Kong: Skull Island Read online

  San sliced at another tentacle and the thing let go, splashing into the water and quickly falling behind them.

  “Shit! Shit!” Slivko kicked the parted tentacle from around his leg and watched it fall over the side, leaving a dark red trail behind.

  “He sure had the hots for you,” Weaver said to Slivko. She stood and nodded her thanks to San, who was still standing with the sword held in both hands. She looked surprised at what she had done.

  “Nice swordplay,” Conrad said.

  “Yeah,” San nodded. She stared wide-eyed at the weapon in her hands.

  Marlow eased back on the throttle, but didn’t slow down too much.

  “So what the hell was that?” Conrad asked him.

  “Beats me,” Marlow said. He shrugged. “Like I said, lots of stuff in this river.”

  They headed north. Slivko packed away his record player. Their brief moment of respite was over.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Packard led his men on the hunt for the beast. The fact that not all of them knew that was their mission troubled him a little, but not much. When the time came for him to reveal his intentions, none of his soldiers would object, because they had always followed him into hell, fire and damnation. They always would.

  The civilians might not like it. But he was the man in charge, and they had no say. If they didn’t like his plan, they were free to leave and make their own way north.

  They were all exhausted. The heat sucked energy out of them, soaking them with sweat, draining them of strength, but they forged on. Even Randa, older than the others and less fit, was quietly determined to keep up.

  Packard led them, never for a moment letting them see his tiredness. Fury was his fuel. Revenge was his motivator.

  When the ground shook, a tingle of anticipation shook him, but he thought, I’m not ready yet! If they faced the thing now they would lose. He didn’t care whether he lived or died—he was hardly thinking of his own well-being, let alone the others in his command—but he did care that the monster died. That was all that mattered in his life.

  The beast appeared.

  Packard waved everyone down under the trees and behind undergrowth. The giant ape stepped out before them, standing at the edge of the sweeping descent into a wide valley.

  He was the size of a mountain. Packard had not been this close before, and he feared the monster might sense his hatred, turn and see him, trample him and his men down into the dirt. He tried to hold it in but it burned, seething behind his eyes and scorching his muscles, urging him to charge shooting and shouting.

  I’ll bide my time, Packard thought. I’ll have you, you bastard. Just not yet.

  The ape looked down at his feet, examining something on the ground close to where Packard and his group had taken cover. Then Packard saw what it was.

  Tracks on the hillside. Deep clawed marks, scratched into the ground by something almost as huge.

  The ape snorted and came closer, bending to sniff at the ground. It stood again and followed the tracks to the edge of the valley, pausing for only a moment before performing one huge leap from the ridge line.

  Packard ran, leaping over the tracks in the ground and reaching the valley edge in time to see the ape streaking down the side. It held onto trees, swinging its massive weight left and right with a grace that even Packard could not help admiring. It seemed to defy gravity as it descended further down the cliffside, dislodging a pile of boulders that roared down into the darkness.

  It paused as quickly as it had begun, crouching low over a crevasse in the ground. Sniffing. Probing with its massive hands.

  The ape bellowed, long and loud, looking around as if to find the perpetrators of this carnage.

  Packard thought it was one of the seismic charge craters, but there was something else beside it.

  The ape stood and edged around a rocky outcropping nearby, bracing its back against the tower and grunting as it started to heave. Its muscles rippled beneath thick fur, chest expanding, and slowly the tower began to topple. The sound was unbelievable, an earthquake echoing back and forth across the valley, as the mountain of rocks tumbled into the crater and the deeper crevasse that had opened beside it.

  Sealing something in, Packard thought, and he looked back at the footprints the ape had been examining. He didn’t want to know what had made them.

  Several loud detonations from down in the valley jerked his head around again, and for a second he thought perhaps one of the choppers had survived after all, and was even now unleashing hell upon the monster. But the sounds came from the monster itself. It thumped its chest, a deep bass rumble that shook trees and reverberated around the valley. Then it started rushing away from them again, pausing now and then to check something at its feet.

  Following a trail.

  “Let’s move out,” Packard said. “Next time it might not miss us.”

  Next time, we’ll be bringing the fight to it.

  * * *

  There were no more giant squids or river serpents. Sometimes Weaver saw shapes in the water, but they quickly passed them by. She knew that here, even the appearance of safety was only a facade. Death waited for them beneath every surface.

  Following the river upstream led them into a wide marshland, the single route dividing into a dozen tributaries and making navigation more of a case of trial and error. With Conrad steering, Weaver couldn’t tear herself away from the bow, because from there she saw everything. Birds she knew and some she did not. Flowers the size of armchairs blooming from lily pads as wide as the boat. Clouds of butterflies no larger than her thumb, flocking together and moving almost like one living creature. Her expertise had always been in conflict—or more accurately, humanity immersed in conflict—but Weaver was quite sure there were as many unclassified organisms here as there were known.

  Marlow joined her at the bow. He had taken to strolling the deck of his boat, proud at what he and his friend had made. As he should be. It rattled and leaked, the engine frequently coughed and backfired, and Weaver was convinced that the vessel would fall apart within days, but it was still a marvel.

  “So how long have you two been an item?” he asked. It was the last question Weaver had been expecting. She glanced back at Conrad and saw that he’d also heard.

  “Eh?” he asked. “We’re not…”

  “We just met yesterday,” Weaver said, saving him from embarrassment.

  “Some first date,” Conrad said.

  “I’ve got a wife,” Marlow said. “Had one, anyway. I guess I don’t really know which it is anymore. We got hitched just before I was deployed, and she sent me a telegram the day I was shot down. I received it two hours before I took off. She’d just had our baby boy, Hank Junior. I’ve got a son out there somewhere. A grown man I’ve never met, who thinks his father died thirty years ago.”

  Marlow took out a photograph of his wife, delicate now with many years of handling. He held it in his palm and showed Weaver.

  “Lemme ask you something, Weaver. Would you wait twenty-eight years for a fella?”

  “She probably thinks you’re dead,” Slivko said from nearby. It was a harsh statement. Weaver glared at him and he shrugged and looked away.

  “I don’t think so,” Conrad said. “People don’t give up like that. Mark my words, when you get home, they’ll be waiting.”

  Marlow nodded at Conrad, then stared out over the water again. Weaver saw a perfect shot framed before her—Marlow, the man lost in time; the marshes and jungles, a land that time forgot. She left her camera where it was around her neck and gave him his moment.

  “This big flood swallows up a town,” Marlow said. “Guy winds up on a roof, water up to his knees, his neighbours come by in a boat and say, ‘Hop in, we’ll get you outta here.’ The guy shakes his head and says, ‘No thanks, God will provide.’ An hour later and he’s up to his neck, when some firemen fly by in a blimp. One of them shouts, ‘Grab the rope, we’ll save you!’ But he shakes his head again and says, ‘No th
anks, God will provide.’ An hour after that and the guy’s dead. When he gets to heaven, he’s pretty peeved at God for doing him like that. He says, ‘I believed in you, I had faith, but you didn’t help me!’ And God says, ‘Help you? I sent a boat and a blimp!’” Marlow laughed softly. “Truth is, I don’t expect them to be waiting. Wouldn’t blame them either way. All I want is one last chance to see ’em, hold ’em. To me, that’ll be as good as Heaven.”

  “You will,” Weaver said. “We’re going to make sure of it.”

  Silence fell across the boat, but it was almost immediately broken by the hiss of a radio.

  “Fox Five, come in,” Mills said, voice crackling with static. “Is there anyone out there?”

  Slivko dived for the radio and snatched it up.

  “This is Fox Five, we hear you! We have a boat, we’re heading north upriver.”

  “A boat?” Mills asked. “What kind of boat?”

  Slivko looked around, eyes settling on Marlow. “It floats, let’s put it that way.”

  “Roger that, Fox Five,” Packard said from the radio. “Sending up a visual from our current position. Stand by.”

  They watched the skies. Weaver scanned the jungles to either side of the marshland through her telephoto lens, looking from left to right. She saw the flare the same moment as Nieves.

  “There!” he shouted, pointing to the left and inland.

  “We have visual!” Slivko said.

  “Can’t get there on the boat,” Marlow said. “None of these tributaries goes that way.”

  “Tell them to hold position,” Conrad said to Slivko, steering the boat in to shore. He left the helm and stood beside Weaver and Marlow on the bow. He was readying to move out.

  “What’re you doing?” Weaver asked.

  “I’ll go and bring them in. Keep the boat here, moored close to shore. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”

  “What if you…?” Weaver frowned. Something wrong, she thought. Something… The sun had faded. Silence had fallen. Even the movement of the air was strange.

  For a split second, everyone froze.

  Nieves screamed as a shape swooped down from the jungle canopy at the shore, ripped a taloned claw into his shoulder, and hauled him aloft with a single flap of huge wings.

  “Get down!” Conrad shouted, but Weaver and Marlow were already dropping to the deck, Marlow drawing the katana sword.

  Conrad and Slivko grabbed their rifles and started firing up into the canopy, their targets shadowy and uncertain. Weaver tried to make out just what had attacked them—she saw wings, claws, vicious beaks, all giving the image of giant vultures.

  The thing holding Nieves was tangled in the canopy, and he was a pale struggling shape, hanging onto a branch as the thing flapped its huge wings and tried to drag him further. The gunfire continued, bullets ripping through leaves and tearing chunks from the trees. She feared that they’d end up shooting Nieves, but then he came apart. That was the only way she could describe what she saw. Part of him went one way, part another, and as the huge winged shape disappeared up through the canopy and away, something splashed into the water twenty feet from the boat.

  “Stop shooting!” Marlow shouted. “Quiet!”

  The gunfire ceased, echoing away into silence and stillness. Blood was spattered across the deck in several wide arcs. Some still dripped from the heavy leaves overhead.

  “What the hell!” Slivko said. “He’s just…”

  “Gone,” Conrad said. He kept his gun ready, cautious and alert.

  Weaver could barely believe how quickly it had happened. One second here, the next ripped apart and taken away. A blink between life and death.

  It could have been any of them.

  “I need to get Packard and his team,” Conrad said, reloading his gun. “Get into the middle of the river and moor there, away from the jungle. I’ll be back as soon as I can and we’ll get out of here.”

  “You want us to wait here?” Slivko said. “I don’t think so, man. I’m sticking with you.”

  “Kid’s got a point,” Marlow said.

  “Safety in numbers,” San said.

  Conrad looked at Weaver, and she nodded. It made sense.

  “All right,” he said. “Gear up. We’re leaving in two minutes.”

  “Isn’t anyone going to say something?” Brooks asked. His voice was shaking, matching his hands. “You know, about…” He glanced skyward. Nobody spoke. Weaver guessed none of them had really known Nieves enough to give him a fitting eulogy.

  “He seemed like a good administrator,” Marlow said at last.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  They headed inland. Conrad had taken a compass bearing on the flare, and he paused every few minutes to make sure they were still on course.

  He would have much preferred to be on his own. This was his world—navigating through hostile territory, moving in silence, remaining alert in the face of unknown dangers. He had done this many times before. Although the surroundings and perils were different, the methods he used were the same. His bushcraft was his own, developed over years and adapted to suit his own strengths and talents. Bringing the others with him threatened to make all his talents redundant.

  He knew, however, that they were safer together. Leaving them alone on the boat might have been to doom them to death. He didn’t want that for any of them.

  Especially Weaver.

  He was already missing the relative comfort of the boat. Heat hung heavy, insects buzzed, plants scratched and irritated bare skin, mysterious rustlings and slower, more measured movement seemed to come from all around. He saw shapes scurrying for cover, and worried that they might be dangerous spiders or disease-laden vermin. Conrad knew more than most how dangerous a jungle could be. This island had to be one of the deadliest places he had ever been, and by far the strangest. Giant apes, giant snakes, giant vultures…

  What would come next?

  He steered them down into a shallow creek so that they could follow a water course upstream, hoping that the going would be easier. With less foliage to hack their way through, they could move faster towards where Packard and his group were hopefully still waiting for them.

  The stream flowed and tumbled along its rough path, splashing from rocks and throwing several small rainbows ahead of them. Conrad remained alert, trying not to get distracted. Dragonflies buzzed across the stream in rough formations, frogs leapt at the marshy edges, and he saw the silvery flashes of fish darting beneath the surface.

  Weaver viewed the world through her lens, as usual. He wondered what she’d truly see of this place, and of him, if she was forced to confront it without her glass and plastic safety net.

  Something rustled. A bump. He froze, hand held up to halt the rest of the group. There was sound all around—splashing, rustling, bird song and insects buzzing—but something about this sound was different. It was made by something or someone attempting to be quiet.

  Conrad lifted his gun and aimed it across the stream at the dense jungle on the other side. A cloud of insects had taken off and were flying in a chaotic, angry mass.

  A shape appeared in the shadows. Conrad squeezed the trigger.

  The shape became a man, and Colonel Packard stepped out from beneath the cover of trees.

  “Colonel Packard.” Conrad sighed, remaining alert as others emerged behind Packard.

  “You’re a sight for sore eyes,” Packard said. He almost smiled. “Even you, Miss Weaver.”

  Slivko and his fellow soldiers greeted each other with shoulder-slaps and banter, relieved to be together again. They still carried the stain of loss in their expressions. Conrad knew that feeling well.

  “Thought for sure you’d be monkey food by now, Slivko,” Cole said.

  “Sorry to get your hopes up, Cole,” he replied.

  Randa stepped around Packard and splashed across the stream, shaking Brooks’s and San’s hands.

  “I thought you were crazy,” Brooks said.

  “Yea
h, right now I wish I had been,” Randa replied. Conrad saw the lie in his eyes. He was delighted at just how right he’d been.

  “Me too,” Brooks said.

  “You aren’t hurt?” San asked in Mandarin. Perhaps she thought no one else in the group could understand, but Conrad had spoken the language for years.

  “Barely a scratch, dear,” Randa replied in the same language.

  Marlow had drawn his katana sword at the sounds of rustling, and now he sheathed it and stepped forward towards the soldiers.

  “Good to see you, fellas,” he said. “New faces sure are a treat.”

  “Who the hell is this?” Packard asked. He was looking at Marlow like he was something he had stepped in on the sidewalk, and Conrad could have swung for him right then. He’d already marked Packard as arrogant and dangerous. Seemed he was pompous and superior, too.

  “Picked up a hitchhiker,” Conrad said.

  “Lieutenant Hank Marlow, sir. Forty-fifth Pursuit squadron of the Fifteenth Pursuit group out of Wheeler Army Airfield, Hawaii.”

  “You been here since World War Two?”

  “More than half my life,” Marlow said.

  “I’ll be damned,” Packard said. “Snap to, Lieutenant!” He saluted.

  Marlow snapped a salute back, no longer looking like an old soldier.

  “I’m getting him home,” Conrad said. “I’m getting all of us home. If we follow the river, his boat should take us close to the north shore in time for extraction.”

  “Good to know,” Packard said, nodding and smiling. “But we’re not leaving yet.”

  “Not leaving?” Randa asked. “We need to get away from here, get back home with this information while we still can. It’s important!”

  “I’m not leaving Chapman,” Packard said.

  “He’s still out there?” Conrad asked. “Alive?” He’d assumed that all survivors had gathered together. The idea of one man being out there on his own was awful.

  “Last contact was yesterday,” Packard said. He pulled out his map and spread it on a rock so that Conrad and others could lean in to see. “He’s stayed with his downed Sea Stallion to the west… round about here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. Conrad reckoned it was less than two miles from their current location.