Kong: King of Skull Island Read online

  TITLE PAGE

  KONG

  King of Skull Island

  Created and illustrated by

  Joe DeVito

  Written by

  Brad Strickland

  with

  John Michlig

  Inspired and based on the novel King Kong

  conceived by

  Edgar Wallace and Merian C. Cooper

  novelization by

  Delos W. Lovelace

  DEDICATION

  KONG: King of Skull Island

  To my wife, Mary Ellen, and our daughters, Melissa and Emily, for their unshakable love and support; to my brother Vito, who first introduced me to King Kong and was my artistic guide throughout childhood; to my brother Vincent, who opened the door and made this book possible; and in loving memory of my parents, William and Yolanda DeVito and my Aunt Ann.

  Joe DeVito

  And to my wonderful, long-suffering, helpful family: my wife Barbara, our daughter Amy, our son Jonathan, and our daughter-in-law Rebecca.

  Brad Strickland

  Exclusively authorized by the Estate of Merian C. Cooper

  Publisher Copyright 1957, LLC

  Thomas J Coyne III, Joe DeVito, Nick DeGregorio

  Art Director Colin Fuchs • Publication Designer Peter Coyne

  Copyright DeVito ArtWorks, LLC © 2004, 2005, 2011 All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the copyright holder. Names, characters, places and incidents featured in this publication are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events, institutions or locales, without satiric intent, is coincidental. Copyright 1957™ is a registered trademark of Copyright 1957, LLC. All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Copyright 1957, LLC

  150 Morristown Road

  Bernardsville, NJ 07924

  First eBook Edition: October 2011

  ISBN: 978-0-983-83541-7

  Table of Contents

  TITLE PAGE

  DEDICATION

  INTRODUCTION

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  EPILOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHIES

  MUCH MORE COMING SOON!

  INTRODUCTION

  When I first read the book and saw the 1933 film King Kong, I had no idea it would father so many concepts and interpretations over the years. To me it was mainly a wonderful, rip-roaring magical adventure into the never-never land of fantasy. Its fascination was not only in the unique technical effects of the film, at the time, but the basic story, which was structured in a most unusual way. The book and the film took the audience by the hand from the mundane world of the Depression into the most outrageous fantasy ever to be put onto the “silver screen” and made us believe that such an adventure was possible.

  Merian C. Cooper’s concept was developed into a cohesive whole by including ideas from the never-completed Willis O’Brien project, Creation, and The Lost World. O’Brien’s contributions to the story have many times been overlooked. But it was Merian Cooper’s love of and flight into the fantastic that pulled the complete project together as a masterpiece of unusual adventure and fantastic entertainment.

  Unfortunately, in today’s world the many outlets for presenting entertainment have reduced the unusual visual presentation to the mundane by overexposure of the computer-generated image. In a thirty-second commercial on television, we are now inundated with the most amazing sights. Before CGI, spectacular visual images were rare and unique, but alas, no more.

  Joe DeVito’s original story and artistic conceptions have gone deeper into the history and background of the adventure’s hero, Carl Denham. It was a concept I am sure was never anticipated by Mr. Cooper. DeVito’s story and his imaginative illustrations have added a new dimension to the idea of spectacular visual imagery.

  —Ray Harryhausen

  March 5, 2004

  PROLOGUE

  SOMEWHERE IN THE INDIAN OCEAN

  November 18, 1933

  Carl Denham could smell land. The hazy tropical night still lay too dark for him even to glimpse it, but the breeze from the east brought the well-remembered scents: the odor of riotous vegetation, the ammoniac reek of predators, a whiff of wood smoke. Somewhere not far ahead lay Denham’s destination. He leaned on the ship’s rail, staring into the darkness, every nerve, every sense, alive and aware.

  A soft footstep behind him. Without turning, he said, “Good morning, Captain Englehorn.”

  “Mr. Denham.” Beside him the captain stopped. He struck a match and lit his pipe, his craggy face golden in the momentary glow. “You’ve been standing here a long time.”

  “I didn’t sleep well. But you’re here, too.”

  The captain chuckled. “Yes, but it’s my job. I’ve ordered dead slow. No use tearing her heart out on the reefs. Not with dawn coming.”

  The tobacco in Englehorn’s pipe glowed cherry-red, and the aromatic smoke masked the land odors. “Plenty of time,” Denham said. “As long as the ice holds out.”

  “Yes. Well, there it is.”

  Straining his eyes, Denham could barely see a faint gray horizon line. That would be breakers, pounding the rocky shore of the island. Above them rose a humped, rounded shape, a darker patch against the sky. “I remember it.”

  The captain took a meditative pull at his pipe. “I swore never to come back.”

  Denham sighed. He had made that same vow to himself. “You’re a good friend.”

  “You’re paying me well enough,” replied the captain.

  “Still, I never thanked you. Not the way I should have.”

  The dawn was coming. The east was bloody with it. The captain, a silhouette in Denham’s peripheral vision, turned his head. “That sounds as if you’re not planning on making the return voyage.”

  Denham did not answer. He reflected that the captain’s remark might not be a bad idea. After all, what lay behind? Lawsuits, accusations. His family, of course, but his wife and the boy were well provided for. And he hadn’t exactly been a model husband and father, had he? Always chasing around the globe for images on film. Chasing shadows. Until he had caught the greatest one of all, the Eighth Wonder of the World.

  He shifted his weight and rubbed his eyes. What would the islanders think of this mad return? He was bringing back their king—a fallen king. Like himself. He smiled grimly.

  Sunrise, and the breathtaking flood of tropical daybreak. Denham shielded his eyes as the golden light gleamed on the rounded dome of the island, and the curiously eroded volcanic monolith that loomed over the blackish-green jungle seemed to stare back at him with empty eye sockets. The island was closer than he had thought. He could even glimpse the line of the great wall.

  “We’re a little too far south to suit me,” said the captain. “I’ll put that right.” He left Denham alone at the bow.

  Denham strained to hear. Surf—he could hear the steady pounding of breakers on the rocky flanks of the island. Was there another drumbeat behind tha
t one? He couldn’t tell. He rubbed his palm over his face, feeling the rasp of his unshaven cheeks. Time to wash up, break out the razor. Maybe today he’d have some appetite for breakfast. He pushed up from the rail and turned, heading back along the starboard side of the ship. Ahead of him he saw one of the sailors, the young Clancy, securing a line. “Morning,” Denham said.

  Clancy looked up, his homely, pug-nosed face breaking into a smile—and then he screamed, looking not at Denham but at something beyond him.

  Denham spun, instinctively ducking. A winged horror filled the sky, a flying dragon, descending, forty-foot wingspan stretched out, translucent against the rising sun, arteries and veins roadmapping the leathery flesh, gleaming black eyes, talons outstretched, claws rusted red from the blood of old kills—

  All this registered in an instant, together with the thought If I only had a camera—

  The beast seized Denham’s up-flung left arm, claws searing into his flesh. The wings beat once, twice. Desperately Denham hooked his right arm through the rail. He heard Clancy’s shouts, saw the fierce beak above him, the crested orange head swiveling to bring the pterosaur’s gleaming black plum of an eye to bear. Denham groaned against the strain, feeling the trickle of blood over his skin. It was an impossible contest. The creature couldn’t lift him, but it was too stupid to know that. If it dragged him away from the rail, though, it would slash and tear at him with its wicked teeth. If he managed to hold on, at the least he would lose his arm—

  He lost his grip on the rail, felt himself dragged aft, past the overhang. The monster’s wings flapped twice as it tried to rip his arm off.

  An explosion from the water, a flash of green and silver, and Denham fell tumbling, seeing the world whirl past. He had one glimpse of a body as long as a freight engine, frightful jaws clamped on the still-struggling pterosaur. Sea beast. Prehistoric. He saw it as if in a photo flash, frozen in time.

  He plunged into blood-warm water, sank deep, kicked, rose, lungs aching, eyes burning, arm trailing red streamers. No, his mind shrieked, not now, not when I’ve come so far—

  Somewhere above him, something broke the surface of the water in a burst of silver bubbles.

  But Carl Denham was in the murky depths already, and sinking fast.

  CHAPTER ONE

  NEW YORK CITY

  March 16, 1957

  Tyrannosaurus rex. King of the Tyrant Lizards. It dwarfed him, made him feel like a child facing a tiger. A child? No, smaller—a squirrel, a rabbit. Dr. Vincent Denham stared up at the dinosaur, shaking his head, dissatisfied. He could visualize the various muscles and orchestrate their movement over the living bones. He knew the size of the brain, the exact length of the teeth, and saw the mad gleam of its eyes in their stereoscopic, ridged sockets. Could anyone else? He doubted it. Except to those gifted with a paleontologist’s knowledge or a Charles R. Knight’s artistry, the exhibit was just an articulated skeleton, maybe a fantasy from a kid’s book.

  A tall man, despite the way the skeleton made him feel, Denham sighed and checked his watch for the third time that hour. And it was still only 3:11. The appointment wasn’t until 3:30. If—

  A chatter of voices distracted him. A family group, father, mother, two sons, a daughter, sauntering toward the tyrannosaur exhibit, the father pontificating in a self-important way: “These animals lived a million years ago, kids. They all died out in caveman times.”

  Denham clamped his jaw shut. A million years? Try seventy million years, you ignoramus. And don’t tell the kids that cavemen and dinosaurs co-existed. That was a delusion or a lie. People need to read more books and watch less movies.

  Except, taunted a voice in his head, for the island your old man discovered.

  Denham strode away from the dinosaur hall, heading for the elevator and for his office. A few staff members nodded to him as he passed, but no one spoke. Denham carried his own silence with him, wrapped himself in it like a cloak. He opened his office door and smiled as he saw a gray-suited man turning from the dozen photographs on the wall to the right of his desk. Same muscular build, though heavier; same earnest features, though the hair was grayer, the jaw a little fuller. “Hi, kid,” Jack Driscoll said with a grin. He jerked a thumb at a framed diploma. “Or I guess I should say ‘Doctor Denham.’”

  “Kid’s okay,” Vincent told him, shaking hands. “Good to see you again, Mr. Driscoll.”

  The other man winced. “Not ‘Mr. Driscoll.’ Jack, please. How long has it been?”

  Denham gestured toward a chair, and he sank into his own chair behind the desk. “Too long. Mom’s funeral.”

  Driscoll sat down, crossing his legs, and nodded. He didn’t say anything.

  Watching him, Denham thought, He knew exactly how long it’s been. He wanted to see if I’m still grieving. Still angry. Aloud, he said, “How’s Ann?”

  “Fine, fine,” Driscoll said. “Waiting for our first grandchild to be born.” He chuckled. “You’re not much good at small talk, Vince. Want to tell me why you asked me to come see you?”

  Denham nodded without smiling. “It’s about Dad,” he said. “And about King Kong.”

  Driscoll regarded him impassively. “I thought you didn’t believe Kong even existed.”

  Denham opened the top right drawer of his desk. He took out a stack of photos and papers. The pictures, all eight-by-ten black and whites, he tossed to Driscoll. “A scientist has to have evidence, Jack,” he said. “We need it the way living creatures need food, water, air. This is what I’ve always had.” He watched as Driscoll thumbed through the photos. “As you see, the pictures of King Kong aren’t very good. A black mass, in most of them. The one with Dad and Ann could have been faked. The one of Kong dead on the street just shows a heap of something against a background of buildings.”

  “I was there that night,” Driscoll said with a grim smile. He placed the pictures back on the desk. “Let’s say his photos don’t do him justice.”

  Denham didn’t respond to that. Instead, he picked up a slim scrapbook. “Then there are the news stories. ‘Denham’s Monster Terrorizes City.’ Six or seven days’ worth—Kong wasn’t even a nine-day wonder.”

  “It was the middle of the Depression, kid,” Driscoll said. “There were other things to worry about. Is that why you won’t accept Kong’s existence?”

  Denham shook his head. “Not entirely. Part of it is scientific. The descriptions of Kong don’t match any known primate. The newspapers called him a gorilla, but no gorilla of that size could exist. He’d have to be an unknown species, and where do you hide a species that size?”

  “He wasn’t easy to find,” Driscoll pointed out. “What else?”

  “Personal things, I guess. You know, three or four years after the war, when I was still in college, a reporter interviewed me about my dad. What did I think of King Kong? Did I feel my father was responsible?” He laughed without much mirth. “What was I supposed to say? I wasn’t even ten in 1933, and Mom and I never saw Kong. Dad kept us away from the city. But you know the question that really bothered me? It was ‘What happened to the body?’” Denham leaned forward over the desk. “Jack, what did happen to the body?”

  “You got me,” Driscoll said evenly. “It was there, and then a crew came and hauled it away, and no one knows for sure where it went.”

  With a sigh, Denham replied, “Exactly. That’s why the debunkers had a field day later on. Was it really a freak of nature? Was it some bizarre hoax that Dad pulled off?” He leaned back in his chair. “You know the way I think, Jack. I’m a paleontologist. I’ve got to see the bones. That’s what I want.”

  “No,” Driscoll said quietly. “You want to sleep at night.” When Denham started to object, he held up his hand. “Hear me out, kid. I know what you went through. Not even a month after Kong rampaged through the city, your old man disappeared. Your mom was left to fight the legal battles, make the explanations, hear the accusations.”

  “It killed her,” Denham said.

  Dri
scoll nodded. “I know it did. So now you want—what? To prove the whole thing never happened? Because you can’t do that, kid.”

  Denham did not answer at once. He could hear the slow ticking of the Regulator clock in the hall outside. At last he said, “I want to discover the truth.”

  “All right. How?”

  Reaching into the open drawer, Denham pulled out a manila envelope. “Last week I was rearranging the pictures on the wall there, putting up new shots of our last Montana dig. I bumped a photo, and it fell off the wall. The glass broke.” He pulled the picture out of the envelope. “This is the last picture taken of the family before Dad vanished.” He looked at it, his mother, his father, and himself as a tow-headed eight year old standing in the sun before a white house. Carl Denham stared into the camera, a cocky grin on his face, as if in challenge. His mother had her eyes turned toward her husband, and she was not smiling. Vincent himself looked almost lost, in front of the other two but somehow not fully part of the family group, his face solemn, looking older than his true age. Denham handed the photo to Driscoll.

  “Looks just like he did the first time I met him,” Driscoll said. “What about it?”

  Denham took a folded piece of heavy paper from the envelope. “This was hidden in the frame behind it,” he said.

  Driscoll took it from him and unfolded it. He whistled. “Is this the real McCoy?” he asked.

  With a shrug, Denham said, “You mean is it a fake, like the one in the lawsuit? I don’t know. What do you think?”

  Driscoll shook his head. “Looks right to me.” He stood, completely unfolded the map on the desk top, and studied the bearings scribbled in the margins. “This is a redrawn version of the original map, but it’s by your dad’s hand, all right.” He pointed at the chart. “This strange writing wasn’t on the original. And these rivers—or whatever they are—weren’t on it either. This is a close copy, though. The coordinates are on target. But someone’s fooled with it.”