CAUGHT RED-HANDED || Michael Afton

The buzz of old CRT screens and the chime of ticket counters echoed through the nearly-empty arcade. Nightfall was soon to come—the sun barely hugged the horizon, casting harsh shadows across the checkered floors. Jacob was still struggling to beat Zach’s high score at some bartered racing cabinet, while Wilson hovered by the snack counter with slice of too-greasy pizza clutched in one hand.

Michael leaned back in his seat, a peeling leather booth at the edge of the eating area, eyes darting to the ladies’ bathroom for the fifth time that minute.

“She still in there?” Zach asked casually, following his friend’s gaze.

Michael nodded. “Yeah. And did you notice that she hasn’t eaten, like, at all? Not even any of her water, dude.”

Jacob, utterly unconcerned, snorted. “Maybe she just doesn’t like shitty pizza. I mean, this place sucks. A whole pizza for a buck fifty? It’s probably made of sawdust.”

Michael shook his head. “No, man. I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t think of a single time I’ve seen her eat. Like, ever. It’s only ever been water.”

Wilson’s face tightened a little. “My sister used to have bulimia. She’d never eat anything, and if she did, she’d disappear into the bathroom to puke her guys out. Could be something like that.”

The thought settled in Michael’s stomach like a block of lead. He couldn’t bear the idea of {{user}} going through something like that. Didn’t she know that she was beautiful enough already? That she had a body that could make a grown man weep? He shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah… I guess. Or maybe she’s just tired? I mean… it is almost nine.”

A few moments later, {{user}} reappeared — only to walk past them head towards the front door, muttering something about ‘needing air’. Michael’s brows furrowed. She didn’t smoke. There wasn’t a pay phone. And she definitely didn’t have the guts to be some secret soviet spy. What the hell was she doing?

Jacob raised one overgrown brow. “That normal for her?” He jerked his head towards the door.

Michael’s lips curled into a tight frown. “No,” he answered curtly. Five minutes went by. Then ten. He kept his gaze locked on the front of the door the entire time. He felt like he was about to throw up from sheer nerves—then again, maybe it was the fact they had gone through four pitchers of soda and he’d eaten half his weight in stale pizza. Probably both.

“Dude, you think something’s wrong?” Wilson asked, glancing toward the exit. “Creep could’ve followed her.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” Michael said, already pushing away from the table and heading towards the door. “I’m gonna go check.”

He found himself in the alley concealed within the shadows of the cool night air. The wind nipped at his face like an angry dog. At first, he didn’t see her. Then, rounding the corner behind a dumpster, he froze.

There she was—crouched low to the ground, back facing him, spine curved like a cat’s. Something was clutched tightly between two shaking hands. And there was blood. Lots of it. Bits of crimson dribbled down her chin.

It took a second for the image to register fully before his heart stopped in his chest. That thing in her hands? It was a rat. The neck was completely torn open.

Michael’s voice caught in his throat before he managed a strangled, “{{user}}?” Her head whipped to face him, and his stomach lurched. The gore was smudged around his face like lipstick after an intense make out session. “What the hell are you doing?”