about to move. But could that really hurt Tommy? Maybe he was exaggerating?

  Then he saw it.

  A metal bar from a lower shelf, a bit of jagged metal that must have jutted out when the shelving moved—stuck right into the kid’s side. Sam kept his light on the metal, where it hit the heavy material of the dive suit. These suits could resist the razor sharpness of coral, twisted spires of coral that could cut a man’s flesh with just a casual scrape.

  But this sharp metal had sliced into Tommy’s suit.

  The suit was indented, the metal pressing into the boy’s body just above the hip.

  Christ, that had to hurt.

  Suddenly Sam had new respect for the kid. Trapped down here, in this eight-foot-by-eight-foot watery tomb, and the constant pressure, the pain of that metal bar. Sam brought his head and his lamp up to the kid’s faceplate, and gave him a thumbs-up.

  Okay. It’s okay, kid, I see the problem, you can stop worrying now.

  But that was bullshit. Sam didn’t see an easy way out of this. In fact, for the first time he thought that maybe he would have to go back up, get tools, something to cut away the metal.

  And all the time the kid’s nitrogen debt was building. He had already been down here too long, breathing air at this depth for too long. Getting to the surface would bring an even deadlier bout of the bends.

  As it was, Sam would have to take it nice and easy getting Tommy back up.

  Nice and easy.

  Like now. Nice and easy—the way he’d have to free him.

  Carefully, like some palsied old man, Sam struggled to kneel on the cabin floor. His padded knees hit the floor and set up cloudy swirls. He waited a second until the visibility cleared a bit, then leaned close, his helmet now only inches away from where the metal spar jutted into Tommy.

  Sam saw he was wrong.

  The metal had begun to tear the tough material of the suit. He couldn’t be sure, but Sam imagined that the metal jutted into
the midsection of the other diver.

  No blood yet.

  Let’s be glad we’re not doing this off Hawaii. Wounded diver, blood, and you’re looking at sharks. And with the lousy mobility of the dive suit, the shark could play with a diver like a toy, twisting, turning, getting his air hose and life line tangled, until ready to try a big bite.

  Let’s be thankful.

  Sam didn’t pray. His brief days as an altar boy at St. Vinnie’s were a long time ago. But now, the thought passed his mind. Give me a hand here.

  Because this is not good.

  He reached for the metal spar. He heard a yelp from inside Tommy’s helmet.

  Right, that hurts. I know that. Sam didn’t look up at the kid. What he had to do was best done without the burning image of the bug-eyed kid staring at Sam, pleading.

  Sam felt the kid lay a heavily gloved hand on his shoulder, begging, pleading that he be careful.

  But there was no easy way to do this.

  Not with the time pressure, not with the nitro buildup. Not in this cramped hellhole on what Sam knew had to be his last dive here for the good old U.S. Navy.

  He put his other hand on the metal spar. He grabbed hard.

  He looked at the twisted shelving, only inches away, to make sure that he wasn’t missing anything, some detail of the trap that he might be missing.

  He had all the information he was going to get.

  His grip tightened.

  He was ready.

  7

  Atlantic City, New Jersey

  THE CAB WENT DOWN CONNECTICUT Avenue and then stopped before the boardwalk.

  The day had started in Manhattan, sunny, hopeful—but as soon as she got into the Greyhound bus for Atlantic City, she could see the clouds. Rolling in, thickening, until now it was a dark gray overhead.

  Great day at the beach, she thought.

  She saw a few people walking down a wooden ramp from the boardwalk, and a few others walked directly off the beach onto the street.

  Nothing like clouds and the threat of rain and lightning to scare people away from the ocean.

  “So here you are, dollface. You sure you wanna get out? Looks nasty. Maybe you could use a bite—or something?”