Max Arena Read online

  Max nodded.

  Kris’ gaze took Max in and again awe consumed her. Max had assumed his typical stance. Amidst this throng of humanity, he didn’t just stand firm. He was absolutely unassailable, his face cast iron and every fibre of his body taught as steel. The clock hit zero. A horn blasted and Max launched into action. The crowd exploded.

  For the next forty-five minutes, while Max ripped through the routine, Abdullah stood up against the full length windows in the clubhouse, unmoving and unblinking. He had witnessed Max perform similar, Herculean feats on several occasions prior to today, so instead he directed his attention to the crowd.

  This performance was crucial. It had to serve two purposes. The first was to force Max to integrate with the public. His focused, personal drive to safeguard his family through victory in the arena was admirable and noble, but for Max to reach his full potential, he needed to know that the world itself was worth saving. Knowing that fact, believing that fact and fighting for that fact could only lift him even higher. By performing in front of the public and inspiring them to support him, Max might just realise that the world beyond his personal space is in fact a wonderful place full of good people.

  The second purpose was the complete reverse of the first. The public needed to see Max. They needed to get to know him and realise that if the world is going to be saved, then there is undoubtedly no better or greater champion than Max. Abdullah himself had no doubts what so ever that Max would win over the public. His physical prowess had already won over the most powerful leaders in the world and as for the public, Max would easily be the most exciting athlete they would ever see. Then, with the public won over and in full support, the constant security threats and negative sentiments would die off and not only would he and his family be safe, but he would be the hero everyone needed right now.

  So, instead of watching Max charge through the training session like a god come to Earth, Sheikh Abdullah watched the crowd. Before Max strode onto the field, the crowd was generally restless, just eager to see this mystery man who had been selected not by them, but for them by an alien race, to defend their lives. It was hard to tell if the crowd was for or against Max with some clear pockets of support and other clear pockets of dissent and unfortunately, hatred. Then when Max started his routine, the crowd ramped up the volume with the sentiment becoming clearly negative, mainly as they realised there would be no weapons on show, only physical training. It made sense. The crowd needed to know their ordained champion was skilled at killing and drawing blood. The public needed to see swords and knives, not push ups and weights exercises.

  Then Max pulled off his first real, eye-opening feat and the crowd lulled. By Max’s standards it was simple stuff, but for the general public, the effort was enough for them to stop and consider if they had actually just seen an ordinary man do what he had just done and how was that possible?

  After Max completed his ten burpees at breakneck pace to warm up, he jogged across to the boxes, of which there were five. The first and shortest box stood at forty centimetres high and then each of the other four boxes increased in height by another forty centimetres to the last box, which stood at two metres. The four boxes rested lined up one after the other in increasing height with a gap in between each. Max simply ran up to the first box and without breaking stride, bounded on top, feet together. Then, without slowing down or pausing, bounded down to the ground and bounded straight up onto the next box like a human kangaroo and proceeded to continue all the way through until finally, he bounded straight up onto the two metre box before swan diving off and executing a double somersault to land neatly back on the grass.

  By now the crowd had quietened down a little, but then Max did his next trick. He turned back to the two metre box and vaulted up to the top into a hand stand. Then, again without pausing, he flipped forwards to land on the ground and vaulted up onto the next slightly shorter box and into a handstand. He then repeated the motions all the way back to the shortest box to ultimately land neatly on the grass at the end of the boxes. By now, the crowd was noticeably dulled. He had their attention.

  Next up Kris had him perform some extraordinary tumbling runs up and down the length of the field, which at any Olympics in history, would have easily secured him the gold medal. Triple and quadruple somersaults and twists were standard fare and all of them executed with unnatural precision. On his final two runs Max improvised and snatched up a fifteen kilogram kettlebell from the edge of the field and just like a rhythmic gymnast, flung it up in the air to catch it again in between tumbles and flips without dropping it or missing a beat. Now the crowd was stunned. This wasn’t just like the Olympics. It was like the Olympics on steroids.

  Then Max proceeded to walk the entire length of the field on his hands, except to say he walked was an understatement. He essentially ran on his hands and then when he reached the far end with Kris jogging along next to him, he not only stayed on his hands to perform a set of vertical press-ups, but then did ten single arm vertical press-ups on each hand. As he pushed himself through the sets, a lone voice rang out over the now smothering silence, ‘Max! Go, Max!’

  Now halfway through his routine, Max’s pace did not falter even slightly. Abdullah kept his gaze and senses keyed into the masses. There was no longer any evidence of hostility. The negative placards had been lowered and those outspoken groups had disappeared into the sea of silence, but that lone voice of support had stirred a ripple and now Abdullah could feel the tension changing. People were whispering in each others’ ears, but not taking their eyes off Max, unwilling to let slip even a moment of the spectacle. Bodies began to press harder up against the railing. Even the security detail was exchanging queried glances as to what was going on, but Abdullah knew exactly what was happening. Max had the crowd hooked and now he had another twenty minutes to reel them in.

  After his handstands, Max dropped back to his feet and sprinted to the middle of the field where a weighted barbell lay. The over-sized radii of the multiple, circular weight plates on each end of the bar clearly indicated a significant amount of steel mass was locked on. Max did not break stride. He ran up to the bar, squatted down and then immediately pushed upwards with his arms and legs to toss the entire bar and weights into the air. He then deftly caught the bar with his upstretched hands and lowered it down onto his shoulders behind his neck, military style. Kris then motioned for him to follow her and Max did, not walking or even jogging, but in great bounding strides, launching from one foot to the other. Kris led him in a growing spiral that led outwards until he reached the boundary fence. Max then shifted from single leg bounds to double leg bounds, the barbell bending and flexing over his shoulders.

  Abdullah could see the expressions on the faces in the crowd as Max got close enough to let them see the weight denominations on the plates. One hundred kilos. Shock. Disbelief. Astonishment. Hands covered open mouths. Slack jaws, and then, a fist in the crowd punched the air and a cheer went up as Max went past. Next, a group of young girls started jumping and screaming as Max bounded by. The further round the crowd Max went, the wave effect in the crowd followed him.

  Then Kris flicked a hand out towards the centre of the field and Max instantly obeyed. Heaving the barbell off his shoulders and casually throwing it out in front of him, he sprinted to the middle of the playing field where he found three fifteen kilo kettle bells. Squatting down he grabbed two of them by their handles and then tossed each of them into the air and before anyone knew what he was doing, he then threw up the third one and started to juggle all three.

  Abdullah watched, heard and felt the crowd respond. They went nuts. Max was now not just training or even performing, but he was showcasing his talent. No one had ever seen a man juggle kettlebells of any weight let alone fifteen kilos each and Max was doing it easy. Kris positioned herself in front of Max and motioned for him to start walking forwards, which he did. Then Kris started to jog backwards and Max followed, his gaze glued to the flying kettlebells. Then Kris tu
rned and jogged faster, veering again towards the outer fence line. Max stayed with her and kept his routine in check. This time the crowd response doubled. Up close, they recognised Max for what he was. Awesome. Half sprinting, he kept all three kettlebells smoothly in motion and all the while making it look as easy as a Sunday afternoon stroll. The only proof that Max was working at superhuman capacity was the sweat cascading down his skin.

  After a full lap around the field, Kris flicked her hand out again and this time it was towards the far end. Max again instantly obeyed, letting the three kettlebells thump back to earth and not giving them a second’s thought as he sprinted to where Kris had instructed him. Once there he looked the length of the field to find Kris standing at the other end, exactly one hundred metres distant, with her right arm raised. The giant LCD screen on the clubhouse read, ‘100m 0sec’. It was clearly a one hundred metre time trial and Max was ready to go, crouched on the white line at his feet, his back arched in a sprinter’s start position.

  Then Kris let her hand fall and Max was off, Kris’ voice inside his earphones giving him the word. Max launched off the spot, his entire body ripped with straining muscle and tendons. Before anyone could really focus on his movement, Max was halfway down the field, his orange shoes a fluorescent blur against the green of the turf. With his knees pumping high in front of him and his arms driving like hammers Max rocketed the length of the field, his pace blinding all the way through to the end where he blew past Kris at full speed. Jamming his feet into the grass, Max slowed himself and jogged back to where Kris stood, looking up at the big screen on the clubhouse as he did.

  Fingers and hands shot out of the crowd towards the LCD screen as the masses noticed the time. 10.21sec. It was not Olympic time, but it was close and they had just witnessed it. Then the crowd noticed Max crouching in position in front of Kris, ready to run the length again. Kris raised her hand. The timer zeroed and she dropped her hand. Max shot off again, barely having had time to recover from the first time trial.

  With seemingly even greater power, Max sprinted the length of the field, his orange shoes now just an arc of colour against the green palette. Again he covered the distance before anyone really knew what was happening. Hammering himself to a stop, Max, and the entire crowd, turned to look at the clock. 10.14sec. The cheer was deafening. This was really real.

  Then Max was down on the line again, crouched and ready to go. Kris’ raised arm snapped down and Max flashed into action. This time he virtually flew off the line, his feet exploding into motion when they hit the ground. Not a single pair of eyes blinked before Max careened past Kris at the finish line. This time after stopping, Max did not turn to look at the screen. The crowd did and their response confirmed to him what he suspected. 10.06sec. He was getting faster. Max was now in the realm of Olympic skill.

  With over six thousand people filling the air with cheers and screams, Max again crouched on the starting line in front of Kris. Again she raised her arm. The noise and racket faded into the background of Max’s senses. His entire being focused on the silence in his earphones. Then Kris dropped her arm and said, ‘Go.’

  Max snapped into action, every fibre in every muscle rippling. He kept his head down for the first twenty metres, his gaze fixed on the ground. He then raised it up to focus on the finish line and in a matter of heartbeats, blew past halfway. From the crowd’s perspective, it looked like Max was floating, his orange-clad feet hardly seeming to touch the ground. His hands and arms also disappeared as they powered his motion like a steam train at full tilt. Max lost all sense of his surrounds. All he could see was the finish line and despite his blinding pace, the world seemed to grow still around him, his heart beat slow and resounding in his ears and in what seemed like minutes, but was really only seconds, Max streaked to the far length of the field and smashed past the finish line.

  Stuttering to a rapid stop, Max straightened and sucked in a deep breath. The time trials were over and the entire session was done. His focus melted away and the roar of the crowd washed over him like an ocean wave surging to shore. Looking around, the entire field was thronged by a heaving mass of raucous humanity. All Max could see was smiles and all he could feel was energy.

  ‘Take a look at the screen, big guy,’ Kris’ voice said into his earphones.

  Max turned and looked up at the big screen. 9.98sec.

  ‘You’re now officially one of the fastest men on the planet,’ Kris added.

  Max shifted his gaze from the screen to the glass windows of the clubhouse. Sheikh Abdullah watched Max look up in his direction, but he knew the man was not seeking him, but rather his family. Turning to the side, Sheikh Abdullah found Elsa standing on her own with Millie and Jason jumping at the glass, just as excited as the thousands of strangers outside cheering on their father. Then Elsa slowly lifted her hand and placed it flat on the glass.

  Abdullah quickly turned back to Max and found him staring back up with his own hand out in front. They had found each other and they both now knew that there was hope for them all to be safe, while Max continued his training to save the world. Now it was Abdullah’s turn to smile.

  ‘Al-ḥamdu lillāh,’ he said to himself. ‘Praise be to Allah.’

  10pm, 15th August (later that night). Boys’ Night

  The matte black military helicopter skimmed the surface of the Pacific Ocean, the faint light of the sickle moon illuminating the sea just enough to make it shimmer and shift like black mercury. Flying low enough to avoid radar detection, the aircraft was effectively invisible and almost inaudible with its state of the art noise dampening technology.

  Approaching the island estate, the mansion’s lights glared into the night like a beacon, allowing the pilot to easily fix on to her target without the need of the high tech controls surrounding her. Suddenly, the fringing palms of the island jutted up in front, but without any hint of panic, the pilot calmly adjusted the rotator controls to smoothly lift the helicopter over the trees, the palm fronds lightly ruffling in the downwash.

  The broad southern lawn of the estate opened up beneath the aircraft as it zoomed ahead. The mansion was now clearly visible in the pilot’s night vision goggles. With a flick of a switch on the side of her helmet, the view through the goggles changed from night vision to thermal. Four human shaped figures instantly lit up on the back patio of the mansion. The pilot smiled.

  ‘I have eyes on all four targets,’ she said into her helmet microphone.

  ‘Roger that,’ crackled the reply. ‘Continue with patrol circuit. Stay in touch.’

  Peter ignored the whisper quiet helicopter as it flew overhead. Instead his gaze roamed around the nightscape across the southern lawn spreading out from the back patio of the mansion. He knew there were at least three foot patrols out there somewhere along with the patrolling helicopter overhead and two more naval patrol boats lurking not far off the beach, but none of this guaranteed their safety. At least not in his mind. He was the last line. He was the safety net. Max and his family were only truly safe while he remained vigilant and more importantly, alive.

  ‘Your helicopters, Abdullah,’ Prime Minister Tollsen said as he stood on the verge of the patio, turning his unlit pipe in his left hand, ‘are like vampires. They come out after dusk and then disappear before the sun rises. I would dearly like to see one of them up close in the light of day, just to confirm they are real.’

  ‘That can be arranged, my friend,’ Abdullah replied from next to Joe, as he looked up at the night sky. ‘I can assure you they are a ride worth having at least once in your life.’

  Joe smiled and placed his pipe between his teeth, taking false draws to further relax himself. He then slid a sideways glance to Max who stood a little further out on the grass, more in the dark than in the light. He was restless tonight, but perhaps that was to be expected. All of them were still trying to unwind after their hectic afternoon spent coordinating and executing Max’s first public training session. The dregs of their adrenalin were beginning
to sputter out, but still sleep eluded them.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Max?’ Joe asked.

  Max flicked a sideways glance at his Prime Minister and then back to the night. ‘I was trying to remember that song that came over the PA system this afternoon at the end of the session. The one where the whole crowd started to do that overhead clapping thing.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ Joe replied. ‘It was very popular. Inspirational even. Perhaps it could be the Team Max theme song?’

  ‘Yeah, maybe,’ Max agreed, ‘but we should probably check that off with Kris. She’s the marketing executive.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Joe hummed, but said nothing more as he mentally ran through the afternoon’s events again.

  The silence grew. Abdullah remained fixed on the stars overhead. Peter continued to scan the nocturnal surrounds and Joe quietly puffed on his pipe. The only exception was Max, who shuffled from foot to foot, constantly half turning to look around at nothing in particular.

  ‘I envy your energy, Max,’ Joe said, ‘except at times like this when sleep should be knocking on your door. Is there something you could suggest to help settle you down?’

  ‘Well, maybe,’ Max replied coyly. ‘What about poker?’

  Joe raised his eyebrows. ‘Poker? Now that’s an interesting proposition. Why poker?’

  ‘We’ve got four grown men standing around in the dark, late at night, not doing much. There’s got to be some cards in this place somewhere and how many more times are we going to get away from the girls to have a boys’ night?’

  Joe nodded. ‘It’s good reasoning, but unfortunately, old chap,’ he said, ‘I have to place some calls tonight. In particular to your good friend President Bartholomew. I am expecting him to request another audience with you seeing as you now have the attention of the world. I suspect he is feeling a little jealous at your rapid rise to stardom and the fact that you are not borne of the stars and stripes.’