Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (36 page)

One cast a threatening eye upon them: a Pterodactyl, brown as a bat. It circled, its long, bony skull switching about as it attempted to keep them in sight. The beat of its membranous wings was unlike any bird they had ever seen, but its behavior brought to mind a vulture circling intended prey.

“He has us in mind for a meal,” suggested Captain Savage.

“Agreed.”

Doc decided that striking first was the best course of action.

Taking up his blowgun, the bronze man inserted a dart. Placing one tube to his mouth, he tracked the thing carefully, puffed sharply.

The dart struck the body in the chest—and the flapping creature gave out a long screech. It began flapping away wildly, then seemed to change its mind.

Returning on outspread wings, the pterosaur swooped lower and lower.

Doc sent another dart at its great mass. This one struck a wing, caused the creature to fold up in midair, before getting itself organized again.

When it finally found its equilibrium, the Pterodactyl shook its agitated head in all directions, again trying to fix the three men walking along the ground.

Doc said, “It appears to be resistant to the poison.”

“If only I had bullets,” groaned Captain Savage.

Doc went in search of a vine and some stones, thinking a bolas might make an effective weapon for tangling up the ugly monster. But he found none and the thing was swiftly beating its harridan way toward them.

Twin blood-drop eyes focused on them, its bony head resembling a grotesque double-headed hatchet poised to strike. It swooped down.

“Hit the ground!” rapped Doc suddenly.

Captain Savage knocked Chicahua to the grass, followed suit himself.

Doc set himself, his Bowie knife jumping into his hand.

The thing abruptly curled its angular wings in a braking action and long talons jerked up, aiming for the bronze giant.

Doc was running now, running to meet the monster—head-on!

When they finally collided, the bronze man flung a clod of dirt into the red eyes. The thing emitted a fierce screech. It became a long scream of death when Doc Savage tore at it with his short steel fang, fending off clutching talons and twisting the blade point into the spot where it would do the most damage—the long thin neck.

A gurgling resulted as blood filled the Pterodactyl’s torn throat. Doc hacked a hole, then slit the throat lengthwise with an abrupt downward rip.

That ended the combat. The winged thing folded up, landing atop Doc. As its eyes slowly closed, the bronze man crawled out from under its jerking form. Motioning for the others to hurry, he resumed the long trek to Skull Mountain, now shining in the full light of morning. Clouds marching across the sky threw shadow patterns across its craggy dome, and some of these wavered in and out of its hollow eye sockets, giving the death’s head countenance the same macabre semblance of life the face had possessed when they first laid eyes upon it.

BY noon, they reached the broad, rocky base, and began climbing without any discussion or planning. There was no need. To reach the lair of Kong was their only objective. Time was of the essence. Nothing else mattered.

The ascent was slow, the need for silence great. From time to time, they paused to con the terrain below.

“No sign of Dyaks,” said Doc.

“But they are present,” said his father. “Make no mistake about it.”

They resumed their climb. It was a matter of finding trustworthy hand- and foot-holds. Loose rocks could precipitate an avalanche, which would betray their approach.

So they proceeded carefully, Doc leading the way.

Doc reached the cliff ledge first, climbing onto the stone-sheltered ledge and lying flat where he could not be seen. There he paused, listening.

The sound of Kong’s breathing came, low and labored. Doc had heard it before, of course. But this time it was different. It sounded ragged, no longer strong and naturally rhythmic.

Venturing to raise his head, the bronze man dared a quick glance, then ducked back.

What he saw told him a great deal.

Kong lay recumbent, flat on his back, face upward, mouth agape. He seemed to be breathing through his open mouth, another sure sign of distress.

Doc stole another peek.

Kong was oblivious to him. He stared upward, like a man expecting death, eyes focused on eternity. His great barrel chest worked like a slow bellows.

From time to time, a hairy paw moved, feeling along its fur, questing and removing a long needle-like dart when he found one. Kong appeared to have little strength for this procedure. Each dart, he tossed away without looking at it. Doc could see that there were many more darts yet to be discovered.

Of Stormalong Savage, he had glimpsed no sign.

Withdrawing, Doc returned to the spot where his father and Chicahua crouched.

“Kong is dying,” Doc reported.

“Never mind him!” snapped Captain Savage. “What news of Old Stormy?”

“I didn’t see him,” admitted Doc.

“We must enter the den of the devil without delay.”

Doc hesitated, wanted to say that it was too dangerous, but realized that if they did not enter as a group, his father would plunge in alone. He could not blame him.

Nodding wordlessly, Doc Savage turned to lead the way. He did not bother to load a fresh dart into his blowgun. It would hardly have any effect upon Kong now….

Chapter XLVIII

DOC SAVAGE WENT over the lip of the high, jagged cliff that led into the hollow eye socket of Skull Mountain as rapidly as he could. This in order to get in before his father could catch up. His intention was to absorb the brunt of any defense by Kong.

But all that Kong did was make a sharp intake of breath. A snuffling grunt came, and the Titan ape attempted to turn its head. It appeared to have little reserve strength for that.

One amber eyeball did roll downward into the corner of its socket. It began tracking the bronze man in an unnerving way. It was larger than Doc’s head.

Keeping his distance, Doc made a circuit of the prone ape, walking past the massive feet, both of which were cocked askew.

The musky smell of Kong was strong, and drowned out all other odors. Doc could detect no other persons in the lair.

Reaching Kong’s opposite side, Doc came upon Old Stormy.

The incredibly tall seaman was stretched out several feet away, where he had evidently crawled in an effort to escape Kong’s death clutch.

Doc detected the jerky movement of his chest, but no other action.

A groan came from the elongated giant. He was still tangled up in the Triceratops poncho Doc had made for him.

Rushing to Old Stormy’s side, Doc carefully removed the cumbersome garment and felt him over. The head lifted, turned. Cat-yellow eyes brightened.

“Doc,” he groaned.

“Here.”

“I am afraid…that…I am done for….”

Doc made a cursory examination. He discovered broken ribs. Many of them.

“Kong did this.”

“He… did not know what he was doing. He was...lonely, without forebears or issue…the last of his breed….”

Old Stormy coughed once, and a spray of syrupy blood came, speckling what remained of his long snowy sea captain’s beard.

Doc felt of the man’s amazingly long arms and legs. They were intact. No broken bones. His medical knowledge was coming to the fore.

Looking up, Doc saw that Kong’s other eyeball had now fallen on them. There was pain in it. Nothing more. No threat. No menace. Nothing but worry. The awesome creature never seemed more human.

Doc’s hand drifted to the herbal bag around his neck. It was supposed to be a repellent, but it seemed useless now. Kong could scarcely move now.

A voice hissed out, “Clark!”

It was Captain Savage.

“Over here,” called Doc.

Captain Savage rounded the feet of Kong, and his metallic gaze fell upon Stormalong lying there. His entire face winced when he saw the crimson spray of beard.

“Father!” he choked, rushing forward.

It was as if Kong was not present.

“He is in a bad way,” Captain Savage said, after making his own examination.

“Broken ribs, at least one lung has collapsed. No doubt there are other injuries of an internal nature.”

Doc offered, “We dare not move him in his present condition, lest his injuries become compounded.”

Captain Savage turned to glower at the recumbent Kong. “That foul ape!”

“Kong is not at fault,” said Doc. “Not entirely, at any rate.”

Glowering, Captain Savage seemed on the verge of rebuking his son when Old Stormy hacked out, “The boy is…correct. Blame no one…but the Dyaks.”

“What can we do?” Captain Savage asked his son.

“If he has any chance, it will be through proper medications,” decided Doc.

“Of which we have none in this doubtful den,” frowned Savage Senior.

“Penjaga,” wheezed Old Stormy.

They turned toward him. “What is that?” demanded Captain Savage.

“The Keeper knows all the island herbs,” explained Doc. “She could help.”

“Yes,” said Stormalong Savage. Suddenly, he rolled his yellow eyes up in his skull and his bearded face turned over to one side.

Kong grunted once, sharply. His nearest arm stirred. He struggled to reach out to Old Stormy, but lacked the energy. His paw fell flat, fingers curling inward.

STRIPPING off his shirt, Doc rushed to the great dark pool that occupied a corner of the lair of Kong. He soaked it, then brought the sopping article back to his grandfather’s side.

Captain Savage took it from him, and began wiping Old Stormy’s brow, saying, “See if you can fetch up some water.”

Doc moved about the great cavern, found nothing at first, then spied a bar of light. He squeezed through a rift in an inner wall of rock.

On the other side, he discovered what appeared to be a natural warehouse. There were hardwood chests containing art objects, sealed scrolls, and other artifacts of a civilized people. Statuary predominated. The figures were coated with dust and grime, but appeared to have been worked by master artisans. The people depicted seemed of Asian origin.

Rummaging around, Doc discovered cups and goblets carved of some mineral material resembling soapstone. He took two of these back and washed them in the pool, then filled them with water from another side of the still impoundment.

Captain Savage quirked quizzical eyebrows when Doc returned with the brimming cups.

“Treasure,” clipped Doc.

Captain Savage nodded, attempted to pour some of the cool liquid into his father’s blood-specked lips. The waters slipped in, brought spasms to Old Stormy’s chest.

Then he stopped, stood up. “I dare not make him drink too much. Every time he coughs, it risks further lung punctures.”

Removing his Colt revolver from its holster, the captain asked, “Have you any bullets? My revolver is empty.”

Remembering the rounds he had left behind during his first experience in Kong’s lair, Doc excused himself and climbed up onto the shelf. They were still there.

“Here,” offered Doc, after he had returned.

Captain Savage examined them critically. “I fear the combination of immersion and jungle humidity has done them no good,” he muttered distractedly. “And I dare not test one until I have a worthy target.”

Doc Savage said, “Father, you must remain here. I will fetch the old woman.”

“Very well.” Captain Savage set his hands on Doc’s shoulders. “In you,” he said thickly, “I place all my hopes. The Savage line must endure.”

Doc said nothing. His eyes went to his grandfather, as if fearful of seeing him for the last time.

“I will return directly,” he promised.

Guarding the entrance, Chicahua stopped him as Doc moved toward the ledge.

“Enemigo,”
said the Mayan, pointing to the plain below. Enemies.

Between the wall and the severe countenance of Skull Mountain, brown figures were moving through the bush. Dyaks. They were working their steady way in this direction, Doc saw.

Skirting the heaving body of Kong, Doc returned to his father’s side.

“Dyak war party approaching.”

“Chicahua and I will hold them off. But how to get you out of this accursed place without being seen? They will hunt you down, son.”

Doc strode over to the dark pool. He peered down into its depths.

“Do you suppose that this connects to the torrent that is the source of the River of No Return?”

“If it is a natural well, it might.”

“Rainwater did not make this,” said Doc, kicking off his boots. “I am going to chance it.”

Captain Savage nodded gravely. “If you become disoriented, return at once. I will not lose you as well. That is an order.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Doc began charging his lungs for the plunge. He removed everything possible, starting with his boots—all except for his Bowie knife and scabbard. He took two minutes to prepare. The Pan-pipe blowgun he shoved into the small of his back, where it was unlikely to impede movement.

The last thing he did was to seal the Dyak dart sheath as tightly as he could before placing it in a back pocket. Doc wondered if the pasty poison would retain its potency after immersion.

Then the bronze giant leaped into the pool and was gone.

With pained eyes, Captain Savage watched the spreading ripples. No bubble of oxygen popped to the surface. Not a one. When five minutes had passed, he returned to minister to Stormalong Savage, his metallic features a knot of pain.

Chapter XLIX

PRINCE MONYET SURVEYED the bruised and bloodied remnants of his Dyak forces.

They had been devastated. One had lost an eye, and another an ear. Fingers were missing from many. These were the survivors.

These men went among the mortally wounded and, in an act of Dyak mercy, with swift, downward strokes of their
mandau
blades relieved them of their heads so that they would not suffer the indignity of decapitation by enemies, and be damned to spend the rest of eternity roaming the jungle as
buan
—headless ghosts who knew no rest.

This was soon accomplished.