Hard Time Havoc: Dead Core, #1

By Samuel Botha

In 2257, there are only two ways out of a Sonic City prison—either in a body bag or as a contestant on Hard Time Havoc. Keeno regularly dreamed of being selected for the ultimate televised show of death and destruction, anything to escape that hellhole of a prison.

And now, here he was—a competitor second-guessing himself. No one could blame him. Any sane person would hesitate when facing off against some of the vilest criminals ever to fester in the city and its prisons. Teamed up in a squad with two other inmates he had never met before, they are hot-dropped onto an island for a fight to the death.

Seventy-two hours. Twenty squads enter. Only one team can leave.

If Keeno thinks facing the seemingly insurmountable perils of Hard Time Havoc is the worst thing that can happen to him and his new teammates, well, then he has another thing coming.
His fight for freedom is about to escalate into an adrenaline-fueled odyssey beyond anything he could have envisioned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Samuel Botha
• Release date: Jan 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9780796148148

Book preview

Chapter 1

Rain and wind lashed the night sky like a tantrum-throwing god.

A vanguard class dropship thundered through strobing clouds. Its heading, Hell Point Island.

Ingesting eight thousand kilograms of air per second, its four mighty engines whined and tilted as it came to a hover over the western coastline.

On board, seventy heads—Two pilots, a Commanding Officer, and seven armed guards.

The remaining sixty passengers held the most interest. Inmates, all soon to be contestants in the toughest survival show on earth—Hard Time Havoc.

The dropship’s design didn’t prioritize comfort. Behind a steel cabin hatch, the two pilots sat secured in their seats. Their eyes trained on the instruments before them.

Beyond the hatch stood the Commanding Officer, surveying the cargo hold below with a practiced eye. Here, the sixty inmates huddled together, bracing themselves for what was to come.

Keeno stood sandwiched between four brutes. The putrid stench of sweat and desperation permeated the space, suffocating him. He avoided eye contact, looking down at the steel grated flooring of the ship. Surrounded by fifty-nine predators, he trembled like caged prey.

You needed to be crazy, not to be scared.

Above him, an elevated platform hugged the circumference of the hull. Here, guards patrolled the hold, ready to quell any rebellion with lethal force. Each guard carried an energy weapon configured to kill a human, but not damage the ship if fired in flight. Keeno knew that wasn’t the worst of it.

Boom-Rings made such weapons unnecessary.

The thin metallic necklace around Keeno’s neck packed enough explosive power to turn a human head into soup. None of the inmates would dare do anything to trigger it.

Boom-Rings eliminated the need to restrain prisoners. The fact becomes even more remarkable, with twenty parachutes strapped to the hull alongside the inmates. Each parachute carried three jumpers.

The dropship required nothing else to fulfill its duty as a simple transport vessel for the deadliest show in the world.

The sound of hushed voices filled the cargo bay as the inmates leaned in close to each other. Eyes darted around the space as they communicated a shared understanding of what lay ahead.

Keeno knew what lay ahead.

Hard Time Havoc was the most popular televised show in Sonic City. It shot to the top when it first aired seven years ago in 2250. More than a billion viewers tune in to watch the quarterly event. An event that afforded convicted criminals an opportunity to fight for their freedom.

Hard Time Havoc captivated its audience. Fans selected squads they felt connected to, then rooted for them until the end. Many supported the most violent squads. Some would cheer for the underdogs; others followed the feeble. The weak provided plenty of entertainment as they scrambled for survival. Countless viewers would simply focus on the hotspots to ensure they missed none of the live action.

Gamblers placed bets. Some made credits, some not so much.

The high rollers were scientific in their approach. They collected detailed stats on contestants. They analyzed grouped squads and used complex algorithms to predict the winning team, then placed bets.

But the gamblers did not win the top prize. No. That went to the winning team.

Be the last squad standing and win the ultimate prize. Freedom. A complete pardon on all charges. A second chance. Live and work again as a Sonic City citizen. Any inmate afforded this opportunity would grab it with open arms.

Rumors suggested the authorities tortured and executed those who refused the offer, but nobody had substantiated these claims.

There were only two ways out of prison—In a body bag or as a contestant on Hard Time Havoc. Keeno regularly dreamed of being selected for the show. Anything to get out of that hellhole.

And now here he was, selected to compete and second guessing himself.

In the hushed stillness, the Commanding Officer fixed a piercing gaze on the convicts. He seized a handset mounted on the cabin divider behind him. Leaning a hand on the railing of the platform, he spoke. His voice resonated through concealed speakers with a resolute, no-nonsense military tone.

All right, you scum-sucking sacks of shit! Look lively, it’s game time.

The sound of muttering among the prisoners dissipated as they one by one redirected their attention toward the Commanding Officer. Keeno did the same.

The C.O. was an elderly man. Bald. A thick mustache compensated for the lack of hair. Deep lines etched his forehead. A metal casing jutted out from the left side of his skull, stretching down toward his cheekbone where it tapered to a point. Within it, a red-glowing cybernetic eye replaced his natural one. A jagged scar ran beneath the plating, a testament to the many battles he had fought. His face bore the marks of struggle and hardship. A high collared, plain black coat, and black boots concealed the rest of his body.

In ten minutes, the camera above my head will switch on and Hard Time Havoc will go live, the C.O. said. If you’ve been attentive to this show for the past seven years, you should be familiar with its premise. But it is my duty to explain it to you worms again. Pay attention. I will not repeat myself.

With a twisting stomach and wobbly legs, Keeno listened halfheartedly to what the C.O. had to say.

A random selection will side you in squads of three. Each squad will hook into a chute and jump at coordinates of your choosing. The ship will cross the island with a flight time of approximately four minutes, flying from west to east. You must jump within that timeframe. If you are still on this vessel when we cross the eastern coastline, we will shoot you. The C. O.’s lip curled into a grin. Once on the ground, it’s simple. Kill or be killed. To assist you with this task, we have deployed supplies across the island. It would be in your best interest to track down said supplies. Down there, you’ll find the usual catalog of items. Weapons, armor, food, water, and medical supplies. Even transport if you are lucky. You get the idea.

The C.O. paused for dramatic effect.

Finally, beware the ring. Encircling the island is Hard Time Havoc’s pride and joy. The emerald ring. This is the boundary of the arena. You must, at all times, remain inside the emerald ring. Move past the ring and you will have fifteen seconds before your Boom-Ring removes your head.

Keeno pulled at the explosive necklace around his neck, wondering if it could accidentally detonate.

After twelve hours, the ring will contract and will continue to contract at set intervals. The C.O. paced. Day three will see the arena measuring one kilometer in diameter. After twenty hours on the third day, the ring will shrink to a diameter of one hundred meters. If, after the third day, there is more than one squad alive, everyone dies. Be the last squad standing in three days or fewer and you win your freedom, maggots! When we go live, find your teammates, grab your chute, and jump. Five minutes to showtime, that is all.

The C.O. slid the handset back into its cradle with a click and removed a cigar from an inner pocket. With a flick of a silver lighter, he lit the Montecristo, sucking hard on it. The ember cast flickering shadows across his face as he continued to survey the cattle below.

For a hellish five minutes, the prisoners milled about, whispering among themselves, attempting to process the information they had received.

Keeno could not recall much, his mind a cluttered attic. He summed it up—Three days. The ring gets smaller. Stay on the inside. Kill everyone. Win. It sounded dreadful.

A loud ping echoed through the ship’s hull. The mounted camera swiveled, honing in on the contestants. A timer beside it began its countdown from four minutes, signaling the start of the game.

Sonic City erupted in exhilaration as Hard Time Havoc went live. Everywhere citizens glued their eyes to a screen. Patrons watched in pubs. Moms and dads at home watched with their children.

The homeless assembled in front of stores that televised the show from their display windows. Zeppelins floated amongst skyscrapers, broadcasting on massive screens. The rich and the famous gathered at elite venues. Everyone everywhere settled in to watch the show of all shows.

Chapter 2

Boom-Rings buzzed to life. A small lens in each necklace projected a holographic number, assigning the contestants to their squad.

Keeno squinted at the digits floating in front of his face. It was a 12, glowing dull red, flickering and distorting in and out of existence.

He probed the crowd for the other two twelves.

The mob of contestants descended into chaos, growing more disorderly and aggressive as each individual struggled to locate their teammates. The pandemonium further escalated when the rear hatch of the dropship groaned open, like the jaw of a T-Rex. Wet, cold air rushed in. Shouts and screams drowned under the thunder of the engines as the frantic scene unfolded, to the amusement of the spectators.

Amidst the jostling and shoving, Keeno’s eyes darted, seeking his own teammates. He rubbed his palm to stop the trembling, turning when a hand clutched his shoulder. A scrawny man with big brown eyes smiled at him.

A titanium plate covered the left side of his skull. It was smooth and concave, with two sealed holes near the edges. Remnants of a cybernetic implant that had long been removed. Shocked brown hair covered the rest of his head.

The two men wore similar attire. Black tactical jackets and matching black cargo trousers issued by the producers of the show. The scrawny man received clothing that was three sizes too large for him. Only his black hiking boots seemed to fit.

Hiya, I’m Goober, the friendly-looking face said to him. A twelve projected from Goober’s Boom-Ring.

Keeno, Keeno said. He grabbed and towed Goober by his arm as he continued his search for the third teammate. I’m sorry, but we have to go. We can get acquainted later.

Acquainted later, Goober said.

With metallic groans, the engines reverted to flight mode, thrusting the dropship forward on its flight path across the island. A handful of squads amalgamated and were jumping into their chutes.

One squad had already moved toward the hatch to jump. They got ready quick, Keeno thought. He glanced at them and knew who they were.

Crusher, Crazy Max, and Surge. The leaders of The Manglers, a violent and notorious gang he shared prison with. No way the system randomly selected them as a squad. Keeno smelled foul play and expected them to be trouble down the line.

Crusher caught his gaze and held it, his eyes devoid of emotion. A chilling smile crept across his weathered face, unveiling a row of jagged, decay-ridden teeth, several missing altogether. He ran his thumb across his throat and pointed at Keeno, who could feel the chill of goosebumps starting across his body. The Manglers disappeared through the hatch, leaving Keeno idle and dazed. Seconds later, a few more squads followed suit and jumped.

A light elbow jab from Goober yanked Keeno from his trance.

Over there. Goober said, pointing toward the far end of the bay.

Keeno followed his finger and saw the third twelve. There stood a towering figure. A colossal woman with light brown skin. Bleached dreadlocks cascaded down her back. Sinew and muscle intertwined with cybernetic implants, her left arm and torso sculpted into a formidable, metallic counterpart to her beefy frame The metallic limb clutched the chute slung over her shoulder, its surface reflecting the faint glimmer of the hull’s dull lighting. Clad in the same black cargo pants and boots as Keeno, she deviated from his attire by donning a stark white tank top. Noticing the duo, she hurried over, pushing another contestant out of the way so hard that he slammed onto the deck.

Just my damned luck to get teamed up with you, Goober.

Nice to see you too, Jamari, Goober said, and smiled.

This is my friend Jamari, Goober said to Keeno as he pointed a finger at her.

Keeno did not understand why, but Goober had a permanent grin on his face.

We ain’t friends Goober. Who are you, handsome?

Keeno grew accustomed to receiving remarks from women about his striking appearance. A shy man with piercing deep sky-blue eyes and a head of lustrous black hair. A well-groomed, twelve o’clock shadow added a rugged touch to his handsome features. At 1.80 meters, his toned physique was a fair bit shorter than Jamari’s 2.30-meter bulky and powerful frame.

He had to look up to meet Jamari’s stern brown eyes. I’m Keeno.

Right, Keeno. We need to leave now or we die in two minutes. I take the middle. You two strap in on the sides.

Jamari released the parachute, and the two men secured themselves in their harnesses. Keeno’s hands trembled uncontrollably; skydiving was entirely new to him. His jaw moved soundlessly, struggling to form words or actions. There was no time for guidance or instruction. Too late now. They were on their way.

Jamari navigated toward the yawning hatch, her immense stature evident as she lifted both Keeno and Goober from the deck. They dangled on the chute to her sides like lucky charms.

She jumped.

The ship’s chaos dissolved into a distant blur against the vast expanse of the sky. Squad twelve plummeted earthward. A rush of adrenaline painted fear and pandemonium anew across Keeno’s mind.

They reached terminal velocity, tumbling and spinning through the soggy night sky.

Keeno tried not to pee himself. Goober cheered as one does when on a roller coaster. Jamari toiled to stabilize their freefall, clutching her teammates, striving for steadiness amid the dizzying descent.

Spread your arms, she yelled, barely audible through the violent turbulence.

The duo followed her instructions. With effort, they steadied themselves. The tumbling stopped, but Hell Point Island was approaching at a rapid pace. Keeno’s mind functioned about as well as a corrupt operating system. With wind blasted, dry eyes, he turned to Jamari for guidance. The rushing air flapped his cheeks like a dog sticking its head out of a moving car. Raindrops stung like pins.

Jamari’s brow furrowed, her gaze darting between Keeno and the plummeting landscape, a subtle tension lining her features. She made a jerking motion with her hand.

Ripcord handle, she shouted.

There isn’t one, Goober said and laughed madly.

Keeno’s heart skipped a beat. He patted himself up and down in search of the ripcord, but found nothing. He checked his side. Still nothing. Since he had never seen a ripcord handle before, he was uncertain what it looked like. He motioned Goober to check his side. Goober checked and shrugged.

Fear clutched the trio like a vice. As one, they screamed, cutting a sonic trail of terror into the wet sky as they hurtled toward Hell Point Island and certain death.

The chute auto-deployed.

The squad jolted backward as the chute gulped down a massive air pocket, causing a sudden decrease in their downward speed. Yet the tempest’s ferocity propelled them sideways at ever-increasing speeds, a force that surged and intensified. Keeno feared it would wrench the chute into collapse.

The gale drove them over dense jungle into a clearing with several old shacks. In a display of power, the storm ruthlessly flung them into a shack. The old dilapidated structure, constructed of corrugated tin and plywood, stood no chance against the tri-human projectile that demolished it.

Dazed, Keeno could not brace himself for the second impact as they hit dirt and mud. The rough landing winded him. The chute dragged them an extra fifteen meters before they came to a stop in a patch of greenery. Soaked and covered in mud, the squad lay groaning, a heap of ache and pain.

Sprawled on the ground, Keeno and Jamari gazed upward. The landing had flipped Goober over; laying on top of Jamari, he smiled into her face.

You wish, you little shit.

She shoved him off, unbuckled her harness, and got up. Keeno needed more time to recover. Still winded, he at least didn’t have any serious injuries. His teammates seemed to be fine, too. Goober fumbled with his harness in frustration. Surrendering, he extended his arms and looked up into the rainy night sky. Keeno got up and helped him out of his bind.

Scour the shacks for gear, Jamari ordered, her hand massaging her biological shoulder that had absorbed the brunt of the impact from the collision with the shed.

Doubt gnawed at Keeno. Was this place worth the risk? His mind wandered briefly, contemplating the familiarity of prison life, but the memory quickly dismissed itself as unbearable. He shook his head, trying to clear the doubt. What happens now? Keeno turned again as he scanned the landscape, seeking some hint of direction.

The reminder from Jamari to find gear jolted his memory, and he headed toward a shack.

His breaths came out in short pants as he tried to gather his wits.