Tim Lebbon - Kong - Skull Island

Marlow watched her taking pictures. He could see her fascination with the silent tribespeople, as well as with Marlow himself. Conrad saw a man who had been waiting to tell his story for a long time. That very soon proved to be the case.

“Don’t worry about their silence,” he said. “They didn’t speak to me and Gunpei for the first two months.”

“Who was Gunpei?” Conrad asked.

“The Japanese pilot who shot me down. I shot him down, too. Both great shots! We both parachuted out, landed on the island, tried to kill each other, and then…” His eyes grew distant.

“The villagers found you?”

“Yeah. We weren’t sure if they were gonna eat us or treat us like kings.”

Conrad glanced around at the tribespeople he could see in this skiff and others. Their faces were harsh and impassive, both men and women. He’d become adept at reading expressions, realising that the eyes and face told so much about a person’s intentions long before their actions revealed themselves. That had saved his life more than once.

These people were inscrutable. They looked capable and calm, but their eyes and decorated faces gave nothing away. They might as well have been wearing masks.

“I’m hoping it’s the latter?” he asked Marlow.

“Somewhere in the middle,” Marlow said.

“That’s reassuring,” Weaver replied. “I think. So you and Gunpei became friends.”

“Over time, he became the best friend I’ve ever had.”

“Did you say you were told we were coming?” Nieves asked.

“Yep. Two days ago,” Marlow said.

“They told you?” San asked, and when Marlow nodded she said, “How?”

“Truth be told, it was over my head like most everything that goes on here. These folks live on top of the trees, and compared to them we live down in the roots. Some of them don’t even seem to age. Listen, I’m like the janitor around here.” He shrugged, seemed content with what he’d said. “Yeah. That’ll kinda put it into context for you.”

“What’s that?” Conrad asked. They were approaching a cliff face, tall and imposing, and the river disappeared into a wide cave mouth at its base. He didn’t like it. They were being steered somewhere unknown, and once in the cave darkness would descend. He had a small pocket torch, but these tribespeople would be able to do whatever they wished.

“Beyond that is home,” Marlow said. “Hey, trust me. You’ll want to see this. All of you.”

Conrad looked around at the others. Although nervous, most of them also seemed excited. For the first time on this journey, the unexpected inspired curiosity over fear.

They entered the cave mouth, the soft shush of the river echoing into a greater roar, light quickly fading away. But it was not total darkness in there. Creatures scurried across the low ceilings, beaming with a bright phosphorescent glow that gave a soft background illumination, like ever-moving stars. The river was flat and even, the walls steep, and Conrad had the distinct impression that some of it had been carved rather than eroded. Yet another unanswered question about this mysterious place.

“You’re okay with this?” Weaver asked, leaning in close to whisper to him.

“Not really,” he said. “But if they’d been a threat, I think we’d know by now.”

“I hope so.”

“They know the island and what’s on it,” he said. “They’ve been here for… forever? So if they can survive here, so can we. We’ve got to learn everything we can from them if we’re going to get away.”

As he spoke their surroundings grew lighter, and eventually they emerged from beneath the hillside into another valley.

This one seemed steeper-sided and more enclosed than the wide valley they’d just left. The river was narrower and faster moving, and they quickly drew close to the left bank. Stone columns stood beside the river, topped with pedestals upon which stood strange statues. There were other structures all across the valley, some of them similar to the ones they’d seen before, yet with less of an abandoned look. There were more patterns and symbols painted on these buildings, differing in colour and shape. It lent them an alien, ethereal beauty.

A few minutes later the river widened into a lagoon. The expert boatsmen steered the skiffs around a small headland and towards shore, and the village that sprawled there. The structures were quite different from the larger stone buildings they’d seen, and included many homes built on stilts. Incorporated into the village, grounded on the curved lagoon’s bank, was a wrecked ship. Its superstructure seemed to be part of the village, with homes built against it and rope ladders slung from its upper decks down to the ground. Its rusted metal hull was also decorated with the colourful, angular lines that also appeared on the other buildings.

The vessel was so out of place that Conrad blinked a couple of times, shaking his head to clear his vision.

Drawing closer, he could just make out its name. The Wanderer .

“Looks like we’re not the first people to never, ever leave this island again,” Slivko said.

“We’ll get away,” Conrad said.

As their skiff ground against the shore and many more tribespeople came to meet them, he began to have his doubts.

Chapman was the only survivor from the downed Sea Stallion. He’d checked on the co-pilot but Warzowski was dead, his neck broken in the crash. As for the door gunner, Muller was nowhere to be found. The heavy machine gun still hung from its mounting, but the door surround was torn and slashed and several streaks of blood were drying across the walls and ceiling of the passenger cabin.

Chapman’s radio was glitchy, and his brief communication with Packard had been fragmented at best. He was certain that every other chopper had been brought down. He’d debated his alternatives and decided to remain with the ruined chopper, for now. At least here he had some food, shelter, and enough weapons to start another war.

He was exhausted, suffering from heat stroke, and his dressed wounds were causing him pain. He was most worried about the deep laceration across his left forearm. It should have been stitched, but he’d made do with gluing the pouting edges of the wound together.

He needed water. Several storage drums had been holed in the crash and the water leaked away, and he’d already drunk his way through the canteens that had survived. He’d assumed that the jungle would have abundant water sources. Now was the time to find out.

After just fifteen minutes trekking downhill he came to a blue lagoon where the river widened into a bowl-shaped valley nestled between three mountains. He collapsed in the shadow of a rock on the bank, hoping and praying that this was fresh water, and not fed from the sea.

He crept forward through the mud of the riverbank, leaning out, cupping his hands and letting them fill with water. He sipped. Clean, fresh water. He sighed with relief, then scooped another handful.

An impact punched up through his hand and knees, sending a shimmering ripple all across the surface of the lake. Water dribbled from his mouth as he froze, breath held. What the hell was that?

Another impact, closer, and a shadow fell over him, blocking out the sun as completely as an eclipse. As the surface of the water shimmered and then stilled again, Chapman saw what looked like a mountain standing behind him.

That thing! His heart fluttered and then pounded. The ground shook once more. Turning his head slightly he saw the giant ape kneeling close to the lagoon bank less than a hundred feet from him.

It’ll see me it’ll know me it’ll eat me and then—

Chapman breathed deep and slow, trying to compose himself. It hadn’t seen him yet. The large rock he’d sat against was shielding most of his body. He still had a chance. Just stay still, stay quiet…