Page 8 of Stay Scared

“You retain the delayed feed.”

“I retain what they send me.”

His exterior-monitor agreement arrived this afternoon. Decay Brigade required another contract and remote access to the laptop he will use inside the trailer. Independent recording equipment is prohibited inside the production zone, so Mark photographed every page before signing it.

“They promised an unedited stream,” I say.

“They promised a stream they call unedited.”

I pull into a row of cars beneath the red lot lights. Several still contain people gathering the nerve to get out. Others sit empty with their windows fogged from whoever occupied them minutes ago.

A staff member approaches my window carrying a black equipment case. Her nametag reads MAREN.

“Final Girl Protocol?”

“That’s me.”

“Turn off the engine and step outside with your identification.”

Her delivery is flat from repetition. I end the call with Mark and follow the instruction.

Cold air slips beneath my jacket when I open the door. Maren compares my license to a tablet screen, then studies my face long enough that the delay becomes noticeable. Whatever she is checking, I pass.

She opens the equipment case. A compact body camera rests in fitted foam beside a folded harness. The housing is matte black, with no visible brand or removable memory card.

“This is the only participant-operated device permitted beyond intake,” Maren says. “It records continuously once activated. Tampering with the lens or harness violates your agreement.”

“Does Mark receive this feed?”

“Your exterior contact receives a delayed copy from our system.”

“How delayed?”

“It depends on the zone.”

“Can he lose the feed entirely?”

“He can experience interruptions.”

Maren removes the camera and fits the harness over my jacket. She tightens the straps until the device sits flat against the center of my chest, then checks the framing on her tablet.

“You can turn your head without changing what the camera sees.”

“So whatever I look away from can still stay in frame.”

“Yes. That is part of the design.”

A red indicator appears beneath the lens.

My phone rings before I can surrender it. Mark’s name fills the screen, and Maren waits while I answer.

“I have your feed,” he says. “Raise your right hand.”

I lift it.

Seven seconds pass before he says, “There you are.”

“Could be worse.”