by Jamie Doyle
The giant roared as he was lifted off his feet by the blow and with Max still holding his arm firmly extended out in front, the blow also ripped the man’s shoulder joint apart. A loud pop ricocheted around the intersection and Max let the fist go.
Before anyone had time to react, Max then lashed out with his left foot, pivoting and kicking upwards into the giant’s inner left thigh. The man was again jolted momentarily off his feet as a hideous snap sounded.
As the giant fell to his knees, he glanced down at his broken femur, which was the last thing he ever did. Max rose up and lifted his right fist overhead and barreled it downwards, smashing it into the back of the giant’s head. A sickening sound like a melon cracking emanated as Max followed his blow all the way through.
Driven into the bitumen, the giant crumpled and lay still. Max straightened and stepped back, his eyes still glued on his downed opponent. He then paused to wait. Nothing. Then Max looked up, his focus now realigning onto the two remaining opponents.
In the van, silence held sway. The bout had lasted maybe one minute and Max’s own attack had been only a fraction of it, the retaliation and killing blow combination lasting only seconds.
‘One down,’ Peter mumbled.
‘That was one punch wasn’t it?’ the driver asked, awe dripping from his lips.
‘That wasn’t a punch,’ Peter replied. ‘That was a freight train.’
‘What’s happening, Peter?’ the Prime Minster asked over the still open line.
‘Max just took out the unarmed guy. Monstered him.’
‘And now?’
‘Looks like the single sword guy is lining up.’
Sure enough, in the intersection, the man bearing the single, long, curved sword stepped forward to face up to Max. The downwash of the Apache and the Yankee still ripped at their clothing, but the disturbance played no problem for either man. Peter kept the phone’s viewfinder fixed on them as the second bout began.
The mystery attacker sprang instantly into action, his sword flashing in glittering arcs in and around Max’s form as Max dodged and weaved. The blade repeatedly sliced the air cleanly in front of Max’s face and chest, but each time Max was faster, pre-empting each strike and its direction to move safely out of the way.
The sword wielder moved faster, upping the speed and ferocity of his attacks. The steel of the blade became a whirl as the late afternoon light flashed and blinked off its surface. Max stepped to the left and lifted his right foot as the sword diced downwards past his leg, its tip striking sparks as it scratched the bitumen. Max then ducked down as the blade crossed murderously across his midriff level, its razor sharp edge cutting the air just millimetres over Max’s head. As he ducked, Max knew what was coming next.
His attacker recognised his position as being suddenly dominant and Max’s as being vulnerable, so the swordsman continued his horizontal swipe through and then seamlessly redirected it upwards until he stood, towering over Max with his blade held high in both hands. Driving his hands down, the sword followed suit, slicing downwards in a killing blow, aimed directly at Max’s head. A grimace contorted the swordsman’s face as he struck with all his power and skill. The blade flashed down.
Without looking up and still on his haunches, Max snapped both hands upwards into an overhand clap, his open palms slapping together just as the sword came between them. Max’s palms gripped the sword like a vice, instantly stopping its lethal arc. The swordsman stumbled, his momentum rudely halted and his initiative stolen away.
Max looked up, like a disciple genuflecting before a priest, except there was nothing benevolent in it. With the blade still firmly gripped between his palms, Max straightened and rose to full height. The man tried to pull the sword free, but Max’s unbreakable grip held. The swordsman was completely defenseless. Cold steel shone In Max’s eyes. Even twenty metres away and inside the van, Peter could feel his friend’s intent.
In a flash, Max stepped forward, pulling the blade along his left hand side. Fluidly, he released his right hand and shot his right fist out to smash it into the swordsman’s nose, snapping the man’s head back. Instantly, the swordsman released his grip on the hilt of the blade and with his left hand, Max reached forwards and with an underhanded flick, clipped the sword up into the air, causing it to flip and somersault end over end with the grip landing in his waiting left hand. The swordsman stumbled back, clutching at his face, oblivious to his disarming.
Max paused, sword in hand, as his attacker gathered himself, both hands pressed against his nose, his watering eyes taking in and registering his predicament. Max did not let the moment linger. With blinding speed, he reversed the blade in his left hand and pivoted on his right foot to spin into his opponent. The now backward facing tip of the blade speared directly into the man’s left breast, cleaving straight through to pierce outwards from his back like a skewer.
Time slowed. The swordsman’s hands slowly peeled downwards from his face, revealing a mixture of pain and incredulity. His knees quivered and a shuddering breath drew raggedly into his lungs. Max looked back at him over his left shoulder, his hands still on the hilt of the weapon. Blood began to drip from the man’s shattered nose and he finally rested his gaze on Max’s eyes only for the light to go out of his own. Finally, he collapsed to the ground.
Max kept his grip on the sword as the man fell, the blade pulling itself effortlessly clear of the body. Not even a drop of blood marred its immaculate surface. Max stood still, again fixing his attention on the corpse to ensure it was in fact dead. A few moments later, Max snapped his gaze up onto the third man.
‘Two down,’ Peter said.
‘You said two down?’ Joe asked across the line.
‘Yeah. One to go.’
‘And did he kill the second?’
‘With his own sword.’
Another pause. Then Joe spoke again. ‘Air support will be with you in eight minutes. Five Black Hawks and two Hornets. President Bartholomew is attempting to contact your bogeys directly to return them home immediately.’
‘Let me tell you, sir,’ Peter added. ‘Nothing’s going to save this last bloke. Not now Max has a sword.’
Silence again streamed down the phone line.
In the middle of the intersection, Max stood tall against the last opponent, his sword held upright in both hands in front of him, unwavering. Surrounded by guns and soldiers, friendly and aggressive, the two men faced off unphased. Car doors opened as courage grew. Several bystanders had now exited their cars and crouched down behind their vehicles, hiding from the helicopters. Mobile phones filled their hands, the ensuing moments poised for registering in history.
Then the final swordsman moved, his double swords whirling like twin shredders in front of him as he advanced. Max held firm, his granite gaze lasering through the twirling blades and boring right into the heart of his attacker’s eyes, his will focused on only one outcome. Then it was Max’s turn to move.
It happened so fast that Peter’s senses didn’t immediately register that Max was in motion. One instant he was stationary, sword held in front and the next he had launched himself directly into the steel maelstrom, his own sword blazing in the late afternoon light.
With the speed and power of a titan, Max’s sword flashed and blurred, not parrying, but smashing into his opponent’s blades. Sparks skittered about the two men like a cloud of electric fireflies, the noise a staccato clatter of steel on steel. Max’s opponent immediately halted his advance and started to back pedal, Peter clearly noting the surprise on the man’s face. He had been instantly matched and was now in danger of being almost as quickly overcome.
Max sliced, diced, swiped and slashed, not recklessly or thoughtlessly, but methodically and cleanly, his balanced stride pushing him forwards into the fight. Despite being outnumbered in steel, Max was dominating and he knew it. Every attack struck his enemy’s weapon harder and harder, throwing his opponent more and more off balance and out of kilter. Max had him rattled.
Sensing it was time for all or nothing, Max’s foe planted his back foot and gritted his teeth. Bending his knees, he leapt high and spun three hundred and sixty degrees to bring down a double bladed strike, right onto Max’s head, using all his strength and the added power of gravity to maximize the attack to break through Max’s defenses.
Max anticipated the maneuver and like a dancer, deftly stepped to his left and spun, pivoting on the ball of his right foot, slashing his own blade downwards at the same time against his opponent’s unguarded right side. His opponent’s swords cut downwards into empty space, while Max’s cut diagonally downwards into his foe’s right leg. The blade sliced surgically through muscle and bone to sever the limb just below the knee.
A heart-stopping scream ripped through the air as the swordsman collapsed to the bitumen, blood pumping from his ruined leg. As he fell, he twisted to land on his back, his swords clattering to the road. Looking up, the man watched as Max turned to look back down at him. In that moment, he knew he had never had a chance of victory. The moment he had raised his weapons against Max, he had been dead.
Max stepped up to the prone man, who to his credit had quickly relegated the extraordinary pain that must have been racking him right now, as he defiantly glared back. Max did not speak. All he did was pause for a moment. The twin downwash of the Apache and the Yankee filled the intersection. Dust and grit swirled around the two men. On the edge of the scene, multiple smart phones captured the moment, Max filling the centre of the vision, his sword held out to his side as he stood over his downed enemy. Then, in an instant, it was over.
Abruptly, Max reversed his grip on his sword, knelt forward and drove the blade firmly into the prone man’s heart. His enemy flinched once, his arms held rigid for a few moments in the air and then falling back to the ground.
Peter sat frozen, his entire body locked in place and his eyes dilated to their maximum possible extent as adrenaline filled him. The spectacle he had just witnessed was absolutely unlike anything he had ever seen. Awe consumed him, but so too did something else. A deep, twinge of fear. Peter trusted Max, implicitly, but what he had just seen was as raw and as primal as any prehistoric animal hunting and killing its prey. Right now, Peter wasn’t sure just how human Max was and how alien he had become.
‘What’s going on, Peter?’ sounded the Prime Minister’s voice.
‘He killed him, sir,’ Peter said flatly.
‘And what is Max doing now?’
‘He’s just kneeling there, in the centre of the intersection like some sort of…crusader or something, head bowed and his sword stuck in the other bloke’s chest,’ Peter struggled to say. ‘Sir, I don’t know how to describe exactly what just…’
‘Leave it, Peter,’ Joe interrupted. ‘What’s important is that you have reinforcements incoming in sixty seconds. POTUS should also be on the radio right now to personally send his birds home. Your instructions are to let them go. We’ll sort all this out later. You just get Max back in the van now.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Peter replied and the line went dead.
Lowering the phone to his lap, Peter remained very still. Every instinct in his mind screamed at him to get Max back into safety, but still he stayed inert. Outside, surrounded by blood, there kneeled a man that right now, Peter did not recognise. That man just a few minutes earlier had been Peter’s most respected friend, but Joe was right in what he had warned. Everything had changed. Max had killed and he was no longer the same man. What Max had become, Peter did not know and for the first time in his life, Peter was genuinely afraid.
11pm, 6th October (2 days later). Not Ever
Sheikh Abdullah stood motionless against the balcony railing, his white robes billowing gently in the late evening sea breeze, his visage angelic against the glittering backdrop of night. At this moment, all was quiet in the near midnight hour. Not even the ever-present chop of scouting helicopters sullied the silence. All lay still, but not asleep.
The Sheikh’s mind whirled like a dervish as it assessed a thousand different possibilities of what could happen from this day forth. Max had finally killed and he had done it in such a fashion that it concerned Abdullah, deeply. The man’s ferocity had been vicious and unbridled. He had given no quarter in the face of his disarmed and defenseless enemies, but it was not this merciless brutality that had Abdullah’s mind enthralled. It was Max’s purpose. Yes, he had killed, some may even say slaughtered, but he had done it with such clear and clinical intention. This was not the act of a man defending himself. This was the act of a killer. The act of a potential psychopath.
Behind Abdullah, Joe stepped over the threshold of the balcony, exiting from the lit interior of the living room and out into the hazy darkness of the night air to join him.
‘President Bartholomew has offered,’ Joe said as he walked up next to Abdullah, ‘to fly over and personally present his apologies to Max and ourselves. I tried to assure him that was not necessary, but he would not be dissuaded. He’ll be here day after tomorrow.’
‘And his chief of staff?’ Abdullah asked. ‘In what predicament does Charles Ingot the Third find himself?’
Joe sighed and put his mobile phone back into his trousers pocket. ‘Incarcerated for treason, which is probably a life sentence regardless of what comes New Year’s Eve. You never did trust him did you?’
Abdullah shifted his gaze heavenward. ‘The man’s patriotism blinkered his perspective. He loved himself first and his country second with no place for a third. He needed something larger than himself to believe in to see the world for what it truly is.’
‘And how do you see the world tonight, my friend?’ Joe asked. ‘You have hardly spoken for the last two days and although I know what troubles you for it troubles me also, I need you to help me think it through. I am the politician in this partnership. You are the expert on the human condition.’
Abdullah stood silently for a few moments, his gaze still roaming the night sky. His eyes found the constellation of Orion and traced its starry outline across the nocturnal vista. The Hunter stood eternally strong in the celestial realm, his club raised high, his sword on his belt and his shield held firmly out in front, his weapon clad form the most recognizable and famous of all the constellations. Perhaps, Abdullah thought, this ancient warrior now has a rival here on Earth?
‘Max carries a conflict deep inside himself that none of us could ever understand,’ Abdullah finally said, lowering his gaze to search the shadows of the vast lawns. ‘While his mixed genetics have combined constructively to create the magnificent physical specimen that he is, that same cocktail of genetics has twisted his human emotions and his Nar’gellan instincts together and he is now wrestling to separate them. He knew that the moment he took a life, his alien blood would rise up against his human spirit. Max is on the brink of being overcome by his own demons and we are at the mercy of the outcome of that duel. ‘
Joe nodded. It was what he had suspected. ‘If right now Max is fighting a battle against his own Nar’gellan lust for blood,’ Joe started, ‘how can we help him? What does he need to overcome this lust?’
‘Love,’ sounded a new voice behind them.
Joe turned to see Elsa standing on the threshold, her face shrouded in shadows, but her form haloed by an aura of light cast from inside the room. The Prime Minster unconsciously held his breath. Right now he felt like he was surrounded by angels, plotting the downfall of demons with the fate of the world as the prize. The moment ensnared him.
‘Yes,’ said Abdullah, fluidly turning to face Elsa as she walked out onto the balcony to join them. ‘Love is what Max needs right now.’
Joe blinked and he regained his senses. ‘Are you suggesting Max needs love from others or his own love to beat his Nar’gellan impulses?’
‘Both,’ Elsa answered.
‘And let’s be clear,’ Abdullah added, ‘Max needs love not to overcome his alien instincts, but to balance his Nar’gellan blood. We still need the alien warrior inside Max to
come forth when needed, but Max needs human love to keep it in check. It is time for Max to learn how to be both of this world and of another.’
Joe nodded again. Abdullah’s arched look noted the Prime Minister’s understanding and then he turned to Elsa. ‘If I may ask, where is Max now?’
‘He’s with the kids,’ Elsa replied, crossing her arms against the slight chill in the breeze. ‘Jason had a bad dream and Max lay down with him to help him get back to sleep. Knowing Max, he’ll probably take the opportunity to crash with him for a few hours and then sneak into bed later.’
Abdullah nodded and then asked, ‘And how are you?’ Abdullah asked.
Elsa cast a quick glance at the Sheikh to find his eyes shimmering in the diffuse light. Looking away over the railing and into the darkness, she rubbed her arms. ‘Getting a bit tenser every day. While I’ve known for years that this time was coming, nothing can prepare you for it. Not really. Up until now it’s all been theory, but as every day ends, it gets a little more real. I don’t think I’m ready yet to accept I could be losing Max in a couple of months’ time and to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever be ready.’
‘Time will tell,’ Abdullah said, ‘and you know that I and Joseph are always here to help carry your burden in whatever way we can.’
Elsa flicked her gaze back to Abdullah and found that same evocative look in his shimmering eyes, like starlight glittering off rippled water at the bottom of two deep wells. She knew that behind those eyes, there resided the mind of an extraordinary human being, capable of leading vast masses or touching the soul of a single person. Not for the first time, Elsa wondered if Abdullah’s involvement in their plight at this crucial point in the history of humanity was chance or actually divine intervention. If Elsa could have prayed for someone to come and help them right now, she would have prayed to God to send Abdullah. Goose bumps broke out on her skin.
‘I know,’ she said simply, ‘and don’t worry. I’ll be taking you up on that offer a few times before we get to the end.’