Page 12 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER NINE

Olivia

Saturday morning.

I wake with the sick, crawling feeling that someone has been watching me sleep.

The sensation hits me before I'm fully conscious, that primitive awareness that every prey animal develops when predators are near. My body knows something is wrong before my brain catches up, every nerve ending screaming danger in a language older than words.

I don't move at first. Don't open my eyes, don't shift position, don't do anything that might alert whatever presence I'm sensing to the fact that I'm awake. Instead, I lie perfectly still and try to figure out everything my senses are telling me.

My blanket feels wrong. It's still covering me, still wrapped around my shoulders and torso, but the position is slightly off. Like someone adjusted it, straightened it, tucked it more carefully around my body while I was unconscious.

The thought makes my skin crawl.

I force myself to breathe normally, to maintain the slow, steady rhythm of sleep while my mind races through possibilities. Did someone find my hiding spot? Did they stand over me, watching, maybe even touching, while I was helpless and vulnerable?

And if so, why am I still alive?

The stick I'd been clutching when I fell asleep is still in my hand, but it feels different too. Repositioned, maybe. Like someone examined it, tested its weight, judged its effectiveness as a weapon.

My eyes snap open, and I immediately scan the small space between the oak tree's base that served as my shelter for the night. Everything looks normal, but the wrongness persists, that certainty that someone has been here, has violated my space in ways I can't quite identify.

I sit up slowly, every muscle protesting the night spent sleeping on hard ground.

My tracksuit is damp with condensation and stained with dirt and plant matter from last night’s trek through the forest. The fabric clings to my skin in uncomfortable ways that remind me how exposed I am out here, how vulnerable.

The morning light filtering through the canopy is pale and watery, suggesting early dawn rather than full sunrise. I check my wrist device—6:47 a.m., Saturday. I've been unconscious for maybe four hours, though it feels like I just closed my eyes minutes ago. My body hurts and I feel like shit.

The device shows I'm still being recorded, of course.

The red light blinks steadily, capturing my confusion and growing fear for an audience that's probably eating breakfast while watching me process the violation of my personal space.

I wonder what the overnight footage shows.

Did the cameras capture whoever was here?

The thought makes me want to vomit.

I pack up quickly, stuffing my blanket into the backpack and shouldering the whole mess with movements that feel jerky and uncontrolled. I need to move. I need to put distance between myself and this place.

The forest around me is different in daylight—less oppressive, more navigable, but somehow still scary.

In the dark, dangers could hide anywhere, but at least the limitation was mutual.

Now, with visibility extending for hundreds of yards in some directions, I'm forced to confront the reality of how vast this hunting ground really is.

Endless miles of trees. Countless hiding places. Countless opportunities for someone to track, stalk, and kill prey that has nowhere to run and no way to call for help.

I pick a direction and begin walking, following what might be a deer trail. The morning air is crisp and clean, carrying the scents of pine.

It takes me maybe two minutes to find her.

Max.

Maxine Hart, only twenty-one years old, with dyed red hair and an undercut that made her look like she belonged in a punk rock club instead of a survival reality show.

Now she's sprawled beneath a cluster of pine trees, her body positioned in a way that looks almost peaceful if you don't look too closely at the unnatural angle of her neck or the way her amber eyes stare sightlessly at the canopy above.

I approach slowly, fighting the urge to run in the opposite direction as fast as my legs can carry me.

Every instinct I have is screaming danger, telling me that finding dead bodies is how you become the next dead body, but morbid curiosity and something that might be respect for the dead keep me moving forward.

She's still wearing her black tracksuit, though it's torn in several places and stained with what looks like mud and other substances I don't want to identify. Her red hair is tangled with leaves and twigs, spread around her head like a crimson halo against the dark earth.

But it's her face that stops me cold.

There's no terror there, no expression of pain or fear or final desperation. Instead, she looks almost... relaxed. Like she died in her sleep, peacefully, without struggle. Which makes absolutely no fucking sense given the obvious violence of her death.

Her wrist camera is still active, still blinking red, still recording nothing but sky and tree branches for an audience that probably moved on to more interesting feeds hours ago. The device looks undamaged, its screen bright and responsive when I crouch down to examine it.

I shouldn't touch it. I know I shouldn't. Dead bodies are crime scenes, and crime scenes preserve evidence, and evidence might be the only thing that saves the rest of us from meeting the same fate.

But the camera is right there, and it was recording when she died, and maybe—just maybe—it captured something that could help me understand what I'm dealing with.

I reach for the device with shaking fingers.

The screen responds to my touch, bringing up a menu of options that includes playback. I find my way to the most recent recordings, my heart pounding out of my chest.

The last timestamp shows footage from around 2 a.m.

I tap play and immediately wish I hadn't.

The footage is shaky at first, showing Maxine stumbling through the darkness. She's breathing hard, muttering to herself in a voice tight with fear and exhaustion.

"Fucking stupid idea," she's saying, her words barely audible over the sound of her footsteps crashing through undergrowth. "Fucking stupid show, fucking stupid people, fucking stupid?—"

She stops abruptly, the camera steadying as she freezes in place. For a moment, there's nothing but silence and the faint sound of wind through the trees. Then she speaks.

"Hello? Anyone out there?”

The camera swings wildly as she turns, scanning the darkness. The light beam catches fragments of the forest—tree trunks, hanging branches, shadows.

She stops, her head snapping up as a male voice breaks the silence.

“For fucks sake,” his voice is low and distorted.

“Oh—holy shit.” Her eyes go wide. “You scared the hell out of—wait, are you...?”

The man’s head is barely visible from this angle. I can see a tactical helmet with night vision goggles mounted over his eyes. He’s quiet as she continues.

“Oh my god. Are you The Hunter?”

The Hunter.

Of course it’s The Hunter. He’s the one picking us off one by one. A small part of me wanted to believe everything he did was scripted, but it’s real.

It’s him.

When he still doesn’t answer, she gets more fidgety and begins rambling. “Oh wow,” she laughs nervously. “That’s... hot. Kinda creepy-hot. Wait, am I allowed to talk to you? Or is this like, ‘I’m gonna kill you now’ vibes?”

He reaches for her arm, gripping her so tightly she opens her mouth like she’s going to yelp, but whatever she sees silences her.

He begins dragging her through the forest, dragging her behind him like a doll. When he finally stops, he shoves her to her knees.

“Wha—okay, okay, this is part of it, right?” she asks. “You’re not really gonna?—”

I can see him from this angle. The Hunter.

His dick comes into view of her camera and her eyes widen, mouth already watering. She has no idea what he’s about to do to her.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snaps, and she immediately complies.

He thrusts into her mouth, taking himself all the way to the back of her throat. She gags hard, but she resists the urge to bite down.

I feel like I shouldn’t be watching this. It feels wrong to be watching this. She doesn’t know.

How could she have known?

But I force myself to keep watching. The only way I’ll get answers is if I watch until the end.

The Hunter forces himself down her throat, furiously fucking her face while he verbally degrades her.

When he finally pulls out, he mutters, “Swallow it.” Then he unloads himself on her face, spewing his ejaculation all over her.

“Was... was that for the show?” she asks as she tries to catch her breath. There’s mascara and cum smeared all over her face.

These were her final moments.

The Hunter leans in, then smiles the most menacing, gut-wrenching smile I’ve ever witnessed. “No, bitch. That was for me.”

In one twist, he snaps her neck. Her body goes lump and crumbles to the forest floor.

Horror washes over me, and I have to cover my mouth with my hand to stop myself from gagging. Her body twitches for a few seconds before he crouches to her level and readjusts her camera to face the trees.

In the final few seconds of the clip, I watch him walk away from her lifeless body and disappear into the trees like a ghost.

I scramble backward on my hands and knees, putting distance between myself and the screen as it goes black. My stomach heaves, and this time there's enough bile to actually throw up, spattering the forest floor with acid.

I sit back on my heels, processing what I've just seen. This isn't a survival game. This isn't reality TV. This is so far beyond fucked up I can’t wrap my mind around it.

Maxine didn't just die. She was violated, face fucked and then murdered by someone who knew exactly what he was doing and took pleasure in doing it well.

And he was so close to me last night.

Why didn't he kill me? Why spare me when he clearly had the opportunity?