the smuggler’s bible


Juliet sprints out of the shadows and across the courtyard. Flat white light trickles over the wall from street lamps, glinting weakly off her stimpak’s chrome fittings.

The chemicals are rampant in her blood, a writhing Phlegethon sweeping her along—heart racing, reactions heightened. The night guard steps around the corner and falls as Juliet’s submachine gun coughs quietly in the darkness.

She kneels and checks his pockets. No keys, but nearby is the door and a lock panel. The cheap aluminum folds under her elbow, and she peels the metal back.

Moments later, she has what she came for.