Kong: Skull Island - The Official Movie Novelization

EIGHTEEN

Mills hoped he never saw another goddamned jungle for the rest of his life. He’d been days away from going home. He wanted out. Out of the jungle, out of the army, out of this crazy mission. He hadn’t asked for this, and he hadn’t even been told whether they were being paid combat pay for this fun little jaunt.

Man, this was FUBAR.

The landscape of this place was all messed up too. After traversing more jungle they’d started pushing their way through a forest of bamboo stalks. The stems were thick and solid, the leaves sharp, and soon his knuckles were sliced from the leaves’ cruel edges. Blood dripped. He thought of that big handprint, and here and there he made sure he left his own mark on the thicker of the bamboo stems.

Something touched his neck. He slapped it away, the dark shape as big as his thumb scurrying out of sight. “Damn it!”

“What’s up?” Cole asked.

“Spider. I hate spiders.”

“I’m sure they speak very highly of you.”

“They just need to mind their business, is all. Stay away from me, stay unscathed. It’s a fair arrangement.”

“You ever heard of the mouse and the lion and the thorn?” Cole asked.

“Yeah?”

“There you go. In case we see that thing again.”

“You know that story is about a mouse becoming friends with a lion after pulling a thorn out of its paw,” Mills said.

“No it’s not,” Cole said. “The mouse kills the lion with the thorn.”

“Man, who told you that?”

“My mother.”

Mills raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Cole was a Sky Devil, but he was also a hard man with a variable-length fuse. He didn’t want to diss Cole’s mother and light it.

They headed into a thicker patch of tall bamboo. Taking point, Packard began to hack into the stems, carving their way ever forward.

“Man, it stinks in here,” Mills said.

“Yeah, like something dead,” the soldier to his right said. They called him Jammers for reasons Mills could no longer remember. Jammers wiped his forehead and lifted his canteen to his lips.

“Not that,” Mills said. “Not the smell of the dead. It smells like something alive.” He looked around, lifting his M-16 and sweeping it in an arc left to right. Nothing. Just bamboo, more and more bamboo.

“What the…?” From ahead, Packard stood staring at the thick stems he’d just hacked through. They were dripping a heavy, dark black fluid, viscous as runny honey. It smelled sweet. One crop landed on the colonel’s boot. The stalk he’d cut began to move, and all at once Mills knew.

“Contact!” he shouted, but by then it was already too late.

Just as Jammers lowered his canteen a long, thick stem punched down and skewered him through the throat. He threw his arms out wide, eyes bulging, as the stem burst from between his shoulder blades and blood and flesh spattered the ground around him. He shook, water splashing from the canteen still gripped in his left hand.

Mills looked up at whatever was attacking them, swinging his gun to follow his line of sight, finger already squeezing the trigger. At first his vision was confused by the many bamboo plants swaying around them, heavy leaves seeming to come to life as the shouting and panic fed them. Then he saw the dark mass almost directly above him.

A spider. Huge, horrible, its body the size of a man, long pale legs fifteen feet tall and holding it up above the jungle floor, allowing room for unsuspecting prey to wander beneath.

Now they were the prey. Its wet mandibles clicked together with the promise of food as it lifted Jammers up towards its multi-eyed head.

Mills opened up, the weapon jumping in his hands, gunshots pounding his ears, but already his vision was blurring. He blinked several times, and then something sticky and warm landed across his face, chest, arms. Its touch bore an awful intimacy. He tried to shift the gun but it was like moving underwater, and his breath was stolen just as rapidly as his other senses.

Caught in its web! he thought. The spider had sprayed him with silk, and now it was drawing him up, too. His finger squeezed the trigger again but his mag was already empty. He heard more shooting as if from a distance, shouting, desperate screams as his friends tried to save him from a grisly fate.

“Mills!” Cole shouted, his voice seeming to come from the end of a long tunnel.

Mills struggled, trying to twist and turn his body to tear the webbing, but though impossibly light it was stronger than steel. He heard more shouting from down below, more gunfire, and then he saw…

…the mouth, fanged and dripping with poison. The eyes, each as big as his fist, eight of them all seeming to reflect him. The spiked fur of the spider’s grotesque head. He wanted to close his eyes and hide himself from this awful end, but he could not. Even with his eyes closed, no nightmare could ever be worse.

I hate spiders, he thought, and then the world tipped up, he fell to the side, and the ground thumped him hard. He gasped, winded, struggling to draw in a breath as a blade flashed before him and the web ripped open.

Cole was there, reaching for him to drag him free. The toppled spider was struggling, its legs drawing in and extending again as it tried to stand. Bamboo snapped, cruel splinters flying like shrapnel. Mills tried to help, kicking out against the fallen beast as Packard stepped in close, aimed his pistol, and emptied it into the struggling spider’s head.

It kicked its legs one more time, then they each curled inward in death, scoring lines across the ground and toppling several of the true bamboo plants it had used as camouflage. Still speared on one of its legs, Jammers was dragged inward and pressed to the spider’s bleeding underbelly.

Now, the place really did smell of death.

Mills held onto Cole, unwilling to let go, shaking, trying to look anywhere else but only able to stare at the dead monster.

“It’s okay, pal,” Cole said. “Hey, come on, let me help you up. It’s okay.” Cole eventually disengaged, pulling silk from Mill’s shoulders and head with a heavy ripping sound. He freed his arms and legs and finally Mills was able to stand. His legs were shaking.

“Damn,” Mills said. Cole raised both eyebrows, finding nothing to say in response.

The others were milling around, reloading their weapons, stunned. They kept watch, looking up now as well as ahead. In Vietnam the danger could have come from a sniper up above, a spike-wielding killer from tunnels below, or VC charging silently from out of the dense jungle. Here, the whole jungle was their enemy once again.

“Shake it off, men,” Packard said. “I didn’t think for a minute that ape was the only monster here.”

Mills was still petrified and traumatised. “Did no one just see that I was almost eaten by a giant spider?”

“I’ve seen worse,” Packard said. “And you’re alive, soldier. Let’s move out.”

All Mills wanted to do was sit down, rock from side to side, hug himself and shake. As the group moved on, he knew that his safest place was with them.

Weaver knew she shouldn’t feel safe, and welcome, and at ease, because this village was one of the strangest places she had ever been, and the threat of monsters from beyond was great. But there was something about these Iwi villagers that settled her nerves. Their silent acceptance of her and the others. Their evident ability to survive and thrive in such a world. The strength in their eyes, and the calm, powerful grace in every action.

Alone, she wandered the village, and her camera was always at hand. She saw children playing in a small circular common area at the village centre, casting coloured stones into a complex grid marked in the dust with scattered chalk. A scoring system seemed to be in play, though she could not discern its details. The children laughed and giggled, but she heard nothing that resembled language. She watched for a while, hunkered down at the edge of the circle, snapping photos of the children at play. They knew she was there but didn’t seem concerned.

She walked through the rest of the village, and subconsciously perhaps she always suspected where she was going. When she reached the edge of the village, she had no doubt. The giant wall drew her, its size and splendour a gravity that lured her its way. As she approached and stepped into its shadow she looked around, careful to ensure no one saw her. The villagers seemed unconcerned when she left the village, and pushing her way through tall grasses and ferns, she saw no sign of any of them following her. There were paths here, trodden down over the years and mostly clear of vegetation. But she didn’t think they were well used.

The villagers seemed to be in control. Weaver knew that if they didn’t approve of what she was doing, where she was going, they would intervene. She took their silence as assent.

Close to the wall, its true scope and scale really hit home. She’d never seen the pyramids, but she had read and heard all about them. This structure might well be comparable, both in technical achievement and sheer size. Down close to the ground, some of the timbers and stone used in the construction looked incredibly old, with newer areas patched in, an ongoing maintenance effort that must continue for some of the Iwi villagers from birth to death.

When she walked closer and saw the hole, it was as if she’d always known it would be there. It was half hidden behind vines and a heavy dark-green ivy that mostly smothered this lower potion of the wall, and she only saw its dark depths when a flash from her camera illuminated the entrance. Splintered wood around the opening indicated that it had been made after the wall had been built, and some signs of a path revealed that the hole was in use. By humans or animals, she did not know.

Weaver moved closer, cautious and quiet. Birdsong continued around her. Crickets sawed away in the high grasses. Spiders scampered across fern leaves above her head, shadowy silhouettes running and pausing, running and pausing.

She pointed her camera directly at the hole, and the flash illuminated deep inside. It looked like a tunnel, and it was empty.

Weaver took a deep breath and looked around. If you’re watching, and if I really shouldn’t go this way, now’s the time to tell me, she thought. Her surroundings remained unchanged, and no Iwis materialised out of the undergrowth.

“If you’re not there, you can’t get the shot,” she said, and taking a small torch from her camera bag, she entered the hole in the wall.

It was cool inside, as if heat from outside could not find its way in. The tunnel was carved through the wall—heavy trunks hacked and splintered, rock chiselled and smashed away—and she could see tool marks in the walls and ceiling. The floor was made from trodden-down mud, hardened over time into a smooth, concrete-like surface. Painted hand marks were pressed to the stonework, and in places they formed complex patterns that made no sense to her.

She was not alone. Lizards scampered across walls and floor, skittering out of sight. Spiders ducked into crevasses. The torchlight swept her path, clearing these animals as effectively as a high-powered hose, and she did not hang around to see what else might be in there.

Daylight welcomed her from the other end, and after a minute walking beneath the great wall, she emerged onto the other side.

She was on a slight rise looking down onto a river valley, the river roaring from beneath the wall a hundred yards to her right. This was the part of the island that the Iwi protected themselves from. The dangerous part.

Though Weaver had already seen some of the danger, she felt suddenly exposed and watched by countless eyes she could not make out. She could see a lot more landscape on this side of the wall as the valley fell slowly away, and in the distance a range of mountains loomed like a giant beast’s staggered teeth. Maybe that’s what this is, she thought. The island’s one big monster just waiting to chew us up and spit us out.

She started taking photos. She couldn’t go far, yet curiosity got the better of her. She also had to be mindful of how many rolls of film she had left. It would have been easy to stand here and take fifty pictures of the landscape itself, trying to catch the wildness and wilderness, but she knew she was going to see more. The future was an uncertain place offering extraordinary experiences, and Weaver was determined to document it.

Something cried out. There was already a distinctive background sound to the island that she was growing used to—birds calling, insects scratching and whistling, frogs croaking, and the constant rustle and scamper of things unseen. This was louder, and obviously from something in pain.

She scurried down a slope, slipping in loose leaves and sliding the rest of the way, camera held in to her chest to prevent damage. At the slope’s base she stood and looked around, turning her head when the baying came again to try and discern direction.

Pushing her way through heavy, leathery leaves, boots sinking in soggy ground, she mounted a small hillock surrounded by swamp, and saw what was crying.

The chunk of helicopter fuselage was a shock set against the wild landscape, like a wound in this new reality. It was a large, ragged part of the tail section from one of the downed choppers, scorched along one edge where fire had eaten at it, the oil-blackened guts of the craft’s engine hanging out like a mechanical monster’s spilled insides. Trapped beneath it was a large water buffalo. It was crushed down into marsh by the weight on its back, one of its long horns chipped and scored from the metallic impact. The creature looked weak and almost ready to give in. Its struggles were slow, its cries wretched.

It saw Weaver and let out another feeble call.

Weaver lowered her camera and stepped down to the edge of the swamp. Water and mud played around her feet, and she knew if she went closer she’d be up to her knees at least. It was no choice at all. She waded in, feeling her boots sink into rotting vegetation beneath the water, swinging her arms and pushing hard as she approached the stricken creature.

Somehow, the buffalo knew that she was coming to help. It ceased its struggles and looked sidelong at her, its eye rolling in its skull with fear or hopelessness. Weaver muttered meaningless words to try and calm it, then started pushing at the fallen wreckage.

It did not shift. Not even a bit. She switched angles and heaved upwards against it from below, trying to shift her feet to gain more leverage, closing her eyes with the effort of pushing. It was stuck fast, too heavy to move—

—and then the whole piece of wreckage lifted up and away from her. She lost her footing and fell against the stricken buffalo, surprised by the sudden movement and crying out when the creature started to thrash and struggle.

The sun was gone. She noticed that at the same moment that she saw the huge leg beyond the buffalo.

Kong was there. She took a few steps back and looked up, and up, and there he was, way above her, legs stuck down into the swamp like giant tree trunks, his huge body obscuring the sun, one arm held out as he flung the wreckage far into the swamp, the other arm hanging down. His fisted hand was the size of a car. She could feel the heat of him, smell his animal musk, and her skin prickled when her eyes met his.

He was staring right down at her.

Weaver felt her legs weakening in shock. She stumbled back a few more steps, staring up in an effort to comprehend. He could have crushed her with one movement of his leg, one smack of his hand, but she knew that he would not.

It was a shared moment, timeless and endless, during which she understood nothing but Kong. She forgot about where she was, who she was with, even her own identity and memories. For those few moments there was only her and the ape, and nothing else existed.

He turned and walked away. Weaver watched, part of her desperate to run after him. But she knew she could never catch him. Each giant step took him further from her, and a minute later he was gone, her view of him lost behind towering trees and the foliage of this wild landscape.

While she’d been watching Kong, the water buffalo had risen and wandered away. She was alone in the swamp now, and as she caught her breath that place came alive again with sound. The land had held its breath, as had she. Now it was time to live on, and she knew that moment would stay with her forever.

Conrad was waiting for the Iwi villagers to see what they were doing and intervene. At the very least, it would likely prove an awkward confrontation. At worst it might end in violence.

He didn’t want either. But right then, he figured that Marlow and his patched-together boat were their best bet for getting to the island’s northern shore in time for extraction.

Marlow had been here for a long time and was still alive, and by his own admission that was thanks to the Iwi villagers. There was that to consider, too. Conrad had been in enough war zones to know that a friendly face who knew the lie of the land was priceless.

Still, he had to wonder just how likely it was that this rusted hulk could even sail.

Conrad, Marlow and Slivko were hoisting the engine into place, using a system of levers and pulleys that Marlow said he and Gunpei had designed and built. Most of the pulleys were ungreased, and several of the levers appeared rusted and ready to break.

Nieves sat by and watched, making no effort to help.

Marlow’s curiosity knew no limits. He’d been effusive from the moment he’d seen them, but there had still been a shell around him that Conrad had sensed was delicate, and protective. The more he asked about the world outside, the more that shell became fractured. The moment soon came when it broke altogether, and Marlow at last seemed ready to immerse himself in news from beyond his own confined world again.

While they worked, they were filling Marlow in on what he’d missed.

“Hold the phone, Russia was our ally. Now we’re at war with ’em?”

“More of a cold war,” Conrad said. “No actual shooting.”

“So what, you’re fighting with nasty words?”

“Something like that.” Straining with the weight of the engine, Conrad glared at Nieves. “You do find a way to lend a hand.”

“Well, cold war,” Marlow said. “No shooting. I guess that’s an improvement.”

“We also put a man on the moon,” Nieves said, coming to help. Reluctantly, from what Conrad could see.

“We did? And brought him back again?”

“Yep, all of ’em.”

“Gee whiz.” Marlow shook his head. Then he seemed to perk up. “But have the Cubs won a world series?”

“The Cubs?” Slivko said, laughing. “Man, not even close.”

“Well at least I haven’t missed that,” Marlow said. With Nieves’s eventual help, they positioned the engine just where Marlow wanted it. “Okay, set her down,” the old pilot said. “Slowly. Slowly! This baby’s delicate.”

They lowered the engine down through the deck and onto its mounting. Conrad was constantly alert for movement on the shoreline or beyond, but the villagers seemed to be staying away. Too trusting, perhaps. Or maybe they knew exactly what he and the others were doing, and were comfortable with the fact it would never work.

“Really think you can get this thing started?” he asked Slivko.

“Pop’s a mechanic. If I can’t fix this, he’ll disown me. If he ever sees me again.” Slivko leaned down into the engine compartment and started fiddling.

“Suppose he does get this fixed,” Nieves said. “What then? Sail back the way we came? It’s the north shore we need to reach, not the south. And that wall seals off the whole rest of the island from us.”

“Haven’t you seen the river running through it?” Marlow asked, smiling.

“So?” Conrad asked.

“So… there’s a hole in that big ol’ wall, just at the waterline. High tide, nothing gets through but fish. But at low tide, it’s low enough for us to squeeze under.”

“I can’t believe that’s a mistake,” Conrad said. “Villagers who could build such an edifice would not have accidentally left an easy access.”

“It’s not,” Marlow said. “Sometimes, the Iwi need to venture further inland.”

“Iwi? Weird name.”

“It’s the closest I can translate what they actually call themselves.”

“So when’s low tide?” Conrad asked.

“Around daybreak. Which gives us three hours to get to know each other, once Slivko’s worked his magic. I camp out in the Wanderer. Got myself a nice little loft, even if I do say so.”