"You ever think we'll get out of this alive?" asked Brach, as he passed me a bottle of something purple and strong.
I laughed. "Some soldiers might call that wishful thinking, comrade." I drank from the bottle and tasted a mixture of plums and burning. And not like a delicious plum pudding lit on fire, either. No, just burning.
"I figured," sighed Brach. He leaned against the wall now, snapping and unsnapping the clips on his utility belt.