Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (40 page)

“We are honor bound,” Doc reminded.

“That we are. That we are.”

The two men shared a long silence. Doc Savage broke it.

“The Annihilator submachine gun lies in the jungle. Spare ammunition can be retrieved from the
Orion.
Also tools, with which I could create grenades by filling bamboo tubes with black powder and capping both ends.”

“An ingenious stratagem. But to reach the
Orion
and return with all that, I do not think there is the time, much less the opportunity.”

“A man is not beaten until he is dead, or has given up,” said Doc. “The author of Tarzan had a saying he put into the mouth of one of his characters: ‘I still live.’ Father, we still live.”

“Yes, we still live. But for how long? We are outnumbered, low on ammunition—such as it is—and utterly without provisions.”

As if to underscore his point, Captain Savage took his empty revolver from its holster and flung it away.

“That,” he said, “is of no more use than your vaunted Annihilator. For of what use are firearms without proper ammunition?”

Doc Savage watched the revolver skitter away, thinking it would make a fair club during a last stand.

“Father,” he said abruptly, “you are fond of quoting Teddy Roosevelt.”

“I served under him during the battle for the San Juan Heights, as you well know,” returned Savage Senior with a trace of stiffness at the inappropriate use of the familiar name.

“Did Roosevelt not say, ‘Do what you can, with what you have, where you are?’”

“Well put. But our situation remains unchanged.”

Doc looked back into the cavernous gloom.

“I see a weapon more powerful than a thousand Dyaks.”

Captain Savage stepped back. His stern gaze went to the Keeper ministering to the titanic beast-god.

“You cannot mean Penjaga?”

“No,” replied Doc. “Kong.”

Chapter LVII

DOC SAVAGE MOVED to the cavern pool, whose wild ripples were only now settling down.

Penjaga stood there, a look of disgust upon her wrinkled features.

“It has been fouled,” she spat. “Fouled with devilfish blood. Of what good is it now?”

“It could not be helped,” said Doc. But his golden eyes were whirling with a renewed animation.

Moonlight flooded in from the hollow entrance, giving the interior of the lair a thin shine. In that wan light, the blood of the vanquished octopus—or whatever it had been—gleamed greenly.

“What does Kong usually eat?” asked Doc suddenly.

“Kong eats whatever he wishes to eat,” snapped Penjaga. “Slashers. Deathrunners. Devilwings. I have seen him break their necks and devour their still-living flesh with his terrible fangs.” She hung her head. “But the great Kong cannot do that now.”

Stopping to scoop up the soapstone goblets he had earlier discovered, Doc began filling them with verdigris-hued water. He presented the brimming receptacles to the Keeper.

“Give him these to drink. The blood will renew his strength.”

Penjaga’s old eyes brightened.

“You
do
know things,” she said softly.

Taking the ancient goblets in each gnarled hand, Penjaga brought them to Kong and climbed atop his slowly heaving breast. The crackling of his ribcage cartilage sounded like the creaking of a ship’s rigging.

Doc looked about, found the length of maimed tentacle he had ripped off his arm. The sucker marks still burned on his sun-bronzed skin.

Walking over to Kong, he watched Penjaga slowly pouring the greenish water into the beast-god’s open mouth. The pulsing action of his hairy throat showed that Kong had begun accepting the nourishment.

Doc tossed the tentacle up.

“See if he will take that.”

Penjaga picked up the limp, detestable thing and made a prune face.

“Kong eats red meat,” she sniffed. “Not cold fish.”

“Try. Anything that will give him strength may save his life.”

Shrugging, Penjaga carried the rubbery green thing over to the great fanged mouth. She dangled it gingerly, as if fearful of falling into the awful maw that devoured slashers and pterosaurs alike.

Kong’s wide nostrils flared, sniffed and sniffed again, curiously intrigued.

A tongue larger than a rubber plant lifted into view and touched the tentacle. Tasting it tentatively, Kong began licking the rubbery morsel with increasing interest.

Surprise on her age-weathered face, Penjaga lowered the length into Kong’s yawning mouth.

The great creature began chewing, slowly and rhythmically.

It took a long time, but finally Kong finished his methodical masticating and swallowed the pulverized matter.

“He does not like it,” Penjaga commented. “I can tell.”

“But he swallowed it,” Doc pointed out.

“Bring more.”

Doc went to the pool and, after taking three deep breaths, disappeared below, Bowie knife in one bronze hand.

He was back not long after, a huge freshly-severed tentacle draped over one brawny shoulder.

Methodically, he began cutting it into sections. These he carried to Penjaga.

She fed Kong only the smallest pieces first, progressing to the larger as they disappeared down the beast-god’s gullet.

Guarding his father’s prone form, Captain Savage had watched all this with a dull interest, the worry lines etched into his brassy features.

Chicahua padded up, began speaking in his own language. The Mayan had been a silent but absorbed observer of all that had thus far transpired.

“What is he saying?” asked Doc.

“Chicahua is saying that Kong reminds him of Hunbatz. That is a monkey god out of his people’s mythology. There were two monkey gods, Hunbatz and Hunchouen. Hunbatz is the Howler Monkey God. They are very sacred to the Maya. For their holy book, the
Popul Voh,
stipulates that, in a previous age, men were made of wood. The wooden men were destroyed by the gods, but those who did not perish survived as monkeys. He thinks that Kong is one of those survivors. Mr. Darwin might possibly subscribe to that identical theory.”

Doc nodded. It explained why the Mayan had been so much in control of his emotions during the difficult proceedings.

“How is your father?” asked Doc.

Captain Savage lowered his voice. “Failing. And those Dyak devils have been too quiet these last few hours. I fear the worst.”

Doc went to the ledge, peered downward.

THE half moon painted the great wall in the distance, making it look both formidable and ageless. Once again, Doc wondered how long ago it had been erected and what manner of people had built it.

If Penjaga had been younger, it might have been possible to guess at her origins. But the Keeper might have been Annamese or Javanese—or any Asian people. Discerning her origins was beyond him.

Below, the watching Dyaks brandishing pitch torches, their hairless faces wavering blankly in the shivering lights.

Doc’s whirling eyes searched for Monyet, whose gold chest plates would catch and reflect the torchlight. He could not find the man.

But suddenly, his eyes discovered the man’s long feather headdress lying on the ground, apparently under guard. There was no sign of the Dyak prince near it.

Under his breath, Doc emitted his low trilling.

Returning to his father’s side, Doc addressed him.

“The Dyaks are watching, not acting. But there is no sign of their leader, Father.”

Clark Savage, Senior’s brow furrowed. “I fear they are up to some subterfuge.”

“Agreed. But what?”

An electric tension came into their golden eyes. Their gazes wandered about the granite cavern, returned and locked.

A single thought passed between them like an electric spark. At first, it went unspoken. Captain Savage said, “Do you suppose that skulking devil intends to take us by surprise?”

“My thought exactly.”

Their eyes shifted in the direction of the weirdly-green body of water.

“The pool…” muttered the captain.

“He will likely drown in the trying.”

Captain Savage frowned darkly. “If he does not, we must be prepared.”

Stationing Chicahua at the ledge, the two Savage men repaired to the pool. All thought of Kong and his failing health had fled.

“If he does survive the swim,” said Doc, “he will be in no condition to fight.”

“True. Therefore, that cannot be his plan.”

They were walking around the circumference of the pool as they discussed the matter, watching its darkling jade surface.

At one point, they stepped into a spot that had not been visited before.

Suddenly, Doc’s whispered words echoed loudly above their heads.

Halting, they froze in place.

“My word!” exploded Captain Savage.

“There is an acoustical anomaly in this part of the chamber,” decided Doc, stepping forward and back and hearing his voice rise and fall in volume in an uncanny way.

Captain Savage said, “The ancient Greeks possessed the secret of constructing their amphitheaters so that an actor could, by speaking in a normal tone of voice, be distinctly heard over a large area.”

“I wonder if this is a natural phenomenon, or one made by man…?”

“There is no time for idle conjecture now,” Captain Savage said impatiently. “We must—”

Suddenly, Chicahua called out to them.

“Remain here,” Captain Savage advised. “I will see what he wants.”

Rushing to the ledge, Captain Savage saw the situation before the agitated Mayan could describe it.

The Dyaks had built several scattered fires. These were set in the northeast, upwind of Skull Mountain’s perpetually-grim face. The smoke was rising in dark columns.

The smell of smoke was already carrying to his nostrils.

As he watched, they began throwing bundles into the leaping yellow flames. The smoke took on a heavy, evil quality in the moonlight and the odor reaching upward began to sting the eyes.

“Withdraw to shelter,” Savage told Chicahua.

Returning to the pool, he conversed with Doc Savage in low whispers.

“The Dyaks have a method of smoking out victims from longhouses they attack by night. They throw chilies into the fire, which produces an agonizing smoke, burning eyes and lungs, impossible to endure for very long.”

Doc nodded grimly. “I smell it already.”

“If they create a noxious smokescreen, we will be driven out of here, or overcome if we make a stand.”

“Perhaps it is a diversion….”

“We are powerless to prevent this.”

Doc Savage looked from his father’s face to that of Old Stormy lying there helpless and inanimate. His gaze flicked to Kong, whose nostrils began twitching. The awful unfamiliar odor was seeping into his laboring lungs.

“Son,” said Captain Savage.

“Yes, Father?”

“I ask only one thing of you.” He lowered his voice. “Do not permit them to decrown me. Even deceased, I could not bear the thought of a proud Savage head decorating a Dyak longhouse, the flesh of my face being eaten by household rats until my eyeless skull is exposed.”

Doc Savage looked his father straight in the eye and strange, troubled lights played there.

Captain Savage went on stiffly, “I, in turn, offer you the same provisional guarantee. If it is within my power to prevent—”

“Quiet,” said Doc suddenly.

Taken aback, Captain Savage said, “What?”

“I said, please be quiet.”

And without saying another word, the bronze giant strode over to the precise spot where the acoustical phenomenon was most potent.

Chapter LVIII

PRINCE MONYET SWAM through a darkness that made him believe he had fallen into a pit so deep there was no escaping it.

His lungs ached. His eyes watered. He swam blindly, feeling his way whenever he encountered stone or rock outcroppings above him.

His fingers were scraped raw by contact with these rough surfaces. His chest was tightening. Every fiber in his being screamed for an indrawn breath.

Stubbornly, Monyet refused to take one. To breathe was to die. To inhale meant choking on the bitter water of defeat.

Monyet of Skrang, son of Ramba, would not surrender to his weakness. He would stay strong, show the brazen devil that he possessed lungs as formidable as any man. He, Monyet, would prevail!

A dull sound made his ears ache. He felt like a grub impaled upon a pin. Twisting, he sought any sign of an outlet, any hope of fresh air.

Struggling through water both dark and cold, Monyet began to lose hope. In his despair, he began to pray to the Dyak gods of the Seven Heavens. But most of all, he prayed to Djata, the water god who lived in earthly rivers.

Djata, carry me on your powerful currents to my destination, bear me to the place where I can take revenge upon my enemies. Do not swallow me forever in your cold embrace, for I have yet to prove my prowess against my foes.

In the smothering cold dark, Monyet surrendered to the current. Blind to all that was around him, his wiry strength ebbing, he had no other choice….

Above his head appeared a faint shimmer of moonlight on water. He was rising now. Monyet began kicking furiously. His
duku
blade was sheathed by his side, cutting edge turned upward, horn handle within easy reach. Its iron weight dragged him. But he refused to remove it. Monyet ached to draw it. But he needed both hands, both feet, and all of his willpower to push his aching body, upward, ever upward, toward that disk of shimmering watery moonlight, where clean air and supreme victory lay….

Chapter LIX

TAKING A POSITION in a specific spot in the chamber of Kong, Doc Savage set himself. His throat pulsed, his lips parted.

And from those lips came a strange vocalization.

The sound might have been the call of some fabulous prehistoric creature of the skies over Skull Island. It could have been a lost melody out of Earth’s past. It might have been the eerie voice of Circe, or the wild piping of Pan. But it wasn’t.

It emerged from Doc’s lips, low in the beginning, rising in cadence, then growing in volume and vocal strength.

In the weird acoustics of Skull Mountain, this trilling was magnified, echoing and reechoing until it filled the entire granite chamber.