Merian C. Cooper's King Kong

by Joe DeVito

  Kong frowned, examining the amazing being he lifted from the altar. Shining hair, petal cheeks, tissue garments, puzzling footgear—his giant fingers discovered endless mystery. In intense preoccupation he began to rumble to himself as he gently turned the figure over, this way and that, much in the manner that a human child might curiously turn and inspect a limp, unconscious bird.

  When the crowd shouted again, he did not even look up, not even when new voices joined the clamor. With a last, intent look at the pale countenance in his hand, he shifted Ann’s form to the crook of one arm and started slowly back into the forest. The heavy creak of the opening gate drew no sign from his receding back. And when a tiny figure plunged through and cried out loudly in challenge, Kong did not hear him. Nor did he hear the shot, or feel something whistle past his ear. He could only think of the jewel he carried as he pushed into the dark, welcoming wilderness.

  11

  SKULL ISLAND

  MARCH 13, 1933

  Driscoll’s first sight of Kong stunned him. But a glimpse of Ann quickly steeled his nerve, and he yelled out in frustration before attempting to put a bullet in Kong’s head. In the darkness the shot went wild.

  Denham had taken charge as he raced the rescue boats away from the Wanderer and deployed the sailors for the breathless run to the village. But from the moment the crew had hauled the great gate open, Driscoll had seized command. Rushing back through the gate, he immediately set to work organizing the pursuit.

  “Jack—” Denham began.

  Driscoll turned on him with a snarl of rage. “This is my job, Denham. If you tag along, you’ll look to me for orders.”

  Denham nodded. “We do it together, then. But you call the shots.”

  “I need a dozen men,” Jack shouted. “Who’s coming?”

  Old Lumpy said, “I’ll go!”

  Driscoll shook his head. “You stay here and take command of the guard party. I need someone with experience to keep these savages in check. Don’t start anything, but don’t let them push you around, see?”

  “Got it.”

  Driscoll’s finger stabbed out. “I’ll take you, and you, and you—”

  “Who’s got the bombs?” Denham yelled as Driscoll chose his last man.

  Jimmy stepped forward, a crate hoisted to his shoulder. “Here!” One of the twelve volunteers reached to take them, but he pulled away. “Mr. Denham, I’ve carried ’em so far. Take me with you.”

  “Okay, kid. Skipper, you and Lumpy hold this gate. We’re going to need to get through in a hurry when we come back.”

  “All right, Denham. I’m old for that kind of a run. Don’t worry. We’ll be here when you need us.”

  Driscoll couldn’t wait. “Single file, all,” he ordered. “And don’t lose sight of the man in front of you. Come on, follow me.”

  He set off at a trot, but instead of following, Denham paced him, just beside him. They reached the altar, and Denham sprinted up, holding a flashlight. “No blood, thank God,” he said, leaping down again. Driscoll measured the height of the pillars with his eyes, and then looked at Denham incredulously. “Tell me I’m not dreaming. You got a glimpse of him too, didn’t you?”

  Denham nodded.

  Driscoll shook his head as they started off again. “I still can’t believe it. I got a fair look. I saw that thing from only the knees up because he was standing on the downside of that slope. Its head was squarely in line with the top of those pillars, and that’s twenty feet above the ground if it’s an inch.” He shivered. “Kong is the size of a small mountain. He must have left a trail we can follow. Look for broken branches, footprints, anything.” Immediately he set off with the others following behind, their flashlights scanning the surroundings.

  They plunged into the brush, and before long they reached the sheer rise of the precipice. “There’s no climbing this,” Denham said.

  Driscoll gestured. “Listen, off to the left.”

  “Sounds like water,” Denham grunted. “Come on, it may be a break in this cliff.”

  Driscoll led the way, and in a few dozen steps they found a stream. To the left it flowed in the general direction of the Wall, but it had worn its way through the rock of the cliff off to the right. It tumbled down a steep ravine, the rush of the water drowning out every other sound.

  “Kong must have come through here,” Driscoll said. “It’s the only way, unless he climbed down from the plateau.”

  “Yeah,” Denham said. “But he could wade it without getting his ankles wet. That white water would sweep us off our feet.”

  “Look around,” Driscoll ordered. “See if there’s a way up.”

  Denham plunged off on his own, and after a few minutes, Driscoll heard him call out, “Over here! I’ve found a track!”

  Driscoll jogged over and turned his flashlight on the mark. It was fresh. The moist ground preserved the imprint of an apelike foot so large that even Driscoll stared in unbelief. The imprint marked the base of another cleft in the rock face, this one broader and drier. “It’s the old streambed,” he said. “It parallels the river. Come on. We can climb it. Move!”

  The darkness made the climb cruel going. The brush grew so dense at times that each man had trouble seeing the one in front of him. A cracked shin, a bruising stumble, and the head-jarring impact of unseen branches snapping back from all directions marked nearly every yard of the way. Once a man slipped from the ledge into the swift water and shot down a hundred feet before he found an outcrop to cling to.

  “I kept my gun,” he gasped cheerfully as they pulled him out.

  The last hundred yards became a steep crawl up the shattered face of an ancient landslide, but at last Driscoll stood erect and looked back behind him. A half mile away, the torches on the Wall gleamed like so many fireflies. “Come on,” Driscoll said. They had reached the great plateau, but from the very outset they plunged into jungle: enormous trees, and at their base a lush tangle of undergrowth. The stream had widened, leading back into rising country.

  “Hard to believe we’re on an island,” Denham panted. “This place looks like a world all its own.”

  Driscoll didn’t respond, but said, “My guess is we’ll find that this plateau slopes gradually back to Skull Mountain. That’s a long way off.”

  They saw no sign of a track. “Look for those prints again,” Driscoll ordered the men. “I want to estimate how long his stride is. I’d guess about fifteen feet at least. Use that as a rough guide and look for the logical place the next footprint might be. Fan out in all directions from the last footprint to increase our chances. Make sure you stay in shouting distance, though!”

  “Hey, here’s a broken bush,” one of the sailors yelled. In the beam of his flashlight, the breaks showed fresh white pith contrasting with dark gray bark.

  A moment later, another one found a second footprint. The track was in a clear space beyond the broken brush, and once more it pointed upstream. It was clue enough, and as the party converged, Driscoll led the way as fast as he could in the darkness.

  Driscoll became aware that the jungle thrummed with life, shrieks and chatters and screeches. Insects, he thought, and birds.

  As if catching the thought, Denham said, “Sounds like the whole country’s loaded with birds. Birds and bugs. Hey, that means dawn’s coming on. Now we’ll catch a break, Jack!”

  “So let’s put on a little speed!” Driscoll shot back.

  For some time that proved impossible. They still moved through what seemed utter blackness. Then, slowly, Driscoll could catch shadows at a distance. Gradually, whenever they paused to puzzle out the way, they marched ahead upon a trail grown a little plainer. And finally, unmistakably, Driscoll saw gray light filtering down.

  In a slanting shaft of dawn light they found the clearest, most complete footprint so far. Driscoll still had trouble believing his eyes.

  Jimmy whistled, shifting his crate of bombs. “Would you look at the size of that thing! He must be as big as a house!”

&
nbsp; Denham pushed his cap back. “He came this way, all right.”

  Driscoll hefted his rifle. “We’re still going in the right direction. Come on, and keep your guns ready!”

  “Don’t worry about that,” one of the sailors grunted, and someone laughed in nervous agreement. They continued their pursuit until a wide glade opened up before them.

  Driscoll, toes and ankles aching from a thousand stumbles, entered the clearing gratefully. Full daylight had broken, and he ordered a short rest. “Drink some water and take the weight off for a few minutes,” he said. “But stay alert.”

  Except for a thin drifting mist, every tree, every bush, every strand of knee-deep grass, now stood revealed in the light of day. The smell of jungle roiled everywhere, a mixture of fresh morning dew and ages of rotted vegetation.

  Driscoll swatted at his neck and smashed something that felt as large as his thumb. “What the—something stung me!”

  Denham whistled, looking at the smashed remains. “Looks like a mosquito, but a mosquito that big would just about drain you dry.”

  Driscoll heard a strange buzzing drone and looked up in time to see a dragonfly as big as a crow swoop over. It flew to the edge of the river, guarded there by a thick growth of reeds, and settled down, its iridescent wings flicking as it perched.

  Some of the men reached for sticks, but Denham chuckled. “Don’t worry, boys. Those things eat mosquitoes, and with the brand of mosquitoes around here, I’d rather have the dragonflies eating them, not the mosquitoes eating me!”

  Driscoll said, “Let’s move.” They started forward again, and within a hundred steps they came across another footprint. They were still hot on Kong’s trail. Driscoll broke into a trot. They left the glade and plunged back into the undergrowth.

  Denham suddenly said, “Hold up. What the devil’s that? Over there on the right, through the trees!”

  Driscoll dropped to one knee and brought his rifle to bear. Something big blundered through the undergrowth. He couldn’t see it clearly at first, but from the noise it made, it had to be huge.

  “Kong!” someone shouted.

  “No. He’s taller and darker,” snapped Denham.

  The brush parted, and an immense brute emerged from the jungle, a four-legged creature with a thick hide, with bony scutes patterned on its flanks, looking like the ornamental armor of a medieval warrior. It carried its long, spiked tail two or three feet off the ground, and it swayed heavily, menacingly, as it advanced. “What is that?” Driscoll whispered.

  “Dinosaur,” Denham said in hushed tones. “But they were supposed to be sluggish tail-draggers. This thing looks pretty spry to me.”

  Driscoll could only stare. The creature didn’t fit his idea of dinosaurs, either. He’d always pictured them as slow, ponderous lizards, but this creature’s movement was graceful and decisive, though its body was huge, larger than any elephant he’d ever seen.

  The behemoth had a relatively short, powerful neck ending in a ridiculously small reptilian head, the snout tipped with a powerful beak. It walked on all fours, with its body sloping down from the much taller hind legs to meet the comparatively short and slightly splayed front legs. The great array of plates, larger at their apex atop the hips, gradually tapered in size as they receded toward the front and back. The largest ones, several feet high, swayed from side to side as the creature moved about.

  “Stegosaurus,” Denham whispered. “Or something like it, anyway. Look at that thing move! If I’d brought—”

  “Forget your camera,” Driscoll said. “It hasn’t noticed us yet. These things eat meat?”

  “The books say they’re vegetarians,” Denham replied. “But I’m starting to think the books are wrong.”

  Driscoll didn’t look at him. “Your learning letting you down? I thought you knew everything, Denham. We’d charm the savages, get them to let you take their picture. Things don’t look so sure now, do they?”

  “My gut tells me not to be so damned sure of anything in this place,” Denham said. “Watch it. It’s coming toward us now.”

  “Where should I put the bullet?” Driscoll sighted, trying to line up the beast’s tiny head, but its movements were too hard to follow.

  “Maybe I’m not wrong about everything,” Denham said. “Jimmy! Hand me one of those bombs!” He reached back, and Jimmy put the heavy, solid weight in his hand. “When I throw, everyone drop and stay close to the ground, and I mean close!”

  The creature grazed in some brush, still apparently unaware of them. Slowly it turned away from them, exposing a barn-sized haunch before it moved off into the trees. Driscoll found he had been holding his breath. He lowered the rifle.

  Denham clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, that was a scare we didn’t need. Here, Jimmy, take this—”

  The attack came without warning. Driscoll heard a crashing, and the beast burst from the concealing vegetation off to the side, charging forward at what must have been its full gait. Driscoll had an impression of immense power. The creature’s great bulk swayed, not jerkily, but fluidly. Denham stood in Driscoll’s line of fire. He couldn’t line up a shot—

  The sailors’ nerve broke, and they sprinted off toward the river, shouting in dismay. Two of them reached to help Jimmy, staggering under the weight of the crate.

  Driscoll snapped off two shots, one into the beast’s chest, the other into its head. No effect, other than to madden the monster. It stamped ferociously, letting out a deep-chested hiss like a rasping bellows. Driscoll saw that Denham still held the bomb.

  “He’s gonna make up his mind in a second. When you drop, keep close to me. Don’t get up until I do.”

  The dinosaur thrashed its head, then lunged forward, like a charging rhino. Denham stood braced until it was seconds away.

  Then he threw.

  The missile landed squarely in front of the beast’s feet. It exploded instantly into boiling blue vapor. The gas completely covered the beast’s forequarters, head, front feet, and all.

  “Down!” Denham threw himself flat, and Driscoll dropped alongside him, feeling the director’s hand on the back of his neck. Before he could protest, Driscoll’s mouth was full of moss.

  Driscoll inhaled the damp, rich smell of earth, and the sap of growing roots grew bitter on his lips. Just forward of him the ground shook violently from the fall of a great weight. He moved to rise, but Denham’s clamped hand refused to release its pressure. Half a minute crept by, seeming to Driscoll like an hour. Then Denham loosed his hold and tapped Driscoll’s shoulder twice.

  Driscoll stood up. Scarcely the length of his own body away lay the twitching head of the beast, mouth open, tongue lolling, eyes glassy. Behind the head its enormous dome of a rib cage rose and fell spasmodically. Driscoll measured the distance with his eye and exclaimed, “Good Lord! It came fifty feet before the gas finally stopped it.”

  Denham sounded triumphant: “But I did stop it! Didn’t I tell you one of those bombs would stop anything?”

  “Is it dying?”

  “Not yet,” Denham said grimly. “But that’s just a detail.” He picked up his rifle, walked forward, and put his rifle barrel squarely between the eyes of its triangular head. He pumped in two shots. The great body started convulsively and half rose off the ground before collapsing again with a jolt like an earthquake. Denham hesitated, then for good measure sent another bullet through its saurian head.

  Driscoll looked over his shoulder. “My shot just creased the top of its skull. I was beginning to think bullets just bounced off this monster.” The sailors had seen it all, and now, as though ashamed of themselves, they were slowly making their way back, their eyes wide at the sight that lay before them.

  “What did I tell you?” Denham said to Driscoll. The director crouched beside the grotesque head and reached a tentative hand to touch it. “Prehistoric life!”

  The creature was bigger than any land animal Denham had ever seen. Its body still gave signs of movement.

  “It takes it
s sweet time about dying,” Driscoll complained. “Look at those spikes in its tail—big enough to cave in a city bus!”

  The sailors curiously clustered around the body. A couple of them prodded the flanks with the barrels of their rifles, and the creature jerked in response. “Careful, boys!” Denham warned.

  “This isn’t getting us closer to Ann,” Driscoll said, reloading his rifle and slinging it over his shoulder.

  Denham rose to his feet, as if he had only half heard. “Jack, Ann was right last night, but she only had the start of it. She guessed the beast-god was some primitive survivor. But if this thing we killed means anything, Kong isn’t the only relic of the past roaming this island. There may be all sorts of creatures that have survived along with Kong.”

  “That means we have to pick up speed,” Driscoll said. “Let’s go, men.”

  * * *

  Though he didn’t voice his fears, Driscoll was growing more and more worried about Ann’s fate. The monstrous Kong was fearsome enough, but if Denham was right and the island teemed with living dinosaurs—well, he didn’t want to think of it. He led the men at a quick march, as much as that was possible through the heavy growth. Under the canopy of jungle, the air grew green with filtered sunlight. Driscoll could see how Kong could pass through here without leaving much trace. The jungle floor, thick with ancient leaf mold, sprouted little undergrowth. Too dark in the shadow of the trees, he supposed.

  Still, the occasional gigantic footprint showed them they were still on Kong’s trail. It still led them on a path parallel to the river, but the land now sloped generally downward. Ground mist rose and soon they waded through a lake of curling fog. It rose to their chests, then over their heads. Driscoll groaned in frustration. The drifting mist cut visibility to only a few yards.

  From behind, Jimmy said, “Look there, over to the left.” Driscoll saw a foggy hollow ahead of them. Thicker, curling mist showed the track of the stream, and concealed within the densest fog something splashed in what sounded like deep water.