Page 31 of Stream & Scream
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 withleaves 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’sthe 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.
