Max Arena (38 page)

The crowd froze
again, hands clasped tightly together, lips tightly pressed and
eyes wide. Mouths opened agape and all conversation stopped as Max
ploughed onwards. The early morning became still and then Max
slammed into the sled.

Instantly, the
contraption bucked up as Max hit the pads at the front. Driving in
hard, his power brutish, the pile of weights on the tray jostled
and bounced, but it did not stop him. Driving forward, Max pushed
the sled over the grass like it was a tenth of the colossal weight
it actually bore. Avenue Anatole rose again, cheering and shouting.
A chant broke out. ‘Max! Max! Max!’

Champagne
spilled as embraces broke out. Hats flew through the air and
dancing ripped through the crowd like a virus. It was pandemonium.
It was delirious and as the sun slowly brightened the eastern sky,
joy filled the streets, parks and homes of Paris.

4:48am, 4
^th
October, 100km east of Freetown, Sierra Leone

The small rebel
band crept up on the jungle encampment, their slick dark skin and
dark clothing camouflaging them discretely in the deep shadows of
the night shrouded foliage. In their hands, the men carried an
assortment of guns and machetes, the weapons silent and restrained
for now, but at the ready to deliver pain and death to their sworn
enemies in this bloody civil war. Innocence lay just beyond the
trees and the sole intent of these murderers was to brutalise it
with no mercy.

Then they
stopped. Through the trees the rebels could see what looked like
the entire village huddled together in the centre of a small
conclave of huts, their jostling bodies lit up by the roaring light
of a nearby bonfire, its flames licking the dark, night air. The
villagers cheered as they jumped up and down. Then a chant broke
out, a single word repeated over and over again, filling the
clearing with elation, the emotion spilling out into the glooming
forest.

‘Max! Max!
Max!’

Instantly, the
small band of rebels froze. Looking around at each other, they also
started to feverishly whisper Max’s name amongst themselves. Guns
were lowered and machetes reslung. The band quickly came together
and a quick, hushed conversation and vote ensued.

Then, as a
group, the rebels straightened to hurry out of the jungle and into
the clearing. The firelight lit up their gleaming, sweat-streaked
bodies and a shout of alarm went up from the first villager to spot
them.

Suddenly, the
whole cluster of villagers broke out into an awful wailing,
cowering as they did. The men in the group instinctively squirmed
to the front of the group in a vain hope to shield their wives and
children from the onslaught of the rebels. A stand-off quickly
developed, a thick tension straining the scene.

Then, very
slowly and carefully, the leader of the rebels laid his gun down
onto the grass, never removing his gaze from the villagers as he
did. As he straightened, one by one, all of his men followed suit,
laying down their own weapons. Stillness enveloped the clearing as
both sides eyed each other. Only two sounds could be heard. The
sharp crackling of the bonfire and a scratchy voice coming from
behind the clustered villagers.

Tentatively,
the leader of the rebels raised his arm and pointed towards the
villagers. Flicking his chin upwards he indicated he could hear the
voice behind them. The nearest villager carefully turned his head
to face back into the crowd and as he did, his fellow villagers
copied him.

A gradual break
in the group formed and as it opened back into the centre of the
clearing, the rebels held their breath. Finally, the source of the
voice was revealed. There stood a single television hooked up to a
satellite dish, the image on the flickering screen difficult to
perceive, but one single colour in the image, orange, making it
absolutely clear what was on.

The nearest
villager turned back to the rebels to find them enthralled. Gently,
he motioned for them to come closer. The villagers moved further
apart and the opening grew wider. The leader of the rebels took the
first step to enter the space. His band followed gingerly behind
them, their eyes darting from the faces of the villagers to the
glowing television. Slowly, the two groups silently came together
in front of the appliance, their eager faces all latched onto the
same image.

On the screen,
Max cart wheeled like a gymnast along a thin, steel pole raised
high above the ground,. When he reached the end, he vaulted off
amid a mixture of somersaults and twists, but as he flew through
the air, two of Kris’ assistants threw two kettlebells up at
him.

As Max turned
in midair, he threw out both arms, plucking both kettlebells from
their trajectories. A split second later, his feet planted onto the
ground and he seamlessly pirouetted to hurl both kettlebells away.
The camera panned sideways to lock onto the hurtling missiles and
just in time, caught them as they obliterated a distant target.

The clearing
instantly launched into cheers. Howls and hoots filled the air.
Fists punched high and complete strangers draped their arms over
each others’ shoulders as they jumped. Euphoria took over as
villagers and rebels alike celebrated together. A chant quickly
rose into tune.

‘Max! Max!
Max!’

In the jungle
beyond the edge of the clearing, the animals watched as the two
groups of enemies melded, their conflict forgotten in the face of
their shared hero. Behind them, the rebels’ weapons lay uncared for
as joy took over the clearing.

3:30am, 4
^th
October, Atlantic Ocean

The light of
the full moon flowed out across the night darkened ocean like a
pale, shimmering carpet. The vast, untamed mass of the Atlantic lay
quiet and still in the early hours of the morning, the tranquillity
normally unassailable, except here in this little patch of
water.

The massive
cruise liner, the Dreaming Seas, carved elegantly through the
glassy waters, its huge bulk lit up like a colossal lantern against
the backdrop of liquid blackness. Onboard, over two thousand
passengers had not yet gone to bed. The party raged with every
television tuned into the same broadcast. Max.

Young and old,
married and single, all revelled in the action beaming off the
screens. Orange, Team Max t-shirts and matching Team Max flags
filled the decks, clubs, cinemas and bars as everyone got into the
spirit. Even the crew were right into it, going a step further as
they dressed themselves in black track suits and orange shoes. The
Captain himself led the partying as he stood on the stage in the
main theatre cheering and yelling for everyone to copy their hero
as Max bounded and leaped around the playing field.

Many of the
women had also dressed up as Kris, wearing tight leggings and
t-shirts replete with pony tails and caps. A bunch of clearly
enamoured young men had also done the same, cross-dressing in their
best Kris outfits to prance around and hurl themselves into
spontaneous push ups and burpees.

It was nuts. It
was fun and not a single face missed a smile. The next morning,
breakfast would be subdued, but that would be deserved. Tonight,
the Dreaming Seas rocked in full party mode as joy took the
helm.

1:14am, 4
^th
October, New York, United States of America

Times Square at
night. Iconic. Brilliant. Vibrant. Tonight it was all these things
and despite being just a regular, Autumn Tuesday night, it was also
as crowded as any New Year’s Eve. Over a million people crammed
together, illuminated by the dizzying television screens towering
over them from multiple buildings. Orange adorned almost every
living body and every wall space around the square. At ground
level, an army of orange shoes stamped and trod the ground.

Like a
real-life computer game, the crowd stood virtually fully immersed
in the giant vision surrounding them. Motion flashed all around.
Images flickered into focus and then snapped onto a new picture,
quicker than the brain could clearly register. Wonder and awe ran
rampant amongst the masses, eyes fixed wide open and mouths gaping.
Surreality had taken over.

Up on the tall,
slender, twenty-five storey facade of the New York Times Tower at
the head of the square, the vertical stack of huge television
screens all linked together to form a single, seamless image and
right now, Max filled it.

The camera view
from directly head on, showed Max hunched over and driving forward,
a tightly bound harness strapped around his torso. With his teeth
bared and sweat pouring from his face, Max lifted each knee high to
then pound it down into the turf and propel himself forward, one
mighty step at a time as he struggled against an unseen force
behind him.

Then the camera
lifted higher to reveal two taut straps playing backwards from
Max’s harness. As the camera lifted higher again, the source of
Max’s resistance came into view. At the end of each strap, a Team
Max Land Cruiser trailed, a driver sitting in each vehicle to keep
the cars on a straight line, while Max pulled both of them together
across the grass with no help what so ever.

A simple,
raucous chant filled Times Square as over a million voices tried
sending their encouragement direct across the globe to where Max
strained and toiled.

‘Max! Max!
Max!’

As if in
response, Max’s pace quickened, his steady stride becoming a
half-jog. Then Kris appeared next to him, shouting her own
encouragement and the chant in the square grew even louder. Max got
even faster, his efforts generating more momentum.

The chant of
the crowd rose ever higher, becoming dangerously harmonic. The
ground rumbled. The buildings shook and the air itself thrummed.
The noise could be heard all through the city, seeming to shake the
very foundations of the earth. Inside apartments, throughout
Central Park, in the subways inside trains and on the platforms,
the chant reverberated.

New York was
locked on to Max. They lived and breathed every step he took, every
drop of sweat that beaded on his brow and every pulse of his blood.
The chant was hypnotic and as powerful as any force the world had
ever seen. Tonight, New York’s heart beat in time with their hero
Max.

4
^th
October,
3:30pm, Brisbane, Australia

Max stabbed his
feet into the turf to slow his sprint as he arrived at the far end
of the field. Breathing hard, he turned and looked up at the big
digital clock on top of the Pain Train. He had just run a one
hundred metre sprint and the time revealed 9.76sec. The crowd
around the edge of the field was more ballistic than ever, a sea of
orange filling the circumference.

‘You’re getting
faster,’ Max heard Kris say through his ear piece. ‘Keep this up
and you’ll be the fastest man on the planet by Christmas.’

‘That’s the
plan isn’t it?’ Max said back through his throat mounted
microphone.

‘You’ve already
got a bagful of world records for other stuff,’ Kris replied. ‘Why
stop now?’

Max started
walking across to where Kris stood in the centre of the field, her
assistants scurrying around and collecting all of the equipment,
the session over. As he walked, Max turned and looked over to a
cordoned off area in the crowd where Elsa and the kids sat,
ensconced in a heavy security detail. He waved and the family waved
back, their smiles beaming.

‘Hey, what do
you think the global viewer count was today?’ Kris asked as he came
up next to her.

‘Don’t know.
Not keeping tabs on it. You tell me,’ Max replied as he panned his
gaze around the still rowdy crowd, waving some more as he did.

‘Well, last
week it was one point eight billion and I reckon today we might
have cracked two,’ Kris said, also waving to the crowd. ‘Hell, you
were virtually sprinting with two Land Cruisers strapped to your
back today. You won’t see that anywhere else on TV.’

Max smiled.
‘Does that mean I’m pulling three of them next week?’ Max asked,
flicking a sideways glance to her.

In reply, Kris
shook her head and pointed back over Max’s shoulder. He turned and
found the Pain Train.

‘Aim high,
Max,’ Kris said. ‘Oooh, hey! It’s our song! The Team Max anthem.
Get your hands up!’

‘You first,’ he
shot back.

‘Not a chance.
There’s no way you’re getting me to do that thing.’

‘Embarrassed?’

‘No. Well,
maybe.’

Max chuckled
and jogged away over the grass towards his family. As he ran, he
caught Peter’s attention off to the side of the cordoned area and
pointed towards Elsa and the kids. Understanding the request, Peter
nodded. Max then motioned for his family to come out onto the
grass.

With twin
shrieks, Millie and Jason broke out of Elsa’s grasp and tumbled
across the turf to ram into Max. Kneeling on the ground, Max placed
Millie on one side and Jason on the other as Elsa quickly ran up
behind them to stand over the top. Then together, the whole Dyson
family lifted their hands up to clap overhead in unison with the
crowd and the anthem.

The masses
responded, forcing the noise levels even higher. Then Max jumped to
his feet and while his family continued to clap, he scanned the
crowd, tuning himself in with the music. With his timing clued in,
Max stamped his foot in between the hand claps to add to the
rhythm. It didn’t take long for the crowd to latch on and they
followed suit, their overhead claps now blended with alternating
foot stamps.

‘What are you
doing
?’ Kris asked through his ear piece.

‘Making it
harder for you,’ Max replied.

Kris grinned
and shook her head as she watched Max, Elsa and the kids dance
around the field together, stamping their feet and clapping their
hands. Around the edge of the field, the noise rose higher again.
Cameras perched on scaffolding, seated on top of the Pain Train and
even from helicopters overhead, all focused on Max and his family
as they joined in the fun. The images instantly relayed around the
world, ensnaring over two billion people sitting, standing, jumping
and dancing in front of their televisions.