Tim Lebbon - Kong - Skull Island

The gunfire ceased. Marlow was at the helm now, swinging the boat around and heading back to shore close to where Conrad stood. He was up to his thighs in stinking marshy water, and if the Skull Devil had come for him then he’d have been trapped and helpless.

But he still couldn’t bring himself to move.

Kong brought his hand out of the sea, fist closed. He stood to his full height and opened his fist, staring down into his hand at whatever he held there.

Weaver , Conrad thought. Please let that be Weaver.

And please don’t let him eat her .

The ape seemed mesmerised by the shape in his palm. He was so tall that Conrad couldn’t make out Weaver, but he did see slight movement—an arm raised, perhaps, and the swing of wet hair as she rolled onto her side. Kong brought his hand closer to his face, and it was as if the rest of the world no longer mattered.

That was when the rest of the world bit back.

The Skull Devil charged, screeching and vicious, shedding blood from its countless bullet wounds yet appearing strengthened by them, not weakened. Pain drove it on. Fury gave it an edge.

Kong closed his fist protectively around Weaver and braced himself. Then he ran towards his approaching enemy.

Just before they met, the Skull Devil reared up ready to bite, its long, wicked tail whipping around to slash at the great ape.

Kong had other plans. He brought his heavy fisted hand up and around and slammed it straight into the monster’s mouth. He swung his shoulder, using all his immense weight to shove his fist deep into the creature’s gullet, deeper, further, until his arm was buried in the Skull Devil’s innards right up to his massive bicep.

Kong roared as he withdrew his arm and fisted hand, the beast’s teeth scoring deep lines in his fur.

The Skull Devil swayed on its feet, blood pouring from its open mouth. Then its eyes dimmed and it dropped into the marsh, one last, heavy rattling breath leaving it before its flexing torso grew forever still.

The silence was startling. Kong stood still for a moment, breathing heavily as he stared down at his vanquished enemy. He shoved the carcass with one foot, and again, testing to see whether the monster was feigning.

The Skull Devil was dead.

Kong’s shoulders drooped a little as he stepped over the huge corpse and approached Conrad.

Conrad had to force himself not to step backwards. It would have done no good, but instinct urged him back, the same instinct that would have brought his arms in front of his face if a building were falling upon him. From the corner of his eye he saw the boat bobbing less than fifty feet away, and he was aware of the survivors watching Kong, and him.

He didn’t look. He could not tear his eyes away from the massive beast now standing close to him.

Kong dropped to his knees with a booming splash, sending tremors across the marsh. He placed his blood-soaked fist on the ground, and uncurled his fingers to reveal Weaver lying there, safe and awake in his palm. His fur was caked in blood and gunge from the dead Skull Devil’s insides. His hide was ripped and bleeding, and blood dripped and washed around Weaver. But she appeared untouched. He tilted his fist and she slid to the ground, grunting as she landed and sitting up. She was soaked to the skin, trembling from her cold dip in the sea, but she did not appear scared. She left her hand on Kong’s. As he went to stand and pull away, Weaver held on. Only briefly.

Kong stood. They were in his shadow, perhaps forever. He stared down at them, and they looked up at him, locking gazes for a moment that might have been the longest of Conrad’s life. Then he turned, swaying slightly, and started walking away. He was limping. His vast body was covered in open wounds, and there were also older scars there, marks where the fur had not grown back that illustrated older, more mysterious battles. Conrad wondered at what these battles might have been, and whether the dead beast now sinking into the swamp was responsible for some of those wounds.

None of them had any idea how old Kong might be, or what ancient combats he might have fought. His was a history that remained shrouded in the mists of time, and Conrad believed that was as it should be, just as with any god, or any legendary king.

Conrad ran over to Weaver and grabbed her hand, helping her to her feet. Neither of them spoke. There were no words.

They watched Kong splashing across the marsh and then approaching the tree line. Weaver pulled away and grabbed at her camera bag, drawing a camera out and checking it, wiping the lens, aiming it at Kong.

He paused close to the trees and turned back, looking at them one more time.

What’s he thinking? Conrad wondered. Is he as amazed at us as we are at him? He doubted that. He thought perhaps King Kong was the most amazing creature on their planet, known or still hidden away.

Weaver lowered her camera without taking a shot.

“No Pulitzer?” Conrad asked.

“Maybe some things are better left as myth,” she said, echoing his thoughts. Her voice sounded shaky. He took her hand again and squeezed, and they both took comfort from the contact.

They watched Kong as he walked into the jungle, trees shaking at his passage and then closing behind him. They could make out his route for a while, and then all grew quiet. Even then they continued watching. To move would be to move on. Despite all the horrors, neither of them wanted wonder to leave them behind.

Later, they finally left the river estuary and headed out into the open ocean. The boat was hardly seaworthy, but it held together reasonably well. They took turns operating the manual pump, and Marlow stood proudly at the helm. Weaver thought he looked like someone going somewhere special, as well as leaving something behind. He’d be forever existing in two worlds. Perhaps they all would.

Weaver sat alone on deck, looking ahead but thinking back to those moments when she’d believed she was going to die. The Skull Devil’s tail had sideswiped her and sent her spinning through the air, consciousness wavering from the impact. If she’d landed on land she would have died, and even landing in the sea had felt like hitting solid ground.

A heavy impact, the breath knocked from her, and the gagging, cloying taste of sea water filling her mouth and rushing down her throat.

From there, it felt like a dream. She was sinking, darkness closing around her as shadowy shapes wavered at the edges of her perception. Perhaps they had been long sea weeds, or maybe the eager, welcoming embrace of a creature on the seabed waiting for this imminent taste of something new.

Then darkness closed around her and pulled her up and out of the water. She hardly remembered any of what followed. From what Conrad had told her, she was glad. It was the sunlight that welcomed her in again, as Kong’s hand opened to reveal Conrad standing twenty feet away, the blue sky above him, Kong’s warm, protective hand beneath her.

She hadn’t wanted him to let her go. She’d held on. But Kong had known the truth—they were from two different worlds, and even though he’d saved her, they belonged far apart.

Sailing away from the island, she realised the deep truth of that. It was difficult leaving something so amazing behind.

She looked around at the other survivors—San, Brooks, Mills, Slivko, Reles—and saw the same look in their eyes. They had all been offered a glimpse at something remarkable. Through the horrors they had witnessed, despite the death that had circled them and taken many of their friends, they all understood how privileged they were.

At the helm, Marlow was holding the tattered photo of his wife. Conrad rested a hand on his shoulder. Two good men, and as Weaver raised her camera and framed a shot, Conrad looked down at her.