Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (17 page)

The wounded triceratops tried to heave itself back up. Both of its brow horns had been broken, and now as the dinosaur painfully got to its feet to face the advancing Kong, it lowered its bleeding head. Only the short horn on its snout remained undamaged, and the creature snorted loudly as it braced to meet the attack.

But Kong had pried up another mass of hardened asphalt, the largest one yet, and he crashed his weapon onto his foe with such force that the triceratops fell to its knees as if poleaxed. Somehow, desperately, it managed to rise to meet Kong's onslaught. Without hesitation Kong grabbed its massive skull. For a moment the two brutes stood, straining and frozen, as the ceratopsian fought with its last ounce of energy to resist Kong's hold. Kong roared, his muscles rippling in one supreme effort as he yanked upward with such force that the other creature's entire body shook. The pistol-shot crack of its breaking neck echoed sickeningly, making Driscoll wince.

Kong towered above the carcass, pounded it with such rage that ribs snapped like sticks. He tattooed his chest uncontrollably before looking around as though to dare any creature to challenge him.

“We have to get away from here, but quick!” Driscoll said. “Come on.” He led the way into heavy, concealing brush. The lone surviving triceratops lumbered past them, more than a hundred yards away, and did not seem to notice them.

For minutes, it seemed that the surviving triceratops had passed them by. Driscoll could still see it, shaking its heavy head and pacing through growth that would have swallowed a man whole. Kong picked up Ann and made his way straight across the cracked surface of the asphalt lake, climbed a steep ridge, and vanished over the crest.

The earth became mushy beneath Driscoll's feet as they drew close to the lake of tar. A scum of rainbow-hued water covered the margins of the lake, and beneath that lay miry, tarry black earth, of the consistency of thick mud. Driscoll soon saw that in order to venture out onto the lake they had to work their way back toward the triceratops, still snorting and tossing its head near the margin of some brushy woods.

“There,” Denham said. “That's the way the dinosaur came out. If it held his weight, it'll hold ours.”

Driscoll crouched and motioned, but in the distance the triceratops suddenly wheeled, its head lifted, and sniffed the air. “I think it's scented us!” Denham said.

The creature lumbered toward them. “Run for it!” Driscoll shouted, leaping onto the uncertain surface. The asphalt yielded under his feet, as though it were a thick layer of rubber. In a long, straggling line the men made the dash—but one of them had tried to run through the sedgy margin farther away, and he sank to his waist in the clinging tar. He screamed for help as he turned and frantically clawed at the earth, dragging his legs from the clinging asphalt.

The dinosaur must have heard him, for it wheeled in its run and headed for him. The sailor struggled free and broke into a desperate run, toward the trees that grew at the base of the ridge. Driscoll watched helplessly as the man, looking over his shoulder at the monstrosity thundering toward him, crashed into a low-hanging branch. It knocked him off his feet, and as he tried to pick himself up and swing behind the tree, the charging triceratops smashed into him, bearing him backward. The impact uprooted the tree. The triceratops backed away, and with a wave of nausea Driscoll saw the body of his shipmate impaled on one of the long horns.

“Poor Francisco,” one of the sailors said.

“Come on,” Driscoll ordered. They picked their way across the hardened asphalt—it bore them up better than it would have Kong or any of the gigantic saurians—past the fallen triceratops, past the bulge in the soft tar that covered the sunken one, and up the ridge that Kong had taken. At the top, Driscoll looked ahead. To his chagrin, half a mile ahead, a ravine cut across their line of march, diagonally from right to left. It looked as though the earth had torn itself apart in a quake, or perhaps a volcanic upheaval had split the stone foundation of the island. Maybe Kong could leap the barrier, but it was too wide for a man.

Denham was scanning the landscape with his binoculars. “There's a kind of bridge,” he said at last. “A huge tree fell across it, looks like. We just might be able to get across there.”

“What are we waiting for?” Driscoll asked, and they pushed on.

14

SKULL ISLAND
MARCH 13, 1933

Denham thought they made a sorry sight as the survivors of the search party stumbled toward the ravine. Weary and fearful, they showed none of the confidence of the intrepid crew which had set out from the great gate. Yet, he reminded himself, Driscoll had chosen his men carefully. In the past, these men had proved extraordinarily resourceful in the face of danger.

And even now, Denham reflected, they wouldn't turn back. He had to admire that special high courage, the adventurer's final salvation, more potent than any weapon. Cast away in an ordinary wilderness, they would have boldly combined wisdom, experience, and ingenuity and won out. Still, he knew, Skull Island made demands that tested even their tough resolve. Here, for the first time, they learned the meaning of fear, and what it meant to be utterly helpless.

Denham cursed his luck again. This nightmare island presented dangers no man could plan on. He cursed the loss of the arms, though he knew that even if the men still had their rifles, the firearms might not be enough to discourage the denizens of the island. Most of all, Denham regretted the loss of the bombs. Armed with these, they could have fought on with some kind of a chance. Now Denham saw the men as helpless, just like that trapped triceratops slowly suffocating back in the pit.

Now and then someone stumbled and spat out a harsh oath. Denham thought they were on the verge of breaking, of losing their nerve completely. With something like surprise, he noted that his own nerves were steady. Resentment boiled in him, yes, and regret at not having his camera, but under it all he felt more awed than anything else. The books he had read had not prepared him for the reality of these dinosaurs. When he got back, he thought, he'd see to it that some of those books were rewritten. He called the creatures he had seen back to mind and determined to sketch them as soon as he could, before the details faded. Not as good as a photo, not a patch on a moving picture, but he could preserve the appearance of—

“What are we going to do if we catch him?” Driscoll asked in a panting aside.

Denham glanced at the first mate. “What do you mean, Jack?”

“I've been racking my brain for some trick that might free Ann. Kong is gigantic, and the only weapons we have are our knives. Worse than useless! Denham, why don't you go back and bring more men, more bombs?”

“Not a chance,” Denham returned. “But we can send a couple of fellows back if you insist. How about young Jimmy and maybe Morgan? They could slip past just about anything if they're quiet enough.”

They were within sight of the ravine. “Hear that, you two?” Driscoll asked.

Jimmy could only nod, but the older Morgan growled, “Aye, sir.”

“Back you go, then, and be sharp about it.”

Denham watched them turn back. Good luck, he thought as they vanished into the undergrowth. They had started out that morning with twelve picked men, Jimmy, Driscoll, and himself—a party of fifteen. Now, with three dead and Jimmy and Morgan heading back, they were down to only ten. As if ten men could do anything against the island god Kong, he reflected bitterly.

The men paused to catch their breath. Driscoll jerked his head, beckoning Denham aside. “How do you figure Kong, Denham?” he asked urgently.

Denham felt helpless. “I don't know how to put it in words, Jack. He's a mystery from the depths of time. What are you asking, exactly?”

Driscoll took a deep, unsteady breath. “He's carrying Ann like a doll. What does he—I mean, what does Kong want with her? I—” He choked in frustration.

Now Denham understood. Driscoll did not dare wrap his mind around the abominations he could imagine.

“Doesn't matter, pal,” Denham said. “Because we're going to get Ann back.” They had stepped closer to the ravine, a fearful gash in the earth, sheer-sided and far deeper than Denham had imagined. He pointed. “There's our bridge.”

Driscoll shouted back to the men, “Come on! Time to move!”

Denham felt far more sympathy for Jack than he had been willing to show. This monster was more than a freak of nature, a subject for his camera. Kong was also a challenge to his spirit. Despite everything, something deep inside Denham reveled in the competition. Kong was the ultimate trophy. I thought I'd bring back the greatest picture the world has ever seen, he thought. Maybe I'll bring back even more than that. Maybe I'll bring back something no one's ever even imagined!

*   *   *

Driscoll saw that the fallen tree had not been placed there by Kong or anything else. It had simply collapsed in some storm or earthquake, and now its huge bole, easily one hundred feet from root to crown, spanned the ravine. They were on the root side, and it would be easy enough to scale the roots, get to the moss-covered top of the trunk, and walk across—

A heavy crashing from back on the trail jerked his attention from the problem. The men had frozen at the sound, and one of them yelped, “That damned three-horned brute is hunting us!”

“It can't cross this log,” Driscoll snapped. “Come on!” He gave Denham a meaningful nod.

The director seemed to take his meaning. “Get across, boys,” he said, and he waited until last to climb up himself. As Driscoll crossed the giant log, he could not keep from looking down. Heights never bothered him—he had spent his adult life climbing masts. He gazed down into a great depth and saw what seemed to be a thick deposit of mud and slime far below. In heavy rains, no doubt a raging stream flowed there. The nearly vertical walls of the ravine looked volcanic, cut throughout with pits and jagged fissures. Something moved down there, and Driscoll felt the hair on the back of his neck rising in atavistic fear.

A spider like a keg on many legs came crawling out of one of the openings in the far side of the ravine. Jack halted in his tracks, the others stopping behind him, as he watched the creature stealthily climb toward a ledge on which an animal, a gigantic lizard, lay warming itself on a sunny ledge. The spider moved toward it, then hesitated as if intimidated by the size of its intended prey. Then Driscoll blinked as he saw that he had been mistaken. The spider was after something else, a round crawling object with tentacles, like an octopus, that left a trail of slime as it crept along slightly below the level of the sunning lizard. The spider leaped, seized this thing, and dragged it into one of the fissures.

“Like a glimpse into hell,” Denham said. “Uh-oh. Here's our old friend again.”

Driscoll looked back. The triceratops had apparently trailed them by scent, and now, in its nearsighted fashion, it was blundering about at the edge of the trees. As if impatient or infuriated, the creature thrust its head at one of these and with a jerk ripped the twenty-foot tree right out of the ground. The uprooted trunk fell back and slid off its rough hide. The triceratops tramped in a circle, as if unsure of which way to go. It snuffled the ground, and then, moving uncertainly, the dinosaur advanced slowly in their direction. Ten yards away, it paused, its great three-horned head lifted high, its deep-set eyes peering forward.

At that moment, Driscoll felt the loom of something huge on the far side of the ravine. He saw a dark form burst from the undergrowth on that side and had time to shout, “Look out!” He frantically dived forward, grabbing a vine trailing from the fallen trunk, swung out, and dropped onto a ledge just below the rim of the ravine at the instant Kong attacked.

*   *   *

Kong had caught sight of the men pursuing him not long before. He had paused to find a gnarled, ancient tree, tall and stout enough to offer protection to his sacrifice, and with careful gentleness, he had placed Ann's unconscious form in the notch at its top. Then he wheeled and backtracked to the ravine, determined to defeat this new challenge. The fury roused in him by his confrontation with the three-horned dinosaurs had not died, and now it flared hotter at the thought of these insignificant creatures who dared to follow him. He burst from the forest and roared at the tiny men standing on the log. One dived off, but Kong paid him no attention. On the far side, the last one in line swung himself over and, gripping a root, lowered himself into one of the cavities in the ravine wall.

But the men in the middle of the log could do nothing: to advance against Kong was impossible, and retreat was no less so. The triceratops, sighting his old foe and perhaps mistaking Kong's outburst for a personal challenge, rushed up to the end of the log and growled his defiance.

Kong saw all moving things as potential enemies—the men on the log, the beast behind it. With a menacing shake of his head, he snarled, beat his breast, and pounded the ground. He raised a foot and placed it on the end of the log bridge, but at the same moment, the triceratops plowed into the root end, jarring it. The impact staggered the men in the center. They dropped to hands and knees, frantically clutching the log.

Kong noticed their reaction and stepped back. Reaching down, he seized his own end of the log and knotted his muscles as he gave it an experimental shake. Years of vines had grown over the log, and they broke, one after the other, with loud snaps. The men cried out in terror, clinging to the bark, to each other. With a fierce rumble, Kong slowly pried the log from its web of growth. The triceratops, perhaps fearing that Kong would throw the log at it, backed away, rumbling.

Kong heard one of the men shouting—from directly below him. He couldn't see the one who had swung into a fissure of the ravine wall, but he sensed that the shouts were a desperate attempt at a diversion.