Kong: King of Skull Island

by Strickland, Brad

  Vincent knew that voice—Ann Darrow’s voice! He struggled to the surface of consciousness and jolted awake into darkness—a dank, closed-in darkness, smelling of earth and dust. He had memories of nightmares. But the voice, the voice was surely not from inside his mind—

  A sound in the dark, an insane, cackling laugh. “For the luvva Mike!” His father’s voice? His father?

  “Who’s there?” An echo died in the dark, but no answer came. Not unless he counted a grunting, feral growl.

  Instinctively he froze. He knew now exactly how prey felt, and he had no wish to attract attention to himself. He felt clammy, sweating and chilled. Something lay over him, soft, a coverlet of some kind. Beneath it, his muscles ached, and he felt the fire of other wounds along his side, on his leg. His left arm felt numb. With his right, he explored his naked chest, stopping when his palm found a jagged but closed rip in the flesh over his ribs. Someone had stitched up the tear.

  Vincent shivered. Had he been delirious? Somehow memories of his father floated to the surface, the big man laughing, dressed for yet another expedition. “For the luvva Mike,” his dad had often said to him—when? Maybe when Vincent had been four. “For the luvva Mike, kid, you have to stay here and take care of your mom. When you get a little height on you, you can come with me.”

  The day had never come, but now, flat on his back in the darkness, Vincent felt an unfamiliar kinship with Carl Denham. Vincent’s travels had been to sunny places, dinosaur digs. He had felt far more at home in the cool, shadowy recesses of a museum than on the road. Now he had followed his father halfway around the world—but to what?

  Vincent strained his senses. What at first he had thought to be his heartbeat had a different quality, ominous and musical: a primitive drumbeat, muffled and far away. Cautiously, he raised himself on his right elbow.

  Something rustled in the darkness, and he felt a cobweb-touch across his face. Reflexively, Vincent dropped back, batting at the air. He connected with something feathery, heard a shrill screech from the thing and heard at the same time from behind a woman’s cry: “Oji!”

  The thing fluttered away, scrabbled at something. Vincent heard a shattering crash, as if a jar had fallen and broken.

  “For the luvva Mike.” Not his father, but the woman’s voice again. “Here.”

  Panting, Vincent sat up as a phosphorescent glow, orange at first, then greenish, pushed back the darkness. He strained to turn, needles of pain jabbing at him. “Father? Dad? Is that—”

  “No. Be still.” A hand pressed him back, and in the smoky, shimmering light, Vincent saw it belonged to an old woman, withered, a white-haired crone. Exhausted, he fell back as in a dream. She stooped over him, her hooded eyes black in the strange light. Even in the haze of pain, his trained mind noticed the garment she wore: leather, but certainly not cowhide. It was scaly, mottled in the uncertain glow in a way that reminded him of lizard skin. Reptilian, certainly. “Would you like a better light?”

  Vincent reflexively nodded, fighting to quell his fear. Her English was unaccented, but slow, each word carefully pronounced. She reached to the floor and produced a torch. This she touched to something outside of Vincent’s field of vision, and the torch flared to slow life, burning with an unearthly greenish-white flame.

  When she settled the torch into a holder, Vincent recognized it as a curved section of rib—dinosaur rib. And in the light he saw that the woman wore a necklace of teeth and claws, curved and gleaming. A flesh-eater’s teeth. A predator’s claws. “What—?” Vincent mumbled, trying to put together his thoughts.

  “Here.” The woman pulled back the coverlet, touched his chest gently, probed the wound he had felt. Vincent groaned, yellow pain exploding behind his eyeballs. “Hurts, does it? Healing, though.” She was so close that Vincent could smell an unusual scent on her breath, somehow green and growing. Not mint, but something with that tang.

  “What is your name? Fortheluvvamike?” The woman’s seamed face broke into a smile. “Crazy name like that would be good for a man who swims in those waters.”

  “My name is Vincent Denham,” Vincent said. “Who are you? I heard my father’s voice—where am I, how did I get here?” His chest ached, and the effort of speaking made his head spin. He felt a flutter of panic at his weakness, at the strange surroundings.

  Despite the calm assurance of her voice, the old woman’s eyes seemed to stare malignantly at him through the glowing light, and her smile was distorted to a sneer. “We saved you in time. Look at your wounds, Vincent Denham.”

  She helped him sit up. He looked down at his bare chest and abdomen. A red welt, nearly black in the green light, jagged down his left side from two inches below his nipple to just beside his navel. It looked lumpy. But he had been wrong about its being stitched. Vincent focused and then gagged.

  Insect heads, maybe twenty of them, clasped his flesh together. They might have belonged to ants, if ants grew three inches long. Their mandibles had clamped into his flesh, and the insects had been decapitated. Only then did the full horror of his predicament flood his mind, and he lost all control. Screaming, Vincent reached with his good hand to tear the things away.

  The woman’s hand closed on his wrist in an iron grip. “No. You stay still!”

  The crack of her voice and the strength of her grasp shocked him back to reality. Trembling, weak, Vincent fell back. “The—the heads—”

  “Hold your wound closed so I can treat it,” the woman said, concern on her ancient face. “They are harmless, and they keep you from bleeding to death.”

  “Where is my father? I heard his voice! What have you done with him—or was I dreaming? Who are you?” Vincent asked, shuddering. “A witch doctor?”

  “You can call me Storyteller. That is close enough. As for your father, he is not here. But that is a story yet to be told. Lie still now.” In a louder tone, she called, “Kara!”

  Vincent stared as a form emerged from the darkness, a strikingly attractive woman, no more than twenty. Her face had a timeless beauty, a symmetry and perfection of feature. But her expression was mingled pride and anger. She did not even look at Vincent.

  The Storyteller said something to her in a rapid, low voice. The young woman walked past Vincent’s bed off to his left. He heard the clatter of some kind of earthenware vessel, and then he felt the cold touch of a viscous liquid. While the young woman stood beside her, holding the container, the Storyteller was painting his wound with some mixture. “More light, Kara,” she said.

  Kara set down the vessel and turned away. Vincent heard her moving, and a new torch flared. The Storyteller had settled onto a stool beside the bed, her brooding eyes never leaving Vincent. Weakly, he looked around. He seemed to be lying in a vault of vast proportions. A cave, he supposed, or a tunnel. When he raised himself, he stared down an endless expanse of darkness, the light just touching some gigantic carvings to the left and to the right.

  “Tyrannosaur,” muttered Vincent, studying the carving to the left.

  “My people carved that from stone,” the Storyteller said. “An age ago.”

  “Not right, though. Proportions are off.” The statue looked at least half life-sized, Vincent thought.

  A nagging thought crossed Vincent’s mind. The tyrannosaur wasn’t right, wasn’t the way he knew it should look—something about the head, the hunch of the shoulders, the stance were all wrong. But what if it were not a tyrannosaur at all? What if it were a different species, maybe even—understanding dawned, even in Vincent’s dazed mind: sixty-five million extra years of evolution could have made the difference. Not the Tyrant King, but a descendant of the great killer dinosaurs.

  Vincent tore his gaze away from the predator and saw that its companion was an ichthyosaur, carved and poised as if it were swimming in an antediluvian sea. The statues were beautifully executed, with perfectly detailed limbs, claws, teeth, scales, eyes. Vincent knew archaeology, and he could tell that these carvings were not stylized, not typical of primi
tive art. The artisans were brilliant in both art and in scientific knowledge. The idols looked almost alive.

  “How old?” he croaked, pointing to the statues.

  “Old beyond memory,” Kara said from somewhere behind him. Her voice was cold, scornful.

  Vincent heard the fluttering sound again and winced as something flew over his head, landing with a clumsy thump on the foot of the bed. It gave a creaking call and ruffled its feathers. In the strange torchlight, it looked green, with highlights of yellow, scarlet, and orange. It began to preen one wing, its long tail moving for balance as the creature held onto its perch beside Vincent’s right foot.

  “Archaeopteryx,” Vincent said, mesmerized by the crow-sized dragon-bird.

  “Oji,” corrected the old woman, rising from her stool to stand beside Vincent. She clapped her hands, and with a piping call the creature flapped into awkward flight, scrambling onto the Storyteller’s shoulder. Its long neck curved and it delivered a quick peck to her cheek.

  “Oji,” Vincent said. The primitive bird swiveled its head to look at him, its eyes bright as jewels. It grinned at him with carnivorous teeth.

  Vincent had to rip his attention away from the living fossil. “Listen,” he said. “How did you learn English?”

  “You rest now,” the old woman said. “Time for questions later.”

  “I came to find my father,” Vincent said in a rush. “He—do you remember King Kong?”

  From behind him came the sharp intake of Kara’s breath.

  “Kong,” the old woman said without expression. “You must rest. Sleep. Kara! We will leave him.” She turned and walked away, into darkness, followed by the young woman. But Kara turned her head back over her shoulder and glared at him, a withering look that was as sharp as a dagger.

  Vincent settled back, too weak to protest. Feverishly, he remembered the tales Driscoll had told him on the outward voyage. How Kong had rampaged through the village on the island, how later in Manhattan he had run amok, spreading death and destruction.

  And then he was dreaming. He was standing in New York City’s American Museum of Natural History, in a new wing, the Carl Denham Wing. The architecture was a strange mixture of the familiar and the bizarre.

  The central display was the mounted skeletons of a tyrannosaur and a gigantic ape locked in combat, the dinosaur on its back, ready to deliver an eviscerating kick to the enemy that towered over it. Flashbulbs popped, and in Vincent’s dream he imagined his father’s voice saying, “. . . the Eighth Wonder of the World!”

  The dream changed. Vincent was now alone beneath the exhibit. Eerily, Kong’s skull turned, shifting its gaze. The skeletal nightmare was aware of him. Slowly Kong became a living, breathing behemoth, his eyes burning into Vincent’s. Vincent felt ice in his bones. Kong roared deafeningly and took a step forward. His shadow fell over Vincent, a shadow that seemed to have weight and suffocating substance. The beast’s massive hand reached towards him. Vincent couldn’t run, couldn’t move, couldn’t even breathe—

  Gasping in terror, Vincent yelled himself awake. He felt a touch on his forehead and realized that Kara sat near him, wiping his brow. “You dream of the Kong,” she said. “You said his name twice. And you called for your father.”

  “My father,” Vincent said, hearing the coldness in her voice.

  “Carl Denham,” Kara said in a voice dripping with venom. “And now I know what I must do with you, Vincent Denham.”

  “What?” Vincent asked. ”What is that?”

  The young woman bent close, her eyes glittering like stars, but as deep and black as the grave. “Nothing,” she said slowly and ominously, “that your father has not already done to my people.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  UNDERGROUND

  June 29, 1957

  Jack Driscoll rose and stretched. His fire had burned down to ashes, but the thin light streaming through the break overhead told him it must be morning. He rummaged around in the semidarkness, finding the torches he had prepared before settling in for a fitful sleep. He thrust all but one into his belt and lit the last one. It was a stout branch, its head wound around with dried creeper. In its wavering light, he unfolded the map of the island. His finger traced a line that snaked toward the wall.

  Had to be the tunnel he was in, he decided. Had to be. He had often wondered how the islanders had been able to survive cooped up on the peninsula. Here was the answer: secret passages that let them get out into the jungle and back in one piece. And that would give him a chance to find Vincent. Driscoll grinned.

  He took a look at his compass and turned to the right direction. Savages couldn’t have built this tunnel, he thought. Lava tube, he supposed. Just his luck the ceiling had collapsed right under the deadfall, just his luck to topple through. But it seemed to be plenty big enough for him to stride through it. He should still make far better time here than struggling through the jungle.

  If nothing hungry denned here, he thought with a twisted smile. If there was an opening at the far end. If he wasn’t trapped here for good and all.

  But there were no signs of animals, which was strange. As if the creatures avoided the place for some reason. Or maybe they hadn’t ever discovered it.

  Anyway, according to his compass readings and the map, he was headed toward the wall. With some luck, the tunnel might even take him beyond the wall. He might come out somewhere on the village peninsula. Only one way to—

  Something crunched under his boot. Driscoll took a step back and lit a new torch.

  In its flickering light he saw something long and white.

  He had stepped on someone’s foot.

  But whoever it was felt no pain. He or she had become a skeleton ages ago.

  SKULL ISLAND

  The Past

  Delirium: Vincent was prey again. Monsters loomed all around him, eyes, teeth, claws. A sharp snake-house reek, cold in the nostrils. Hisses, roars, shrieks that could never be torn from mammalian throats.

  And beyond the monsters, behind them, larger than they were, as large as the night itself, blackness. A darkness that lived and moved and was worshiped as a god.

  Kong.

  Kong.

  Kong.

  How long the fever madness lasted, Vincent could not tell. He was aware of intervals, of the old woman, the Storyteller, lifting his head, holding an earthenware vessel to his lips, of a taste astringent and bitter, cold and yet spiced with a heat that burned its way to his gut. Sometimes the beautiful Kara was there, treating him gently but with obvious hatred in her glare. Then, like a man clawing at the side of a cliff as gravity pulls him down, he always slid back into sleep, into nightmares.

  Until he pulled himself into the light. He raised himself in bed, his head reeling. A few of the bone torches burned with their lazy, oily, almost liquid flames. The skin on his chest felt tight, drawn like a drumhead over the frame of his ribs. The scar had turned pale, was no longer purple and puckered, and the ant heads were gone.

  The Storyteller sat not far away, her back against one rough wall, her head forward. She seemed asleep. The Oji, the impossible archaeopteryx, perched nearby, its long claws closed over the handle of a basket. Eyes bright as black pearls regarded him. The scaled beak opened, a black tongue vibrated. The creature made a faint cawing sound, ending in his father’s voice: “For the luvva Mike!”

  Vincent wanted to rise, but he lacked the strength. His arm trembled even supporting his weight in bed. He let himself fall back with a sigh. He lay exploring his feelings. The dead spots, the numb places, were gone. He had an interesting variety of pain now, ranging from the deep muscle ache of unaccustomed exertion to abrasions, cuts, scratches, bruises. And his mouth tasted foul, as if the Oji had been roosting in it.

  “You are awake.” A hand cool on his forehead. Kara looked down on him, and again the elegance of her face, the loveliness of it, caught his attention. “The fever has passed. You will not be strong for a long time.”

  The old Storyteller st
irred and her cracked voice said, “He was never strong enough to swim in the lagoon, to face the water beasts.”

  A flutter, and the archaeopteryx landed on the side of his bed, near the crook of his right elbow. Vincent stared at it, seeing its feathers clearly for the first time, seeing the reptilian snout, the face of a predatory dinosaur. It tilted its head, studying him. “Where I come from, we’d call that a living fossil,” he said. “How can it imitate my father’s voice like that? When did it hear him speak?”

  “Here I call him Oji,” responded the Storyteller. She ignored his questions. “Vincent Denham, your fever cried out. It called ‘Kong! Kong!’ What do you know of Kong?”

  Vincent shook his head. “Almost nothing.” And that was true; he knew so little of his father’s find, the Eighth Wonder of the World, the beast that hulked through his dreams and haunted his memories. “Only what I have heard.”

  The woman leaned close, her fingers exploring the scar on Vincent’s side. “He was unlike any other creature. Like nothing that ever walked, hunted, or fought. He had, almost, a soul.” She put an arm behind his shoulders. “Stand up. Walk now. We will help you. Only a short way.”

  “But what about my fath—”

  “Not now. Come, Vincent Denham. You will hear what you wish to know in time. Come with us now.”

  Her voice was hard to resist, almost hypnotic. Vincent struggled up on rubber legs. His head spun, and he heard, or imagined he heard, that insistent, mournful drumbeat from somewhere not close, yet not very far away. Kara, with a supple strength, put his arm around her neck and bore most of his weight. He felt her body, warm against his. “Where are we going?” he asked.

  The Storyteller gestured with one of the torches. “This way. Not far.”

  Vincent put one foot in front of the other, then again, and again. Kara’s deceptively thin frame felt muscular and strong beside him. The torch chased wavering shadows ahead of them. He wondered where he was—the place had the feel of a natural cavern, vaulting up to unguessed heights, lost in darkness, but the rough walls were shored with balks of timber, lined with carved idols. To Vincent’s dizzy sight, the dinosaurs seemed almost museum-quality recreations, and yet—“They’re not quite right,” he muttered. “Not for the species I know.”