Page 22 of Stream & Scream
She heard that.
Perfect.
I fire once more, this time into the dirt just ahead of her path. The bullet thuds into a decaying log, exploding it into a puff of spores. She veers left, too sharp, and crashes through a tangle of low-hanging brush.
“God’s not listening. But I am.” Another tap. “And I fuckinglovethe sound of your suffering.”
She cries out again. Louder this time. A sob tangled with her breath, ragged and sharp and petrified.
Poor little lamb. Lost in the woods, still humming hymns while the wolf circles. Still thinking she’s holy enough to be spared.
I take chase. Silent. Deadly. I don’t trip. I don’t stagger. I move like the ghost of her god, vengeful and grinning.
She stumbles, staggers, but claws forward like some half-dead thing desperate to crawl out of its grave. Blood paints her sneaker, leaving red footprints behind her like a trail of breadcrumbs.
I follow at a walking pace now.
There’s no need to rush. The woods are mine. I know where she’s heading—toward an old rock formation, sheer ledgebehind it, no exit. A dead end she doesn’t know is waiting. A perfect little altar.
She reaches it seconds later and climbs over slick stone like a woman possessed, panting hard, the whimpers turning to choked prayers. She mutters something about forgiveness. About angels. About someone watching.
The only ones watching are at home, grinning from ear to ear while they impatiently await her demise. They want it slow and painful and bloody. They want drama. That’s why the producers pay me a pretty penny.
I step into the clearing behind her, slow and steady. My boot snap a branch beneath the litter of leaves.
She hears it.
Freezes.
Turns.
Sees me.Reallysees me, up close and personal.
Her lips move. She tries to speak.
But nothing comes out.
I step closer, smiling as widely as the viewers at home.
She’s frozen in place, weight shifting like she’s debating whether to run, collapse, or beg.
“You ran well,” I say through the helmet's comm, my voice modulated and deep, like it’s coming from somewhere inside the woods themselves. “Youalmostmade me sweat.”
She drops to her knees, hands clasped, eyes wide and wet.
She’s praying again.
I let her.
I lower the rifle and crouch beside her, one hand reaching out, slow, patient, until my glove clamps down over her mouth.
She jerks hard, panicked, body thrashing against mine like a live wire, braid smacking my visor, tears streaking through blood on her face.
Her eyes plead the words her mouth cannot.
I lean close.
“Shhh,” I whisper, just low enough for her to feel it on her skin. “Say your last prayer.”
