Merian C. Cooper's King Kong (27 page)

Driscoll struck down the commissioner's pointing arm. “You'll never catch King Kong on any roof!” he shouted, his voice furious. “He's going to the top of the mountain, I tell you.”

“Easy, Jack,” Denham said, laying a hand on his friend's arm.

Jack shook him off. “It's true. Look! There he goes, up again.”

Kong was now so high that his figure seemed smaller than that of a man, and still he climbed. A black silhouette against the chalky walls, he drew himself from ledge to ledge until he rose into the bright floodlights which swept around the crest of the building. Still he ascended.

“That means the end of the girl,” a police sergeant muttered. “If we shoot him up there, she's gone.”

“Wait a minute,” Driscoll shouted. “There's one thing we haven't tried.”

The commissioner looked at him.

“The army planes,” Driscoll explained, “from Roosevelt Field. They might find a way to finish Kong off and leave Ann untouched.”

“It's a chance,” said the commissioner. “Call the Field, Mr. O'Brien. Burn up the wires.”

“I'm going up into the building,” Driscoll announced, loosening his collar. “I'll take a try at Kong's mountain myself.”

Denham felt a surge of energy. Risking it all had always given him a zest for life. He said, “I'll go along, Jack.”

The commissioner motioned to half a dozen police officers armed with submachine guns, and they followed.

“Let me take one of those things,” Driscoll demanded when they were inside the cool corridor of the building.

The commissioner raised an eyebrow. “You know how to handle one of these, son?”

Denham laughed. “Say, Driscoll can handle any shootin' iron on earth. The boy's good, really good. Let him have one!”

“Hand it over, Sarge,” the commissioner ordered, and the man gave the weapon to Driscoll.

Denham sweated out the long ride up. They reached the last bank of elevators at last, and to his frustration they could go no farther. The doors out to the observation deck were locked, with no key, no custodian, to be found. Denham rattled the doors and growled, “Oh, for the love of Mike—”

“Quiet! Listen!” Driscoll whispered.

Denham paused with his hand on the door. From far off he could hear the drone of a plane. No, of a squadron of planes.

“The good old army!” Denham said, trying to laugh. “We've got to get these doors open, men. We can't stay cooped up in here!”

Six planes came into sight, wings tipped with green and red lights. They cruised at an altitude of three or four thousand feet, Denham judged, far above the pinnacle of the skyscraper. Then Denham tensed.

The planes were diving, like birds of prey. One after another, they hurtled down beneath the paling stars.

*   *   *

Ann Darrow had been fully alert almost from the beginning of Kong's relentless climb to the top of the Empire State Building. The rush of fear and the realization that she would not be harmed by Kong balanced against each other as she rose to complete consciousness. Now they were at the summit, as high as they could go. All around them lay New York, limned in lights. Above them the stars were fading as a faint glow of dawn washed into the eastern sky.

As Kong gently placed Ann on the ledge at his feet, the cold and the rush of the wind at this extreme height stung her, keeping her senses heightened. He loomed above her, impossibly large, scanning the sky.

For what? She couldn't even guess.

And then Ann first noticed the dull hum of airplane engines above them in the night sky. Kong's sharper ears must have detected them. As he had set her atop a dead tree to defend her against the flesh-eating dinosaur, he now tucked her safely at the base of the Empire State Building's pinnacle to face a new challenge.

Ann caught sight of the planes just as they tipped their wings and began a coordinated dive.

Kong roared thunderously. Ann had heard that roar before: it was a battle challenge. As on the island, the very air vibrated with its fury. The drum note of his fists upon his chest rose to a wild tattoo. He stretched to his tallest stature.

The first plane came down in a long swift slide, momentarily illuminated by sweeping searchlights. It roared past, just beyond the reach of Kong's extended fingertips. Another followed, then another, a whole squadron of them. They flashed by just above Kong.

Ann pushed herself up. What were the pilots doing? And then it came to her, with a shock: They're looking for me! The planes climbed and circled, and then they dived again. The lead plane swooped down. For a split second it appeared to hover in front of its beast adversary, the broad canvas wings poised like those of some giant pterodactyl from the island. Then it curved upward and shot away.

But this time, in the instant before its turn, the plane's machine gun poured burning lead into Kong's chest. The other planes dived after it, relentlessly spitting fire into Kong's back and sides. Kong bellowed his rage, his arms flailing wildly, vainly reaching for the strange tormentors, flashing past maddeningly out of reach.

Ann closed her eyes and covered her ears, huddling against the metal of the dome atop which Kong stood. The pilots hadn't seen her, must have assumed that Kong had dropped her. Bullets screamed as they spanged off the metal dome, and Ann shrank away from them. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the gunfire stopped. Kong's oppressors peeled away to circle at a safe distance, as if to gauge the effect of their assault. Ann couldn't even hear them, for the wind swallowed the scream of their engines. The beast's roars slowly subsided, and he turned to look down at her.

In the strange silence, the slow cones of the searchlights from the street below swept over Kong, over the planes. As one light lifted the veil of darkness from Kong's shadowy figure, Ann saw with a shock that his expression had an odd touch of reproach and regret, like that of a child accused of some wrongdoing and not knowing what it was. His gaze was—

Ann had never seen that expression on a man's face. Oh, she had received plenty of lascivious looks on the streets of New York. But Kong's features were strangely innocent as he slowly reached down one finger to caress her. She realized he wanted her, but not in the manner of a city wolf.

His oddly human eyes shone with—with adoration, with a pure and innocent worship.

Perhaps he thought he was protecting her. For a brief instant Ann felt a rush of—pity? Affection? Loathing? She could not tell. In her exhaustion and heightened state of fear, a heartbeat away from shock, her emotions fluctuated wildly, and she had the strange feeling of hovering between life and death. She could not for that moment tell if she was experiencing reality or a dream.

It was then she felt the warm drip of viscous blood flowing down Kong's arm, off his fingers and onto her skin. Fear, terror she could not control, suddenly erupted within her, and Ann began to shriek hysterically, even as part of her mind told her no one would hear her voice.

The scream of airplane engines exploded in her ears, and immediately Kong's roars challenged them as once more Ann heard the thudding drumbeat of his fists upon his chest. The blaze of multiple machine guns tore the night to fevered chaos. One of the planes ventured too close to Kong's straining arms.

The giant struck, struck hard, and ripped the tail section from the aircraft. Ann heard a momentary cry of terror from its crew as the plane spun down, like some wounded bird, in a death spiral. Halfway down it crashed into the wall and burst into flames as it bounced off. Then it was gone, and the night fell strangely silent. Again Ann heard only the sound of whistling air and saw only the methodical searching of the lights.

Ann screamed no longer. Now in the relative quiet she could hear Kong's low moaning, his soft gurgled cough. A plane swooped past, and in the wavering glare of a searchlight, Ann saw the bullets rip into Kong's hide. She saw his coarse hair jerk and rip off his body in bloody clumps.

The great beast staggered. He brushed Ann as he painfully slid off the parapet, straining to gain easier footing below, on the circular roof space where Ann lay. Kong turned slowly, as though to pick her up.

He stopped, staring down at Ann with a puzzled, hurt look. He fought to stand erect, but weakness forced him to hold the spire with both hands as he began to cough again. Kong then gazed about himself and seemed unable to comprehend the flow of his blood, the creeping numbness in his limbs. As he alternately moved his arms to inspect himself, Ann could clearly see the many wounds in his torso, the crimson punctures over his heart. Ann knew Kong was dying.

From high in the dawning light, the planes swooped down again. With one last look at Ann, Kong rose up. His roars broke into a harsh, rending cough, but he still straightened to his greatest height. He thumped his chest as wildly as ever, in a fierce, unconquerable gesture of final defiance.

One after another the planes screamed down, each poised in turn for a murderous instant, and then curved away. The rattle of the machine guns drowned out Kong's bellowed challenge. Suddenly he swayed, and in spite of his gripping feet, began to topple. As he painfully caught himself in an effort to regain his balance, his gaze met Ann's for one last time.

His eyes were heartbreakingly weary, but in them was a look she had not seen since he was on the island, the king of all he surveyed. Then Kong turned to face his attackers.

Indomitable, he fought to the end. With his last bit of strength he leaped for the last plane as it flashed past. He missed, but his mighty spring had carried him clear of the setbacks below, and out above the street.

Ann could never quite understand or explain what happened next. All fear left her, and with crystal clarity she saw Kong hang, motionless, as though time had stopped. She imagined him in the same regal loneliness that had been his upon the summit of Skull Mountain. Once again a king and a god, gazing upon the world he knew. King Kong. Ancient. Eternal.

Then time moved again. In the next instant, he was gone.

EPILOGUE

NEW YORK
JULY 1, 1933

“We can see them from here!” Driscoll exclaimed. He led the way through a window to the farthest corner of the cramped roof of the topmost setback. A policeman, his revolver drawn, followed, along with Carl Denham. Above them, on the ledge of the uppermost platform, they saw Kong's massive form stagger.

Driscoll could tell at once that Kong had been mortally wounded. The great creature was moaning, reeling. Then Jack saw Ann, lying prone in a softly glowing white dress stained with dark patches. Blood.

His heart stopped. High above, the nimble airplanes renewed their dance of death as they dove toward Kong in another grotesquely graceful ballet. Their barking guns ripped into Kong's body. “Duck!” Driscoll yelled, and he, Denham, and the policeman flattened themselves against the meager protection of a corner. Slugs bit into it, kicking up a gritty spray of fragments. Jack turned his face away from the drift, trying to keep the wind from whipping grains of concrete into his eyes.

Unexpectedly, the machine-gun fire fell silent, and the planes swept away to gather themselves for their final attack. A reek of sulfur dissipated in the breeze. Above them, Kong barked a deep, gurgled cough and swayed unsteadily. The end was very near.

Suddenly, Ann began to move. “She's alive!” Driscoll yelled to Denham. But he had no time to relax.

Denham grabbed Driscoll's arm and yelled, “Stay down, Jack! They're coming back, all five of 'em!” In the growing light of dawn, Driscoll saw the planes wheel around and peel off for their dive.

“God help that woman,” growled the policeman.

“God help me, too!” Driscoll shot back. “I'm going after her. Kong can't fight off those planes and keep his eye on Ann at the same time, and I can't leave her there alone!”

Denham said nothing, but he followed, and after a moment of hesitation, so did the policeman.

As the new barrage of machine-gun fire began, Kong's last stand shook the airship mooring mast. Driscoll, in the lead and taking the stairs inside the spire three at a time, lost his footing and fell to his knees. A slug ripped through the thin metal skin of the building and passed just above his head. Jack ignored it—if it didn't kill him, it didn't matter. He scrambled to the top and burst through the doors only to encounter—

The whistling wind.

Driscoll took in a deep breath of the chilly morning air. Kong was gone. As he looked up he saw Ann blankly staring at something he could not see.

“Ann!” Driscoll rushed forward and almost fell. His foot had skidded in a splash of blood and fur, and now he saw that blood had spattered everywhere.

Ann stared at him with a terrified, empty gaze, and for a moment, Jack thought she had been hit. Then she weakly called his name and reached out for him. Driscoll gently lifted her to her feet and helped her off the ledge where she had lain.

As soon as they were in the stairwell, Ann began to sob. “Oh, Jack!”

Driscoll held her, close and warm. “It's all right,” he murmured. “It's all right now.”

As they embraced, he knew he need say nothing more.

*   *   *

Denham and the policeman had just arrived. Denham took a moment to raise his eyebrows at Jack, who answered his unspoken query with a nod: Ann was unharmed. Denham stepped out onto the narrow platform at the base of the spire, the policeman at his elbow.

The cop was gasping for breath. He holstered his revolver and stared at the bullet-ravaged facade of the tower, at the blood and tufts of fur spread everywhere. “Looks like a battlefield. You know, the size of that thing—I never thought the aviators'd get him.”

“The aviators didn't get him,” Denham replied slowly.

“What?”

“It was Beauty killed the Beast.”

The cop gave him a long, uncomprehending look. Denham sighed. Below somewhere, the gargantuan body of Kong lay on the street. The carnage Kong had left was something that Denham would have to answer for. Denham thought fleetingly of his wife and son—good thing he had not brought them to the show, as he had first planned. They were better out of this.