Doc Savage: Skull Island (The Wild Adventures of Doc Savage) (42 page)

There, Doc lay prone on the granite shelf to conserve his strength and present a minimum target. Peering down through the thinning smoke, he saw that the unfed fires were slowly burning out.

Slashers moved through the moonlight, jaws agape, their riotous feathers iridescent. They had no interest in anything other than their raw food.

Doc loaded all six tubes of his improvised blowgun. Lifting the weapon to his mouth, he charged his powerful lungs. He felt weak—was weak.

Picking his shots with care, Doc began blowing venomous barbs at his feeding foes below. Their single-minded focus on food made them standing targets, rather resembling fantastic turkeys.

One by one, they reared, stung. Scrambling to escape, they collapsed into twitching piles of varicolored plumage, raptor feet kicking spasmodically.

Others, seeing what befell their pack members, left off their frenzied feeding and retreated into the undergrowth.

Reloading, Doc brought down as many more as he could.

The bronze man sat down heavily, saying, “I believe they are bested.”

“Magnificent,” said Captain Savage, his voice thick with emotion.

They left Penjaga to tend to the wounds of Kong, whose breathing was the rhythmic respiration of a recovering creature.

Doc Savage began his routine of physical exercises. This went on for some time. The activity caused his bronze physique to run with honest sweat. His dulled eyes began to clear and the brisk whirling that marked the flake-gold irises stirred again to life. His healthy color returned. There were other aspects to this daily regimen, which included apparatus for sharpening the senses, but often it was impractical to include them. So Doc always made it a point to complete this portion every day without fail. Here, the muscle-testing routine had a restorative effect.

After a while, they began making preparations to depart.

It was decided that nothing be removed from the treasure room. It was hardly practical to do so, and Penjaga communicated her displeasure when she overheard them discussing it.

“We are going now,” Doc told her.

“Do not return, Gold Eyes,” warned Penjaga, shaking a finger at him. “Skull Mountain Island does not belong to you, or your kind. It once belonged to my people, of whom I am the last issue. Now it belongs to Kong. Only Kong.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” returned Doc graciously.

“Yes, your help was very much appreciated,” added Captain Savage, bowing his head slightly. “I presume you will not stay here any longer than is safe for you.”

“When Kong is strong,” she said firmly, “I will depart. Not before.”

They walked over to the body of Stormalong Savage.

Glancing back at the hairy figure of the beast-god of Skull Island, slumbering like a dormant Krakatoa, Doc said, “Father, I have made a decision.”

“What is that, son?”

“After due consideration, I have decided to return to medical school, after all.”

“That is a very wise decision, Clark.”

“From now on, call me Doc. I intend to earn the nickname.”

They shook metallic hands firmly.

“It is a bargain.”

CAPTAIN CLARK SAVAGE lifted the body of his father in both arms and carried him out to the ledge. The sun was coming up in the east, infusing the lair of Kong with a warm, rosy light.

The jungle began stirring. But they had no eye for its myriad noises, or the sight of varicolored pterosaurs lifting skyward to skim the treetops toward open water and fresh fish.

Doc Savage was still weak, but his incredible reserves of energy were already beginning to return.

Together, they conveyed the body down the side of Skull Mountain by handing it from man to man. They stumbled only once. Doc’s massive arms snapped out to steady the body, and they resumed their careful way downward.

At the base, they struck out, ignoring the sleeping slashers and dismembered Dyaks until Doc Savage halted suddenly.

“What is it?” asked his father, looking around guardedly.

“Grandfather gave me a piece of sound advice about surviving in the jungle. I am going to heed it.”

Going among the slashers, the bronze giant methodically cut each and every one of their bright-plumed throats.

“They will not awaken to hunt us,” he said simply, wiping gore off his knife onto the wilted feathers blowing lifelessly in the breeze.

By this time, Doc was able to shoulder his grandfather’s body unassisted, but he soon stopped to hack together a bamboo litter, which he lashed together with rattan and vines.

Together, they bore the body to the cliff. Employing long vines harvested from the treetops, they carefully lowered the body in stages until the three men were assembled on the deck of the
Orion,
which stood at anchor, unmolested.

At a nod from Captain Savage, Chicahua raised the anchor and they coaxed the auxiliary engine to life.

“It was good that you conserved the fuel,” Doc said quietly.

Captain Savage nodded absently. He was out of words, his emotions raw.

Taking the wheel, the captain put the
Orion
about. Bleak golden eyes fixed, he piloted the schooner through the jagged rock formations to Skull Lagoon.

Doc took his father’s wartime hydrophones out of storage and put them into operation. This helped them avoid submerged snags.

Carefully, they picked their way out to open water.

“Father, why did you not bring this device out upon our arrival?” wondered Doc.

Captain Savage considered his reply.

“When I saw how enamored you were of the submachine gun,” he said, “I thought it wise to teach you to rely upon your wits and your courage, not devices. I still believe this.”

Doc said, “I am still very interested in making a better submachine gun, but I confess that I have lost my passion for doing so. Saving lives, not taking them, will make for a better world.”

“Perhaps you can find a way to do both,” suggested Clark Savage, Senior.

Behind them came a volley of wild cries. They turned.

Lined atop the wall, with a few arrayed on the beach, stood groups of Atu warriors. Clutched in their upraised hands were dark, round objects that could not be made out over the ever-increasing distance.

Captain Savage trained his spyglass on the men, grunted once.

“It appears,” he said, “that several Dyak stragglers sought refuge on the other side of the wall. They must have set upon the natives with their headhunting ways, incurring their wrath. A foolish move. For it has rebounded upon them.”

Doc reached for the spyglass, but Captain Savage refused to surrender it, saying only, “They failed to keep their heads in the matter. I will spare you the sight of what remains.”

Doc nodded.

“But if you wish,” Captain Savage added, “I will make a present of this antique. It was a gift from my late father, but it is high time that I purchase something befitting a Twentieth Century schooner master.”

“Thank you,” said Doc, accepting the heirloom.

HOURS into their journey, Doc Savage stood at the stern, watching Skull Island and its unforgettable summit recede from sight, but not from memory.

“I will never forget this place,” he said quietly.

As if in answer, a great bestial roar rolled out across the waters.

In response, pterosaurs lifted off Skull Island, began wheeling.

It was the voice of the beast-god of Skull Island, Kong.

“He sounds well,” remarked Captain Savage from the helm. “In time, he will once again rule as king of his domain.”

“Father,” Doc said sincerely, “we must keep this place a secret.”

“Done. No good can come of civilized men despoiling Skull Island. We will leave its fate to history.”

Another thunderous roar rolled out, stronger than before. It sounded unreal, as if the unbelievable power of it mocked the evidence their own senses had conveyed to them of all they had experienced.

Then Skull Mountain Island was swallowed in the mists that were only now gathering across the face of the Indian Ocean. Soon it was entirely obscured.

THE
ORION
sailed another day or so, until they reached the approximate position where the
Courser
had been scuttled.

Sails were struck. The schooner began wallowing in the waves.

They prepared to consign the body of Stormalong Savage to the eternal waters.

Sailcloth of Egyptian cotton was laid out on the quarterdeck and the body reverently rolled into it. This was sewn closed with a sailor’s needle, the bearded coppery face last. Finally, it was done.

“All hands bury the dead,” called out Captain Savage.

Chicahua set a plank at the taffrail and the startlingly long body was carefully placed there, feet outward. Doc did the honors.

Captain Savage cleared his throat. “I feel as if some appropriate eulogy is in order, but at this precise moment words fail me.” He turned to Doc. “Do you know the old sea shanty, ‘Stormalong John?’”

“I do not, Father.”

“Then, I will have to do my best alone. Feel free to join in the chorus, if you are so inclined.”

Lifting his voice, Clark Savage, Senior, began to sing in a rolling refrain:

“Old Stormy’s gone, that good old man

To me Way! Hay! Stormalong John

Oh, poor Old Stormy’s dead and gone

To me aye, aye, aye, aye Mister Stormalong

“An able sailor, bold and true

To me Way! Hay! Stormalong John

A good old bosun to his crew

To me aye, aye, aye, aye Mister Stormalong”

At that point, Doc felt confident enough to join in the chorus.

“He’s moored at last and furled his sail

To me Way! Hay! Stormalong John

No danger now from wreck or gale

To me aye, aye, aye, aye Mister Stormalong

“I wish I was old Stormy’s son

To me Way! Hay! Stormalong John

I’d build me a ship of a thousand ton

To me aye, aye, aye, aye Mister Stormalong”

The signal was given, and Chicahua obediently tilted the plank. The shrouded body of Stormalong Savage slid downward and was immediately swallowed by the swells.

“Old Stormy’s dead and gone to rest

To me Way! Hay! Stormalong John

Of all the sailors he was the best

To me aye, aye, aye, aye Mister Stormalong….”

Epilogue

THE LIGHT WAS dying outside the widows of Doc Savage’s skyscraper headquarters when he concluded his account.

Monk, Ham and Renny were silent in its aftermath. They were all thinking the same thing: It was the longest they had ever heard their bronze chief speak uninterrupted.

Monk put it in his own words. “That’s some yarn! Too bad Long Tom and Johnny weren’t here for it.”

Renny rumbled, “Johnny would get a kick out of it. But we’d better not tell him, or he’ll try to pry the location of Skull Island out of Doc, then go on the biggest archaeological spree of his life.”

Doc said nothing. His flake-gold eyes were strangely still and reflective.

“As you all know,” he said at last, “only recently did we learn that my father had discovered a lost city built by Mayans in the Valley of the Vanished in present-day Hidalgo. Chicahua and the others belonged to that enclave, whose ancient gold mines now fund our operations. This was my father’s greatest secret, which only his untimely death revealed. He refused to touch that wealth, reserving it until the time I proved myself worthy of its use.”

“Did you ever discover any clue as to your father’s motivation for training you as he did?” wondered Ham.

“Not directly. He was always reticent on that score, so I never pressed him. My father died before he could divulge anything more than I have recounted.”

“Too bad,” muttered Renny.

“But I did obtain a significant clue after his passing,” added Doc, rising and striding over to the massive steel safe that dominated one corner of the reception room.

After manipulating the dial, the bronze man returned the map of Skull Island to its proper receptacle, and then removed something else.

“When I first opened my late father’s safe, I discovered this.”

Doc laid on the great inlaid table a thick paperbound book, now turning brown with age. The title was
The Old Detective’s Pupil; or, The Mysterious Crime of Madison Square.

“It was an old dime novel,” he explained. “Starring a young sleuth named Nick Carter, it was bylined Nicholas Carter. I had read a few of these when I was a kid, but I always preferred Sherlock Holmes. This is the first of the many Nick Carter novels published by the Street & Smith concern beginning in 1886—a year before Doyle created Holmes. It recounts how the father of Nick Carter, wishing his son to follow in his professional footsteps, trained him up in all the scientific skills necessary for that purpose. Detection. Disguise. Ballistics. Languages. Every investigative science known to man. Nick Carter became a consulting detective, ultimately the greatest in the world.”

Monk brightened. “I get it. Your father got the idea from that story.”

“It is the identical notion,” mused Ham, “but carried out to a greater degree.”

Doc nodded. “My father wanted me to be versed in all scientific knowledge, a much loftier goal, in order to follow his path in roaming the world, coming to the aid of those in need, and dealing out justice to wrongdoers beyond the law.”