the smuggler’s bible

White Ratchet

The tribes who live among the salt flats name themselves antlions, after the insect, and call the larval form their god. It’s an ambush predator, waiting motionless until prey is already in its jaws.

The trap springs while the convoy is thirty-six hours from anywhere. A rocket whistles out of the glare and blows the starboard track off one of the crawlers. The men inside scatter to the other vehicles with whatever ammunition they can carry. White Ratchet waves to his signalman. Full ahead.

Out there in the bright white, he can see the sand begin to heave and flow.