Page 17 of Stream & Scream
I turn away from my fire, from the clearing that felt safe just minutes ago, from these two walking disasters who can’t see anything except fame.
"Where are you going?" Lexie calls after me. "The smart play is to stay near water!"
"Running away already?" Tara adds, her voice dipped in false sympathy. "I told you that whole tough girl act wouldn't last. Some people just aren't built for competition."
Their laughter follows me into the trees, high and artificial and wrong in every possible way. They're still performing for their cameras, still treating this like a game show where the biggest threat is looking bad on social media and getting cancelled.
I push deeper into the forest, away from the stream, away from their toxic bubble of delusion. My fire falls behind me, a warm glow that shrinks to nothing as I navigate between trees that seem to close in with every step.
The forest feels malevolent now. The darkness between the trees isn't just absence of light—it's the presence of something that watches and waits and chooses its moments carefully. Every shadow could hide a threat, every sound could be a warning I'm too fucking inexperienced to understand.
But I keep walking because staying near those two idiots feels more dangerous than whatever might be lurking in the woods. At least the forest's threats are honest.
My flashlight—a small LED attached to my backpack—creates a narrow cone of visibility that makes everything beyond its reach seem infinitely more frightening. I try not to think about what else might be out there, what kind of predators consider fifteen lost humans an opportunity to feast.
I've been walking for maybe ten minutes when I see it.
A metallic reflection against the dark bark of a pine tree, about chest height, caught in the rough texture.
Naomi's sweater.
It has a small number six stamped on it. That’s her number.
I approach slowly, my flashlight beam trembling slightly as my hands shake. The fabric is scratchy between my fingers. There's a dark stain on one edge that looks black in the LED light.
Blood. Real blood, not the corn syrup shit they use in movies.
My stomach lurches, and I have to lean against the tree to keep from falling over. The forest spins around me, stars dancing at the edge of my vision, and for a moment I think I'm going to pass out.
That scream. That horrible, endless scream that I didn’t want to believe.
She was dying. It had to be. Why would they go this far to fake it?
I drop the fabric and stumble backward, my breathing coming in short, sharp gasps that fog in the rapidly cooling air. This is real. This is actually fucking real. They’re hunting us.
They’re hunting us tokillus.
I double over, dry-heaving against the base of a tree. Nothing comes up—I haven't eaten enough today for my stomach to reject—but my body tries anyway, convulsing with the effort to expel something that can't be vomited away.
Terror. That's what I'm trying to throw up. Pure fucking terror.
When the retching finally stops, I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and force myself to think. Panic will get me killed. I've known that since I was twelve years old and learned that adults lie about keeping children safe. Panic makes you stupid, makes you careless, makes youdead.
I won’t be careless. Not here. Not now.
Someone is probably still out there, watching, waiting, choosing their next target from the remaining fourteen contestants.
I need to move. To find a better shelter, a better defensive position, a betteranythingthan standing in the open with a flashlight that might as well be a signal flare advertising my location.
I'm just shouldering my pack when I hear it—a low, mechanical whir that makes goosebumps rise across my skin. One of the drones, descending through the canopy like a digital vulture, its camera housing gleaming in my flashlight beam.
It hovers directly in front of my face, maybe two feet away, close enough that I can see my own reflection in its lens. Close enough that I can see the red recording light that means this moment—me discovering evidence of murder, me realizing that we're all going to die—is being broadcast live to millions of people.
My wrist camera blinks in sync with the drone, both devices capturing my trembling hands, my wide eyes, my face pale with shock and growing fear. The audience is getting a perfect view of the moment their entertainment became my nightmare.
"Fuck you," I whisper to the drone, to its camera, to everyone watching. "Fuck all of you."
But even as I say it, I can feel tears burning at the corners of my eyes. Not from fear—though there's plenty of that—but from rage. Rage at being trapped in this situation and at being watched while I process what’s happening.
