Page 5 of Stream & Scream

CHAPTER THREE

Olivia

Friday Night. The game begins.

T he countdown echoes through the forest, each syllable louder than the last.

"Ten... nine... eight..."

My heart hammers against my ribs, but I force myself to stay calm. Around me, the other contestants are wild-eyed and ready, some bouncing on their toes like they're about to run a marathon, others shaking out their hands to relieve their nerves.

"Seven... six... five..."

I adjust the straps on my backpack, checking that they’re tight.

"Four... three... two..."

The forest around us stills.

"One. Stream & Scream is LIVE!"

Chaos.

Absolute fucking chaos.

Fifteen people explode into motion all at once, crashing through the underbrush in every direction.

Screams of excitement mix with the sound of branches whipping across faces and roots catching ankles.

I watch Chase Durant trip spectacularly over a fallen log, his "wilderness expertise" apparently not extending to watching where he's going.

Emily Cho disappears into a thicket of thorns, her panicked shrieks echoing back through the trees.

I head northeast, following the subtle slope of the land and the sound of moving water.

Behind me, I can hear Riley Torres barreling through the woods, probably following his "strategy" of running as far as possible as fast as possible. Because that's totally how you survive in the wilderness—by burning through your energy reserves in the first five minutes.

The forest feels different now that the game has started.

The afternoon light filters through the canopy in rays of gold and green.

Outside of the fleeing contestants, it’s too quiet.

There are no birds singing, no small animals rustling in the underbrush.

Like everything with any sense has already left the area.

I push the thought away and focus. The sound of running water reaches my ears before I see it, and a small, victorious smile cracks across my face. The stream is perfect—clear, fast-moving, about three feet wide and maybe a foot deep.

I follow the stream for another hundred yards until I find what I'm looking for—a small clearing on the bank, sheltered by an overhang of rock and screened by thick bushes on three sides.

I drop my pack and immediately start gathering materials. My first priority is fire. The temperature will drop once the sun goes down, and hypothermia will take me out long before hunger or thirst will.

The forest floor provides everything I need—dry tinder, kindling from dead branches that snap cleanly when I test them, larger fuel wood from the deadfall scattered around the clearing. I build my fire pit in a depression near the water, surrounding it with rocks to contain the heat.

My hands work quickly, muscle memory from summers spent at camps that were supposed to "build character" but mostly just taught me that adults lie about a lot of things.

The foster parents who shipped me off to those camps thought they were teaching me discipline and self-reliance.

What they actually taught me was that I could depend on myself when everyone else let me down.

The tinder catches on my third attempt with my flint, tiny flames licking hungrily at the dry grass and bark shavings. I feed it carefully, adding progressively larger pieces until I have a solid fire that will burn for hours with minimal maintenance. I’ll be able to hide out until morning.

Only now do I allow myself to really look at my wrist device.

The screen shows a steady stream of information—my heart rate, my location (marked as a red dot on a topographical map), and a small camera icon that reminds me I'm being watched by millions of strangers right now.

I tap the screen and nearly jump when it responds with a small menu.

Camera controls, emergency button, basic settings.

The camera can apparently be adjusted for different angles, though it defaults to pointing outward from my wrist. Right now, anyone watching my feed is seeing what I see—the fire, the stream, the darkening forest beyond.

"Well," I say quietly, addressing my invisible audience, "this is cozy, isn't it? Just me, the great outdoors, and a few million voyeurs getting their survival porn fix for the evening."

My voice sounds strange in the deepening dusk, too loud and too intimate at the same time. I wonder what the viewers think of me so far. Probably disappointed that I haven't tripped or screamed or done anything particularly entertaining.

I'm settling in to wait out the first few hours when I hear someone running through the forest nearby. Heavy footsteps with no attempt at stealth.

Riley Torres emerges from the trees like a sweaty, shirtless mess, his perfect smile still firmly in place despite the scratches covering his torso. He ditched his tracksuit jacket somewhere along the way.

He’s a fucking idiot. It’s too cold out here for that.

"Well, well, well," he says, that practiced charm oozing from every pore. "Look who found the good real estate."

I don't stand up from where I'm sitting by my fire. And I don't acknowledge him beyond a flat stare that I hope conveys exactly how unimpressed I am by his presence.

"Smart thinking, setting up by the water," he continues, apparently immune to social cues. "Mind if I join you? We could make a good team, you and me. Strength in numbers, right?"

"This isn't a team sport," I say flatly.

His smile falters for just a second before snapping back into place like a rubber band.

"Come on, don't be like that. We're all in this together, aren't we?

Besides," he steps closer, and I catch a whiff of his cologne, "a pretty girl like you shouldn't be out here all alone.

There's no telling what kind of dangers are lurking in these woods. "

Pretty girl. Jesus fucking Christ.

"The only danger I'm worried about right now," I say, my voice level and calm, "is the overgrown man-child who thinks flexing his pecs will hand him anything he wants."

Riley laughs like I've just told him a hilarious joke instead of an insult.

"You're feisty, I like that. It'll make good TV.

" He moves closer, close enough that I can see the camera on his wrist is angled to capture both of us in the frame.

"What do you say we give the viewers what they really want to see? "

He reaches out like he's going to touch my face, and every instinct in my body flares to life.

I move faster than he expects, grabbing a log from my firewood pile and swinging it hard into his outstretched hand. The crack of wood meeting flesh echoes through the clearing, followed immediately by his howl of pain and surprise.

"What the fuck!" He cradles his hand against his chest, his perfect smile replaced by a snarl of rage and wounded ego.

I stand slowly, the log gripped in both hands like a baseball bat. "Touch me again and I'll use this to turn your balls into paste," I promise. "And trust me, I know exactly how much force it takes to rupture a testicle."

It's a bluff—I have no idea how much force it takes to rupture anything—but he doesn't know that. His face goes pale beneath his spray tan, and he takes several steps backward.

"You crazy bitch," he spits. "You could have broken my fucking hand!"

"That was the idea, dipshit."

"Fine. Fuck you then!" His voice rises to a near-shriek. He’s embarrassed. "Good luck surviving out here on your own, you uptight cunt! You'll be pressing that emergency button before midnight!"

He storms off through the trees, still clutching his injured hand and muttering insults. I watch him go with a sense of satisfaction that's probably not entirely healthy.

"Well," I say to my wrist camera, "that was lovely."

I'm just settling back down by my fire when I hear voices approaching from the other direction. Female voices, high and shrill with the kind of artificial excitement that reminds me they’re here to perform for the cameras.

Lexie and Tara emerge from the tree line, both of them somehow managing to look perfectly put-together despite having spent the last hour running through the woods.

"Oh my God, Olivia!" Tara squeals, like we're old friends meeting for a coffee date instead of what we really are. Competitors. "There you are! We've been looking everywhere for you!"

That's a lie. If they'd been looking for me, they would have found me sooner. They probably just followed the smoke or the sound of Riley's tantrum.

"We saw that little drama with Riley on our feeds," Lexie says, her smile sharp. "Very entertaining stuff. Really good television. I bet your follower count jumped because of that alone."

"Such a shame though," Tara continues, tilting her head with fake sympathy. "Riley was just trying to be nice, offering to team up with you. Most girls would kill for that kind of protection."

"Most girls," I reply evenly, "don't know how to protect themselves."

They exchange a look that's probably supposed to be subtle but reads as obvious as a billboard. Here we go.

"You know," Lexie says, her voice taking on that particular tone that mean girls have perfected since middle school, "it's really sad how some people mistake aggression for strength.

Like, we get it—you're trying to play the tough girl character for your viewers.

But this is real life, sweetie. Out here, attitude only gets you so far. "

"Especially when you're all alone," Tara adds, her fake concern dripping like honey off her lips. "I mean, look at you. Sitting by yourself, talking to your camera like it's your diary. It's honestly kind of pathetic."

They're baiting me, trying to get a reaction that will make good content for their streams. Two million followers, Tara had said earlier. This is probably the most attention either of them has gotten in months, and they're milking it for all it's worth.

"Beta bait," Lexie says, and Tara giggles like it's the cleverest thing she's ever heard. "That's what this is. Some people just aren't cut out for alpha energy."

Their wrist cameras blink steadily, red recording lights capturing every manufactured insult for their audiences. I can practically see the comments flowing in real-time—endless numbers of strangers judging, analyzing, taking sides in a conflict that exists purely for their entertainment.

I look directly into Lexie's camera, then Tara's, making sure both feeds capture my expression clearly.

"You know what's actually pathetic?" I say, my voice calm and steady. "Two grown women who think high school social dynamics are going to help them survive in the wilderness. But hey, you do you. I'm sure your followers are eating this shit up."

I turn away from them deliberately, focusing on my fire and the stream beyond. Dismissal is sometimes more devastating than engagement, and I can feel their frustration.

"Whatever," Lexie snaps. "Enjoy your little pity party. Come on, Tara. Let's go."

They stomp off into the darkness, their voices fading as they move deeper into the forest. I listen to their retreat until they’re gone, then add another log to my fire.

Alone again. Finally.

The forest settles around me, broken only by the gentle sound of running water and the occasional pop from my fire. This is better. No fake alliances, no scripted drama, no one trying to turn me into their content. Just me and whatever the night decides to throw at me.

The temperature is dropping as the sun disappears behind the trees, and I pull my blanket around my shoulders. The fire provides warmth and light in this dark abyss.

I'm just starting to relax when a blood-curdling scream cuts through the forest.

It's not a scream of surprise or excitement. This is pure terror, raw and primal and absolutely real. The sound of someone who has just encountered something that their mind can't process, something that has activated every survival instinct they possess.

The scream goes on for what feels like forever, rising and falling and finally cutting off with an abruptness that makes my stomach twist with dread. Then silence. Complete, total silence that feels heavier than the scream itself.

My fire suddenly feels inadequate against the darkness pressing in from all sides. The forest that seemed almost peaceful moments ago now feels malevolent, full of shadows that could hide anything.

If I didn’t know this was a TV show, I’d think that was someone dying…

My hands shake as I add more wood to the fire, building it higher, brighter, trying to push back the darkness. The wrist camera continues blinking its steady red light, recording my fear.

A prerecorded male voice comes over the intercom system. “FATALITY.”

I pull my blanket tighter and stare into the flames, listening to the silence that follows and wondering what else is out there.

Wondering who else is out there.