Page 73 of Stream & Scream
The new hunter’s psychological warfare hits its mark. He’s been watching the feed. He knows exactly what to say to throw me off. To make me question everything.
Ishe really coming back? Or am I just another piece of his game that's been used up and discarded, another toy that's outlived its usefulness and can be left for other predators to dispose of?
No. I refuse to believe that. All of it was real and raw. It would have been impossible to fake.
He's coming. Hehasto be coming.
But until he arrives, I'm on my own.
More gunfire erupts, targeting the weak points in the ranger station. The barricaded windows explode inward one by one, sending furniture fragments and broken glass cascading across the floor.
I scramble from cover to cover, using the cabin's limited furniture to stay mobile while bullets easily chew through wood and metal like they're made of paper.
"You're only making this harder on yourself," the new hunter calls out, his voice closer now, maybe at the door. "I could make it quick and clean. But if you want to play games, I'm happy to drag this out."
Games. Like I'm reduced to nothing more than reality TV entertainment instead of a person fighting to live, like my terror and desperation are amusing.
I have to fight. I won’t die. Not like this.
What’s left of the door breaks under what sounds like a boot rather than a bullet, heavy and solid. Wood cracks, hinges scream, and suddenly there's a gap wide enough for someone to force their way through if they're willing to accept the cuts that come from squeezing past jagged edges.
Tossing the empty flare gun to the side, I grab the nearest weapon I can find—a broken piece of a mirror—and position myself where he won’t be able to see me right away. I hide in the shadows like The Hunter.
A gloved hand reaches through, feeling for the door handle.
I slash with the mirror fragment, dragging the sharp edge across knuckles and tendons with all the force I can generate from my awkward position. Blood spurts immediately, bright arterial red, and the hand jerks back with a curse that contains more surprise than pain.
"You fucking bitch!" The voice is louder now.
I’ve pissed him off.
The door explodes inward as he uses his shoulder to force entry. Furniture that I'd stacked as barriers goes flying, creating a chaos of debris and dust that fills the small space.
But through the dust, I see him.
He's not like The Hunter. Where The Hunter moves with a powerful and calculator manner, this man is all alpha energy and rage.
His face is hard, covered by scar tissue. His eyes are dark gray, and they’re haunting as he watches me.
But it's his smile that terrifies me most. Not the predatory grin that The Hunter wore when he was playing with me like acat plays with a mouse, but something emptier. He lacks life. It’s like he’s dead inside.
"There you are," he says, stepping through the ruined doorway. "Been looking forward to this ever since I saw the footage of you and your boyfriend fucking on that rock."
"Fuck you," I spit, circling around the overturned desk while keeping the bloodied mirror fragment raised and ready.
His laughter is harsh and empty, lacking human emotion. "Sweetheart, your boyfriend's not coming back. Nobody's coming back. It's just you and me and however long I decide to make this last."
He lunges forward with speed that catches me off guard, moving faster than his bulk should allow, closing the distance between us before I can even move.
His hand closes around my wrist, the one holding the mirror fragment, applying pressure that makes my bones creak and my fingers spasm involuntarily. The pathetic little weapon falls from my grasp, clattering across the floor and disappearing with the rest of the debris scatters throughout the room.
But I don't stop fighting.
I twist in his grip, using momentum and desperation to break free just long enough to grab something else—a chunk of broken wood with a pointed end that might break through skin if I can get a good enough swing in.
The makeshift spear takes him in the shoulder, penetrating skin and muscle with a wet sound that should be satisfying but mostly just makes me nauseous. He roars with pain and surprise, stumbling backward far enough to give me room to maneuver.
"You want to play rough?" he asks, reaching up to pull the wood fragment from his shoulder like it's nothing more than a splinter, barely even bleeding despite my best efforts. "Good. I was hoping you'd make it interesting."
