Annabell Brown
I was nearing the end of my stint with the NEA, having gleaned plenty of useful information about their numbers and movements outside the city—the majority of which had been gathered from the soldiers I shared guard duty with. I kept a hip flask of twenty-five-year-old bourbon. It was in short supply since The War and was a big-ticket item on the black market. I was barely of drinking age during the Second Wave when I was drafted, so hadn’t been much of an alcohol connoisseur, but knew decent whiskey when I tasted it. Some I knew of experimented with stills, sometimes with great success, but this was different. I allowed myself one small sip, reveling in the small fire it built in the pit of my stomach.
Other than the odd comment, I let my companion, one Private Robert Gue
