Skull Island: Project Legacy Fall 1935 Expedition - A Land Stuck in the Past

by Asher_Likes_House_MD_and_Resident_Evil

Notes:

Reading musical playlist for each chapter:
Chapter 1 - “Extra Fries” by The Fly Guy Five
Chapter 2 - “Ann & Manny” by James Newton Howard
Chapter 3 - “Tense Path” by Bardify
Chapter 4 - “Pieces” by Danilo Stankovic

Chapter 1: Double Depression

Notes:

Piece of music to listen to while reading this chapter:
“Extra Fries” by The Fly Guy Five

December of 1933… Crowds around the Empire State Building watched on as Kong, hopelessly in love with Ann Darrow, plummeted to his death from the top of the building, piercing through the skies of the metropolis. Carl Denham, the filmmaker who had transported Kong to New York City, watched on with his eyes widened as he mumbled to himself, “It was beauty killed the beast,” in a tone that was mixed between indifference and a strange sense of mournfulness. And so came the end of a dynasty that ruled a kingdom so ancient, that it went back to a time before dinosaurs were even a thing, for countless centuries.

Over a year later, in early August of 1935, the thirty-seven year-old Carl was sitting at his messy desk in his apartment, unable to forget about all those traumatic-beyond-words events that happened to him and his crew, consumed by guilt and heartbreak due to the death of Herb, his best friend whom he lost on the living human meat grinder that was Skull Island. The cup of coffee Carl had brewed for himself was getting cold as he got lost in his thoughts, but still appearing warm in the sunlight that cast onto the dark brown wooden desktop, a stark contrast to the emptiness and darkness in Carl’s heart and mind. “What were those things in that hellhole? Those monstrous creatures that killed and mutilated my crew… I need answers,” he thought to himself. He took a sip from his bright red mug, contemplating if life was really worth living in this cruel world. He had seen enough. Now he had seen everything, but it was not enough. He needed to go back to that island and see for himself the very things that turned his life into a living nightmare, the pain and the fear haunting him every single day of his existence. He needed closure.

Carl’s eye bags from the sleepless night he endured the day before were as clear as the sunny sky outside. His physical and mental health were deteriorating rapidly, and he found no goal or joy in life, and his nihilism was showing. His once well-organised and aesthetically pleasing desktop looked like a storm had ripped through it. His bed, which lay on the opposite side of his room, looked like it had been taken apart and put back together carelessly. His once cosy and spotless kitchen was filled with blackened pots and pans, and those had lots of residue from heavily processed and simple-to-prepare foods such as Wonder Bread and some canned sausages. The smell of those foods paled in comparison to the scent of alcohol reeking through the air of Carl’s abode. His residence was borderline dilapidated, and that was already lucky for the era, considering how the Great Depression had driven many onto the streets without even a roof over their head and four walls keeping them safe and comfortable. The economic depression was certainly not helping Carl with his own depression.

“I’m gonna go outside and just maybe grab a bite,” Carl thought to himself. And so he managed to bring himself up from his desk and dragged his tired body out onto the New York City streets in an attempt to find some food for his famished stomach that had not seen nourishing food in days due to the destitution of the situation of working class individuals in the United States. As he walked up and down the busy streets lined with beggars and stalls desperately trying to sell whatever products they could find, he just could not come across a single store that was selling food. The blocks upon blocks of buildings scattered around the city all had hefty amounts of catering businesses closing down like mice scurrying away at the sight of a cat. The glorious rays of sunlight shining down upon the crowded alleys and roads was at least a small joy in the bleak and passionless lives of the people who were barely scraping by every single day. Despite this, Carl still decided to go for a walk around the city, hoping to wander around mindlessly while getting lost in his thoughts as a distraction to his situation. Strolling up and down Manhattan, Carl took in heartbreaking sights like abandoned areas that once hosted bustling activity, misfortunate individuals who had to find food out of the unsanitary depths of bins, which did nothing to help his mind that was slowly falling apart, and only worsened his condition and reminded him of the painful truth of life in this era of distressing instability.

As Carl turned a corner on the pavement lined with rough-textured brown-grey bricks, he was getting even more lost in his own thoughts while moving through the loud and active yet sombre environment of the poverty-stricken concrete jungle, until a small blond boy clad in a dark beige sweater knitted with simple geometrical patterns approached him. Carl slowed his steps and came to a stop, right in front of the boy, bending down a bit to reach his level. The boy’s sad grey eyes coated in tears that were beginning to form glistened in the sunlight as he spoke with a lump in his throat, “Were you the man who brought Kong here?” Carl, struck with a sense of discomfort at the mention of his past actions, was reminded of the life-draining trauma he endured on Skull Island, and stuttered as he mustered up a response, “Where’s your mom?” Tears began to stream down the boy’s face, which was coated in a thin layer of dust and dirt from spending his time on the streets all day every day. “Woah, woah, woah! What’s wrong?”, Carl asked, concerned that he may have frightened the boy. “M- My- My mother d- died in the Alhambra!”, the boy yelled, letting all his emotion out, “And it’s all your fault! You were the one who put Kong in that theatre! He killed my mother!” At that moment, Carl did not know what to say, afraid that any words that come out of his mouth may fuel the boy’s meltdown even more. The boy lashed out, his frail arms trying to land hits on Carl’s stomach, with each swing missing. “Hey! Hey! Hey! Stop that. Where is your father?”, Carl asked as he took a few small steps back, slightly frustrated at the boy’s tantrum. The boy did nothing but cry even further in a mix of fear and anger in response to what he perceived as insensitivity at the short scolding he received from a large man with a grimacing face towering over him, who was Carl. Carl’s face curled into a look of panic and slight guilt, with a desire to comfort the boy and diffuse the situation. After considering the outcomes of the situation, he decided to run off at a moderate pace without causing too much noise or disturbance, leaving the boy crying in the middle of the street, with nobody to look after or console him.

As Carl ran away, he pivoted his head backwards for a split second, looking back at the boy, before immediately turning his head to look forwards again out of embarrassment. He hung his head downwards as he continued to pace along the streets. His body was on autopilot to walk as far away from the boy as possible, while his mind decided to return to his apartment.

Corner after corner, alleyway after alleyway, Carl finally found his way through the winding streets of New York City, back to his apartment. He pushed open the door in the entrance of the building a bit forcefully, letting out some built-up tension he had from having to walk so quickly with his mind and body in such a tight state. As soon as he entered the building, he stopped in his tracks for a few seconds to catch his breath. He panted and breathed in and out, each inhalation and exhalation calming him down from the situation he had just experienced. His shoes thudded gently on the wool carpet coloured with a mix of olive green and greyish light brown as he headed his way towards the stairs that led up to his flat. His footsteps clicked on the ground as his feet transferred from the soft padded carpet to the solid wooden floor. He went up the stairs, his shoes continuing to tap on the ground every step, expecting to arrive home just to continue his life of boredom and misery for another day.

Chapter 2: Meeting With a Past Crewmate

Notes:

Piece of music to listen to while reading this chapter:
“Ann & Manny” by James Newton Howard

As Carl turned a corner on the stairwell, he stopped, looking diagonally upwards in front of him. “Bruce? What are you doing here? How did you find me?”, Carl reacted in shock and disbelief at the sight of Bruce Baxter, also thirty-seven years old at the time, and who was a former crewmate of his that accompanied him on the Steamship Venture, which was used in December of 1933 to make a journey to and from to Skull Island. Carl was genuinely surprised that a person whom he had gone separate ways with quite a long time ago, had for some unknown reason, seemed to come back to meet him out of the blue.

Carl continued to stare at Bruce with a face of confusion, before Bruce began to speak, “I want to talk about something.”

As Carl walked up the stairs a few more steps to get closer to Bruce, he responded, “Yeah, what is it? And also, tell me, why did you suddenly show up?”, with a face showing his anticipation for the conversation to continue and the point to be brought out soon and quickly.

“Why am I here? I said I wanted to talk to you about something. That’s why I’m here,” Bruce answered calmly in contradiction to Carl’s slight impatience. Carl, who just had his day ruined by the crying boy on the street, added on top of the depression he already had that ruined every day, tried to dismiss Bruce’s attempt to converse, just to go back to his apartment and rot for another day. However, Bruce did not let that slide. “Carl, we actually need to talk about this! You can’t just stay in your home and waste your life away every single day!”, he cried.

“How… Did… How did you know?”, Carl responded with his eyebrows furrowed due to perplexity at how Bruce knew about his unfruitful and sorrowful life.

“Ann told me,” Bruce replied immediately, picking up on both Carl’s question and the non-verbal cue he gave using his facial expression.

“Why would she do that?”, Carl said in response, still bearing a pair of eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“She wanted to pay you back for helping her discover the love of her life. She wanted to help you with your mental health,” Bruce responded.

Carl, still bearing his perplexed face, replied, “But I killed him. I was the one who got Kong killed.”

Bruce replied, shaking his head slightly, “No, no. She did love Kong, yes, but on the SS Venture, she kind of fell for Jack Driscoll. After Kong died, she filled that empty emotional void by agreeing to be with Jack. She’s happily married to him now, and they’re expecting a baby.”

Carl took in the information, then responded, “Well, good for her. She got out of that void, but I don’t think I’m gonna be able to do that any time soon.”

Bruce responded, with his voice slightly loudening, “Well, too bad! There’s no time to be sad right now. We need you right now.”

Carl, with his eyebrows continuing to be furrowed, this time in annoyance, responded hastily, “Hey, hey, hey! You came here to check on my mental health, and you’re telling me ‘too bad’? And who is ‘we’?”

Bruce replied, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude. I just wanted to talk to you about something that needs you, but you seem like you were trying to avoid the conversation. And yes, we need you, and that’s why you can’t be sad right now. ‘We’ means a team of explorers and scientists who want to work with us. They know that we know about Skull Island. You and I have been there. They need your help. They need to go there and document and map that place. This is the scientific discovery of the century! Wouldn’t you want to contribute to this?”, with a voice full of seriousness and a desire to motivate Carl.

This was great for Carl. He had always wanted to go back to Skull Island for a strange sense of closure, but he still had huge doubts. He did not know if he would actually get closure and finally be at peace or if he would just be retraumatised. “When are they leaving? Where is their ship?”, he asked Bruce, feeling a sense of enthusiasm that he had not felt for anyone or anything in the past year and more.

“We’re setting sail at eight in the evening on the seventh of August. Our ship will be docked at Pier 59, right next to 23rd Street,” Bruce answered. Carl nodded gently, showing that he took in the information.

“May I enter your apartment?”, Bruce asked, with the question seeming quite sudden.

“Why?”, Carl responded, with a voice displaying a slight sense of confusion, but also a tone that would make one feel like he would probably accept Bruce’s request to take up a bit of space in his flat. An awkward moment of silence ensued as both men looked into each other’s eyes, waiting for the other to make a response with either their words or actions. Carl continued to walk up the flight of stairs, reaching the floor above just in just a few short steps. He turned to his left while loosely maintaining eye contact with Bruce, opening his apartment door.

“Thanks,” Bruce replied, as he stepped foot into Carl’s apartment. “Gosh! What happened here?”, he exclaimed at first sight of the place’s condition. Carl did not respond, just lowering his head slightly, with his friendly smile also lowering back to a tiny frown, at the reminder of his dull life that was slowly falling apart. Bearing a face with a mood that reverted back to the dark state of mind he had been in for so long, he walked into his apartment, with all his existential thoughts quickly dispelling the glimmer of hope he had moments earlier.

From his large reddish-brown duffel bag, Bruce reached in and grabbed pieces of slightly scratched photographic film, walking up to the living room table and placing them down on the glass surface lightly tinted with a sea green colour, which was once as shiny as a diamond exposed to a ray of light, but now covered in a foggy layer of microscopic debris due to neglect from Carl. Bruce put his duffel bag down on the ripped-up couch, also covered by a layer of dust, a shell of its former glory. He reached his hand into the bag once again and took out a strangely familiar Bell & Howell 2709 35mm camera, a stand, and a small film projector. Carl’s eyebrows slightly furrowed in surprise, and reacted, “Wait, isn’t that the camera that I used on Skull Island?”

“Yes. It exactly is. I managed to retrieve it from the chasms. That’s why we need to talk. There’s probably something in this footage that’s able to give pretty nice insight into Skull Island. This thing holds very valuable information. Let’s just hope this thing still works,” Bruce replied to Carl’s question. He laid the stand out on top of the glass table and placed the film projector on top of it, securing it in place, but not before loading the photographic film in. He positioned the stand towards the wall coloured with a hint of cream yellow, and started the film projector. At first, the footage was not loading properly, and it kept lagging and glitching.

After standing idly for quite a while, Carl’s face curled into a frown with his eyebrows furrowed in an impatient manner, exclaiming, “When’s this thing gonna work?”

“It fell down a chasm, remember?”, Bruce replied, his head turning slightly backwards and his eyes shooting back at Carl for a second.

As the footage finally began to load, it projected a black and white footage with lines and dots scuttling all over the projected video on the hard wooden wall. The excessive amounts of dots and lines soon faded to a lesser amount, revealing the slightly blurry video.

The video played, projecting footage of a rocky shallow ravine that eventually stretched out into a vast plain with tribal-looking structures erected throughout in the background, without water, but with vines, ferns, grass, and trees littered around the place. Standing in this scene of nature, were a herd of sauropod dinosaurs, large, plump, and lumbering. Many of them were grazing the plant life abundant in their surroundings, while some others seemed to look around in concern for an unknown unseen object moving around. One suddenly bellowed its long throat out, triggering panic in the rest of the herd. They all began to run along the ravine, in the direction of the cameraman. And with that, the cameraman also began to run with all the speed he could muster up. The ground sounded like it was exploding as the heavy feet of the sauropod herd smashed into the rough stone surface embellished with mosses and other vibrant green plants that lived at the bottom of the ravine. Those peculiar plants were quickly crushed by the heavy bodies of the sauropods, who were now in a full-on stampede. The feet of the herd surrounded the cameraman, with each stomp missing a few centimetres from crushing him. The sky was drowned out by the large bodies of the elephant-like reptiles, and out of the nooks and crannies that were nestled in spots from indiscernible directions in the cramped space, a few cunning-sounding animalistic shrieks could be heard from crevices around and between the lush ravine. A face full of sharp teeth, on monstrous yet streamlined and elegant head that looked somewhat like a horrific mix of a hairless kangaroo and a lizard that looked like it spawned from the underworld, appeared in front of the camera, before the footage abruptly cut.

“That’s the footage I took in 1933,” Carl reacted after seeing the footage and remembering the events and recognising that he was the one who recorded it.

Before Bruce could nod his head to show his agreement with Carl, the footage started rolling again, this time, showing a murky swamp covered in thin fog and mist, further blurring the footage that was already not quite clear to see. The footage showed not a calm swamp, but a one full of panic and fear from many men desperately trying to reach the shore and exit the ominous duckweed-covered waters. A massive serpentine animal with the face of a piranha leaped out of the depths of the body of water, clamping its flexible jaws onto a man in explorer’s gear who was just unlucky enough to be a single second late to the shore, and thrashed him around like a dog toy in its mouth as he tried to scream loudly, but failed to as his body was starting to give out under the pain and injury of the needle-like teeth piercing into his entire lower abdomen. The man continued to scream in muffled yet haunting cries as he was dragged into the water by the predatory eel-looking creature. The screams and cries for help were to no avail as he was already submerged in the swamp water, and the other men could only watch as he met his end in the muddy and watery tomb that drowned and devoured alive anyone not prepared to deal with whatever that thing was and possibly all the other unknown horrors that may lurk in the mysterious wetlands shielded by covers of rocks and tangled giant tropical trees that were plentiful throughout.

As the footage ceased playing and the black and white tapestry made of projected light flickered off from the wall, Carl was left standing there, just staring at the blank wall, all the horrific memories, which had been suppressed yet still felt so fresh, presenting each single moment of torment to him inside his mind. The distress that felt just like yesterday now felt like less than a second ago. His face slowly and ever-so-slightly in a face that was a depressing mix of pure terror and agony, with his expression only scratching the surface of the bloodthirsty monsters of Skull Island seared into his very being, slowly eating him from the inside. His tense body remained frozen, until he loosened up slightly to light out a quiet but heavy sigh, letting out only a tiny fraction of the utter despair and stress he felt in that moment.

Bruce looked at Carl with a face displaying understanding and concern. “Carl, I know how you feel. I know you feel horrified and miserable, and I get you, but now isn’t the time to be those things. Now is the time to step up and take action, to explore and expand the world’s horizons. Don’t waste the rest of your life just rotting away. Do something! Your knowledge and skill is needed now! You are vital to our upcoming expedition,” Bruce said in a tone that was an epic mix of seriousness and an attempt at upliftment.

“I’m not going anytime soon,” Carl said, despite him still holding out hope that closure and inner peace will come after his next visit to Skull Island. “I bet they’re also not going anytime soon. They probably won’t be prepared to see those demons on hell island.”

“Oh, we’re very prepared. We’ve got all the supplies and materials already on the ship. We’re ready to be shipped off to Skull Island. All we need is you, Carl,” Bruce responded to Carl’s incorrect assumption.

“Good…”, Carl replied in a slight whisper, still faintly staring at the wall, but having loosened his physical stance a bit. His round brown eyes were still stiff, fixated on the wall that was just a homogenous cream yellow. They started to loosen up, and he slowly turned his eyes downwards, once again drowning in the traumatic ordeal of what happened on that biodiverse and thriving island that was ironically also a massive gruesome tomb, with the massive appetites from its denizens for killing, mutilation, and predation leading to fates in the hands of Mother Nature the likes of which mankind could not even begin to fathom the savagery of.

“You okay?”, Bruce asked the immobile Carl, with a voice full of concern, as he gently placed his hand over Carl’s shoulder, with Carl not even sensing it while being drowned in his mind.

“No. I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t do this,” Carl replied vaguely, but still able to get the point across to Bruce.

As an unnatural and sombre period of silence set upon the room, Bruce just looked at Carl in an expression which was a mix of worry and frustration, denoting a thought in Bruce’s mind of “I seriously don’t know what to do.” And that was true, as Bruce was stuck in a dead end with Carl very unwilling to join the expedition back to Skull Island. Though Carl did want to return to Skull Island earlier this day, his constantly changing mood rendered any motivation to do anything useless, and his nihilism was setting back in once again. He was torn in between travelling to Skull Island for closure and not visiting the ancient land upon being reminded of his trauma.

Chapter 3: Even More Trouble

Notes:

Piece of music to listen to while reading this chapter:
“Tense Path” by Bardify

The silence that had settled in every corner of Carl’s home was suddenly broken by a loud and sharp noise of a hard object shattering into pieces. Before the two men could figure out what it was, bullets from an unknown source were fired into the apartment, shattering glass and wood alike. As household items fell and broke apart, Bruce tackled Carl to the ground, keeping both of them low, avoiding the deadly sea of small explosions and objects and loose parts of infrastructure tumbling and crashing above.

The sounds of firing guns stopped, replaced by the sound of a familiar voice. “Mr. Denham, we meet again,” the moderately deep and slightly raspy voice with a slight British accent echoed throughout the room. Carl was visibly frightened, his body tense and forcibly sticking onto the ground, trying to avoid moving even a millimetre.

“Who are you?”, Bruce asked the unseen person who called Carl’s name.

“Are you Mr. Baxter?”, the voice said.

“What?”, Bruce replied in surprise, avoiding giving the answer of “How did you know?”, to not confirm the unseen person’s assumption.

“Shut your mouth. I know who you are,” the voice responded aggressively, “I’m looking for Mr. Denham.” Upon hearing that, the idea of him being hunted down by a person who was not bluffing when it came to serious harm was reinforced in Carl’s mind, and he tried to silence his shaking breath and continue to stay as low and flat as possible to avoid being seen.

“Who is this man?”, Bruce whispered expressively into Carl’s ear, trying to stay as quiet as possible.

“I owe him. I owe him a lot,” Carl answered, his faint voice trembling.

“Oh, so that’s how you got the money for all those lawyers who got you out of trouble for bringing Kong here,” Bruce replied while still having his voice quiet and in a whisper, coming to a revelation that made everything make sense to him, making him feel like he wanted to roll his eyes at the erratic yet predictably typical irresponsible actions of Carl.

A strange silence set upon the apartment once again as both Bruce and Carl stayed as silent as a stone, with a million thoughts running through their heads on what they should do next. “Will I just die here? Is this the end?”, Carl thought to himself, with a strange sense of peace and acceptance coming upon him, hoping that his lengthy days of post-traumatic suffering would finally end right then and there. Before he could continue on with his nihilistic thoughts of finally “resting in peace”, he heard footsteps from multiple pairs of shoes tapping on the floor of the room, getting softer and softer each second, until the noise completely ceased. He felt a sense of calm and gratitude that he was safe, followed by a sense of dread that he was going to continue on with his life and being stuck between living the rest of his days deteriorating inside the walls of his lonely and depressing home or returning to Skull Island and possibly having to face those beastly and monstrous killers once again.

Bruce slowly lifted himself up from hiding in front of the couch and immediately looked around cautiously, turning his head to every corner of the place to check if any threats were still there. As his eyes panned across the dirty walls, a bullet darted swiftly across his vision. Before he knew it, another bullet was fired at him, just missing his right forearm by half a millimetre. His body moved without a thought, turning his head around to see a man that looked to be around sixty years old, plus or minus a few years, with light brown to blond hair lined with streaks of grey fibres. His face had sharp features one would expect from an elderly English gentleman. His wrinkles and scars latticing across the surface of the skin and a short beard growing around his chin and side of his cheeks were also noticeable, pronounced by the features of his face. His cold, blue eyes were like a sheet of ice, staring into Bruce’s soul with a menacing gaze that could kill. “Mr. Baxter, we know Mr. Denham is here. Hand him over or you’re dead,” the middle-aged to elderly man said in a powerfully authoritative and demanding tone. His men standing behind him continued to stare down Bruce along with the older man, with their guns facing towards Bruce, ready to turn him into a piece of Swiss cheese.

Before any bullets could be used on Bruce, a bullet from outside the balcony of the apartment grazed the lower-right side of the right leg of the man who claimed to be looking for Carl. His men erupted into chaos, turning their bodies backwards to face the busy street behind them. Shots were fired down onto the pathways and roads. A loud cry, “Drop your weapons! This is the NYPD!”, could be heard from below. Shots were immediately fired back from the police officers on the street, breaking the wooden railings of the apartment balcony and putting holes in the walls.

The older man’s screams of agony at his bleeding leg were drowned out by the terrified screams of civilians and gunshots being exchanged by both parties. The debris, smoke, and blood from the violent firearm confrontation took the attention of the home invaders entirely away from Carl and Bruce.

“Hey, Carl! Get out! We gotta escape!”, Bruce immediately notified Carl upon seeing the distracted home invaders.

Without second thought, Carl got up, using his arms to push himself back onto his feet, separating his body from laying down on the cold, dusty floor, and held onto Bruce’s hand as he swiftly helped him up. As Carl quickly got back on his feet, being supported by Bruce’s arm, he looked at him with a reasonably panicked expression, leading Bruce out of his apartment, running for the door. As they both exited, having bumped into the door frame, making a lot of noise in the struggle in the process, they stopped on the khaki-coloured wooden floor of the hallway to take a breath and process what just happened and what to do next in this loss and chaos.

A slight banging-like noise from behind the apartment door reached Carl’s and Bruce’s ears. Carl’s eyes widened in panic, but he had no time to think what to do; he was being hunted down; he needed to act immediately. Right as he rushed down the steps and his feet thudded onto the hard ground, the door behind him broke, with the middle section being destroyed, leaving the top and bottom hanging from the frame, barely holding on, but still sturdy enough to give one of the home invaders a challenge in pursuing Carl and Bruce. Bruce looked behind him and saw the home invader attempt to grab him with a strong swing from his hand, creating a gush of wind through the air. Without second thought, Bruce followed Carl down the stairs, almost tumbling down due to how fast he was going on the surface with different height levels. A piece of wood flung off from the broken door as the home invader crawled out of the apartment, pushing himself through the hole, putting his knife in his hands on the ground as his arms supported his advance through the area. Bruce looked back, seeing the enraged man yelling, “Come back here! You pieces of-“, before groaning at the struggle to fit through the damaged door once again.

“Carl, run!”, Bruce signalled as he ran back up the stairs with eyebrows furrowed in a feeling that was a mix of bravery and a slight sense of panic, followed by loudly saying in a voice of that same tone, “I’ll deal with him!”

Bruce went up the stairs hastily, with his feet immediately transferring from running to kicking as soon he reached the floor of Carl’s apartment, attempting to stomp on the hands of the home invader. The first stomp came, and the home invader slashed Bruce’s shoe with the knife, which just tore off a bit of fabric with no blood at all. Bruce immediately swung the same foot back at the home invader’s hand in a mix of a stomp and a kick. The knife made contact with the bottom of Bruce’s shoe, slicing a straight line into the thick leather material. However, this attack from Bruce was not weak. It pushed the blade of the knife down into the home invader’s hand, slicing part of his palm. Blood gushed out as he groaned and twisted around in agony. His body’s strength decreased in a matter of seconds, and the knife slipped out of his blood red hand. He struggled and struggled to get back his knife with his other hand, but his body was giving out. A sharp piece of wood from the broken door made a deep incision into his abdomen as he tried to lunge himself forward through the tight space. He let out another scream as blood covered the stalagmite-like bottom part of the heavily damaged wooden door. His unharmed hand reached the knife, right as Bruce grabbed it from him just millisecond faster. Upon grabbing it, Bruce pushed the knife forward against the home invader’s able hand to also put it out of use for the time being. He let out a scream that let his anger and frustration show through him, mixed with the cry that already had the element of physical pain.

As Carl advanced out of the green wallpaper-lined interior of the apartment building, he spent no time running off into the busy streets, knocking into others’ shoulders and feet every single moment. Crowds of people yelled and grunted in struggle and frustration at his carelessness. Every second, his feet tapped and pushed onto the ground quickly, with the anxious clicking of his shoes hitting repeatedly against the pavement as he ran, being faintly heard through the angry commotion among those around him. He raced through clumps of the judgemental people, not a single one caring to find out why he was so panicked, which was a terribly sad yet common sight in the extremely rushed daily routine of New Yorkers. As he continued his advance away from his stalkers, strangers from all directions yelled profanities, spat at, pushed, and tried to kick him. The most common word among the sea of insults was “murderer”. He continued to push through, over and over again, feeling like the social torture saw no end; and there was likely no end, as New York City had over thirteen million people at the time, thirteen million people who wanted to beat his face until it was unrecognisable for his bringing of King Kong to North America.

The crowd’s attention soon diverged between harassing Carl and taking in the sounds of combat coming from in and around Carl’s apartment. As Carl turned a corner, also swarmed by angry and vengeful individuals, the sound of multiple pieces of wood being smashed into pieces was heard. With no time to process what happened, Bruce landed right in front of Carl’s feet. Bruce’s crash through the railings of Carl’s balcony and his fall, which was though only one storey, still caused quite an unpleasant hit against the concrete ground, rendered him ingressively hissing while grabbing his spine. Carl, without a second thought, yelled and grabbed Bruce’s hand, trying to make sure he was alright. Carl looked around for his stalkers and they were nowhere to be seen, which simultaneously produced a sense of relief and suspense in him. He felt scared, yet a sense of duty to return to Skull Island and fully heal past wounds. He felt the most scared, not because of his stalkers, but for what was awaiting him in Hell on Earth created by Mother Nature. Bruce led Carl along winding roads sprawling across Manhattan. Carl just followed without questioning, seeming to simply be glad he was away from his stalkers and waiting for something else to happen, no matter whether it would make him better or worse off. They walked and walked, traversing through rows upon rows of shops, people, and cars.

Carl was completely disassociated and lost in a sea of his own thoughts, until Bruce tapped on his shoulder and proclaimed, “We are here.”

Chapter 4: The Couple With a Thirst for Knowledge

Notes:

Piece of music to listen to while reading this chapter:
“Pieces” by Danilo Stankovic

Headcanon actors for physical appearance of characters:
Michael William Bernather - Sir Richard Taylor
Eloise Priscilla Arnoldson - Tania Rodger

Carl’s eyes focused on the modest two-storey house in front of him. It had a small garden at the front, surrounding its dark beige walls lined with windows and its baby blue gable roof. The home was just like any other in Brooklyn. The house was nothing special. Carl wondered to himself as to what was the purpose of Bruce bringing him to such a place which nobody would be overly concerned or excited about. However, he trusted the process, just waiting for something, no matter what, to happen. Bruce knocked on the door, with it immediately opening to reveal a brown-haired tall man with a slim, chiseled face, and glasses, who looked to be in his early forties.

The man in a dull olive green polo shirt, standing in the doorway, immediately extended his right hand out to Carl, enthusiastically saying, “Glad your journey to here was safe, Mr. Denham.”

Carl looked confused, yet somewhat excited that something not of danger was happening, responding, “I don’t know who you are, but you probably know who I am, and I know you probably hate me, but please don’t try to kill me.”

“I hope Mr. Baxter has told you about my wife and I. I’m an expeditionary and my wife is an evolutionary biologist. She’s been dying to meet you two,” the man said, still with his right arm extended outwards towards Carl, immediately following up with, “My name is Michael William Bernather. My wife is Eloise Priscilla Arnoldson, a legendary inspiration for women in the scientific fields.”

Carl extended his right hand, immediately interlocking with Michael’s for a handshake. Carl walked up the short flight of stairs, entering through the doorway, into a living area with its sides decorated and its space furnished with what one would expect from any regular home. There was a sofa and a few shelves and armchairs here and there, surrounding a brown table with a glass top of a bluish tint. A few pieces of technology and clutter were also scattered around the place, but got overshadowed by some of the green house plants living abundantly throughout the home. Sitting at the table, was a woman with strawberry blonde hair, looking to be in her late thirties, who immediately turned her head around to face the two guests.

“Hello,” the woman spoke as if she had been waiting all day for something and it finally came. “I’m Dr. Eloise Bernather. I know you two from the news back in 1933. I may have been angry at you, Mr. Denham, and rightfully so, but I know it’s time to forgive and move on. We need the both of you for our expedition,” she commented in a calm and friendly voice.

Carl and Bruce exchanged pleasantries with Eloise as they sat down on soft and smooth fabric-covered armchairs, with Michael following suit.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 1 of The Tales of Skull Island: Project Legacy