Page 53 of Stream & Scream
Then I see it.
Movement in the background, so subtle that I almost miss it. A shadow that doesn't belong, a shape that moves in the darkness.
I rewind and watch again, slowing the playback to catch details that escaped me the first time.
The Hunter.
He's there, barely visible in the grainy footage, but definitely there. Following at a distance, matching Cody's pace, staying just at the edge of visibility.
I scroll further back, checking timestamps, comparing locations to my own movements based on landmarks I recognize from my own wandering through this nightmare landscape.
A growl interrupts me, ripping me back into reality, low and rumbling and definitely not human.
I look up from the camera screen to find yellow eyes watching me from maybe fifteen feet away, belonging to something large and gray and obviously interested in the scattered remains of Cody Reyes. A wolf, probably drawn by the scent of decaying flesh.
The wolf watches me with a certain level of calmness, like he’s assessing me and trying to determine whether I'm a threat, prey, or just another scavenger drawn to the same buffet he is.
I should run, but I’m frozen in place.
I can't move.
My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding against my ribs. I'm paralyzed by both fear and fascination.
The wolf takes a step closer, like he’s going to approach me. My spine straightens and I swallow.
Then a branch snaps somewhere in the forest behind me. The wolf's ears prick up, its head swiveling toward the source of the sound.
It looks at me one last time, then it melts back into the forest, disappearing into the shadows.
I'm alone with Cody's remains and the growing certainty that whatever made that branch snap is coming closer.
I should run. I know that.
Instead, I stand perfectly still in the clearing where death has been scattered like seeds, holding my breath and waiting for him to come through the trees and claim me again.
The sound of approaching footsteps grows louder, heavier, like he wants to be heard.
He's coming.
And this time, I'm not going to run.
But then the footsteps veer away right before they come into sight, moving parallel to my position rather than directly toward it, and I realize that this is part of his game. He drives up my adrenaline. My anticipation. He’s playing with me. He still hasmoves to make, other pieces to remove from the board before he’s done with me.
The disappointment is almost overwhelming.
I wait until the sounds fade completely before gathering myself enough to think about where I’m going to sleep in the dark hours that stretch between now and dawn. My legs feel shaky, uncertain, like they're not quite convinced that standing upright is a good idea.
But I force myself to move, to put distance between myself and this place.
I walk until exhaustion forces me to stop, until my body simply refuses to carry me another step through terrain I don’t belong in.
When I finally collapse, when my legs give out entirely and dump me on the forest floor, I find myself at the base of an ancient oak tree, massive beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Its trunk is easily twenty feet in diameter, and it rises into the canopy, towering high above the trees around it.
But it's the roots that capture my attention—enormous structures that spread outward from the base of the tree like the fingers, creating natural shelters and hiding places.
He won’t find me here.
One spot in particular forms a space that's almost cave-like, hollowed out by erosion and time into a shelter that could hide someone my size from just about anything.
