Kong: Skull Island - The Official Movie Novelization

FOURTEEN

Conrad moved gracefully, swinging his machete as he hacked through the jungle, leading their way. Like him, Weaver had been in the field for a long time, constantly on the move. Looking for the next story. Seeking a greater truth through her lens than war, conflict, death, and the inevitable descent from civilisation into chaos. She witnessed it everywhere she looked. There was nothing to be seen that could convince her that humankind was heading in any other direction.

As they moved forward, sweaty and dirty, exhausted, still scared, Slivko continued to monitor the radio. The static sang, fading in and out. There were no voices. It was as if the island was whispering about them in mocking tones.

“Save it for when we get closer to the others,” Conrad said. “If anyone else is even still alive.”

Slivko clicked the radio off and slung it across his back. Weaver took a snap of him, dejected and defeated. She wondered what that momentary image would show if and when she developed it. That was what she loved the most about taking photographs. She witnessed life through the lens, animated and constantly moving, but truth lay in those frozen images she caught. Sometimes reality was too fast or too deep to see with the naked eye.

Just ahead of her, Conrad froze. He turned and pressed his finger against his lips. Then he pointed ahead at a clearing in the jungle. It contained a wide pool of water fed by the river, its surface relatively still and speckled with large lily pads and clumps of rushes. At its centre was a hillock, an island of sorts that was scattered with logs and long, grassy water ferns. Colourful birds flitted back and forth from the island, digging at the ground and fleeing with large winged insects in their beaks.

“What is it?” Weaver whispered. Conrad only shook his head and pointed at the island. She looked closer, but it was only as she brought the camera up to her eye that she saw the subtle movement.

Ripples were breaking out from the island and travelling across the large pond. Lily pads rode the ripples, and gnarled frogs leapt on and off the pads, adding their splashes. She clicked a photo.

The island began to move.

Weaver lowered the camera as the island began to lift from the water. It was disorientating, as if the ground was dropping beneath her feet. She swayed but remained upright, then gasped as she recognised the shape in the pool.

A huge, majestic water buffalo slowly rose from the water and muck. Weeds and plants trailed from horns that must have been fifteen feet in length. Its head was an island in itself, lifting from the water and turning as it stared at them. It chewed slowly, each grind of its jaw making a wet, dull thud that echoed across the clearing. Water poured from its back. Birds landed on its exposed horns and starting plucking small creatures from the plants drooping from them.

Slivko lifted his M-16, but Conrad placed his hand on the barrel and pushed it back down. Slivko did not resist. Weaver was glad.

She sensed no threat from this beast. It did not seem as fascinated with them as they were with it, dipping its head back down and scooping another mouthful of foul-smelling muck and plant from the pond’s bottom.

“That’s… big,” Weaver whispered. Conrad smiled at her, and she was pleased to see the sense of wonder she felt reflected in his eyes. Maybe it’s not all struggle and fight, she thought. Maybe what I’ve been looking for all this time is wonder.

“We’ll pass on slowly,” he said to all of them. “I don’t think it’s a threat. But we take it slow and cautious, and be ready for anything.”

The water buffalo snorted, and it reminded Weaver of the sound a whale made filling its lungs on the surface of the sea. She could smell it now, a heavy dank odour mixed in with something altogether more spicy and sweet. It watched them as they moved around the edge of the large pool, head turning slowly as it continued to chew. Slivko and Conrad moved ahead, and behind her came Brooks and San, both staring at the amazing creature as they passed. Nieves brought up the rear. He seemed more alert to their surroundings, less engrossed in the creature they had disturbed. That comforted her. While their attention was on it, something else might be focusing its attention on them.

Seeing the huge buffalo was not the first time she’d considered what else might be on this island with them. The ape, the snake that Conrad had encountered, and now this buffalo, all meant that the island would be home to countless other unknown creatures. Fascinating animals, she was sure, and horrors too.

The terrain grew more challenging, and soon the pool was lost in the jungle behind and below them. The ground rose and fell, plants grew thick and spiked, and Conrad worked hard to clear a route. Some of the plant life around them she recognised, much of it she did not. She was no botanist, but she knew for sure that some of this undergrowth was found nowhere else on the planet. She’d heard of carnivorous plants before, and knew that there were several species that trapped and digested insects. When they saw one with large upright cups filled with water, it was Conrad who investigated the dark shapes contained inside.

“What is it?” Slivko asked. Conrad grabbed the stem and snapped it so that the bulb spilled its contents across the ground. There were several birds in there, a lizard, and a wasp the size of Weaver’s hand, all in varying stages of decay.

“Don’t touch,” Conrad warned. “Acid.” Weaver took a picture.

They moved on in single file and remained alert, Nieves and Slivko pausing frequently to look around and take stock. Jungle sounds and smells assailed them. Weaver knew from experience that it was when the constant sounds lessened and faded that they would have to take care. The jungle seemed to know when something bad was about to happen.

In such situations attention could wander. Weaver walked into Slivko where he’d come to a standstill. He barely seemed to notice the impact.

“What?” she asked, immediately on edge.

“Conrad?” he whispered. Ahead of him was the path Conrad had been cutting through the undergrowth, trailing creepers dripping sap where he had sliced them through. A snake hissed and curled away up a drooping branch. The scurrying shadow of a large spider disappeared into a carpet of trampled leaves. “Conrad?” Louder. No answer.

“What’s happened?” Weaver asked.

“I lost Conrad.”

“What do you mean, lost him? He was right in front of us.”

“And then I looked around and he was gone,” Slivko said. He nursed his M-16, sweeping the undergrowth ahead of them. “Conrad?” he called, louder than before. Then as he drew a breath to shout Weaver caught movement from the corner of her eye. She span around and crouched, wishing she had accepted a weapon from Slivko after all.

Conrad emerged from the jungle, looking from Weaver to Slivko.

“Keep your voices down,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to wake up anything with teeth.”

“Where’d you go?” Slivko asked.

Conrad pointed back through the trees he’d just emerged from. Deeper in, Weaver could just make out a patch of depressed foliage.

“Combat boots did that. It’s fresh, maybe only fifteen minutes.”

“The others must be close!” Weaver said.

“No one can move quickly in this jungle,” Conrad said. He eyed the whole group, assessing their condition and obviously satisfied, for now. “Come on. This way.”

They followed him again, shifting direction and heading up a steep slope towards a tree-smothered ridge line. There was little to be seen, even from that high up, because the foliage was so dense. They took a quick breather, then continued down the other side.

Weaver was fascinated watching Conrad work. He was clearly tracking the other group, although most of the time she couldn’t see what he did. He paused frequently, checking branches and leaves, crouching to look at the ground, touching scuff marks on tree bark, sniffing the air. She was close behind him, observing but not wishing to interrupt his flow, when he froze.

She sensed his tension as he looked across the valley that suddenly opened out before them.

They had reached the edge of a tree line, and now another startling truth hit home.

“This island was inhabited!” Brooks said.

Ruins filled the valley, vast structures of angular grey rock, almost chalk-white in places, some vaguely pyramidal and some more like long, high walls. Creepers and undergrowth had smothered some of the lower reaches, but the higher ruins remained relatively plant-free. They protruded from the jungle in several places, and Weaver could make out a pattern that connected all the ruins into one huge settlement.

There was writing on the stonework in no language she had ever seen. It was bright red, like blood.

That’s not ancient, she thought. The sun would have bleached it, rain washed it away. That’s recent.

“Not was inhabited,” Conrad said. “It is inhabited.” He drew his pistol and held it down by his leg, and Weaver felt a deep pang of unease.

Something about the whole scene changed. It was a fluid motion, something that almost fooled the eye and made Weaver sway and feel queasy. The constant heat that stuck her clothes to her body with sweat seemed to fade, and a chill pulsed through her veins.

People were appearing as if from nowhere. Close to them, men and women manifested from the jungle, their movements the only sign of their existence. Their camouflage paint was perfect, blending them into the jungle in shades of green and brown that made them almost invisible. Further away, other people were moving towards them from the buildings, their bodies also camouflaged with pale paint and coloured shapes that blended them in with the edifices.

Their clothing was similarly decorated, hoods and swathed skirts matching the colours splayed across their exposed skin.

They came with strung arrows and heavy spears aimed at the small group.

Slivko raised his M-16, and Weaver saw Conrad lifting his pistol, his body tensing into the beginnings of a shooting stance.

No, she wanted to say, but she also realised the danger this situation presented. She became the observer, raising her camera, dreading what she was about to see and record. And in that moment—one of a thousand when she had been preparing to witness and document violence from the outside, rather than from within—she realised that she was always the observer. She’d believed all along that the camera brought her closer to the truth.

In reality, it insulated her from it.

“Woah!” a voice shouted. “No need for that! Everybody keep your wigs on, now.” A bearded man emerged from the jungle and ran towards them through the painted men and women. He was taller, paler, so obviously not one of them, yet none of the tribespeople even looked at him.

He was dressed in a torn and tattered Air Force jumpsuit that had been patched and sewn multiple times, a parachute harness fashioned into a belt, and well-worn combat boots.

“What the…?” Brooks said from behind Weaver.

Quite, she thought.

Conrad shifted his aim to this new target. The man skidded to a halt with his hands held out, and then he smiled, poor teeth grinning through a mass of beard. It was his eyes that really defused the situation. Weaver could see the joy there, the honest delight at seeing them all. She already knew that he would have such tales to tell.

Conrad slowly lowered his gun and gestured for Slivko to do the same. The soldier only half-lowered the M-16, and the two groups stood facing each other, weapons to hand, with this wild bearded man the only thing between them.

“Combat boots,” Conrad said, as if that might explain something.

“Look at you!” the man said. He was almost dancing on the spot. “I didn’t believe it when they said you were coming! I was up all night just thinking about how many times Gunpei and I dreamed of this moment, and now here it is! Twenty-eight years, eleven months, and eight attempts to get back to the world, and instead it comes to me. Not that I’m complaining. I never saw anything more magnificent in my whole life. You’re more beautiful than a beer and a brat on a summer day at Wrigley. And you’re real.” He came forward and touched Conrad’s shoulder, flinching back as if expecting him to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Yes you are! Hey, that was a hell of an entrance. What were you bombing out there? Not smart.” He grew even more excited as he suddenly remembered something else. “And what are those wingless planes with the eggbeaters on top?”

“Helicopters,” Conrad said.

“You crashed here?” Weaver asked.

The man seemed to gather himself, realising that this small group were staring at him with shock and surprise.

“Oh, yeah, sorry. Lieutenant Hank Marlow of the Forty-Fifth.” He raised his eyebrows, grinning. “I even put on the old flight suit for you.” He nodded at Slivko. “You can put that down, now. You really should. The Iwi won’t hurt you.”

Slivko lowered his M-16. “There’s something out there, man.”

“Oh, there’s a lot out there!” Marlow said. “Come on, we gotta get back home.”

“Home?” Conrad asked. He glanced at Weaver. She shrugged.

Then she raised her camera and Marlow posed for her with a wild, delighted grin.