Fire brothers
Two years after the blackout
"Bass, I can't do it, I'm sorry."
Miles sat back against the wall, carefully placing the red-hot iron rod on the coals. He had been trying for the past half hour to brand himself, to burn on his wrist the stylised M that they had chosen as the symbol of their growing militia. But every time he approached the rod to his wrist, the instinct of self-preservation took over, and he moved his arm. Disgusted with himself, he had to concede defeat after several attempts.
They sat without talking for a little while, enjoying the silence of the abandoned farmhouse. The silence that was so hard to find after the din of battle. The Trenton campaign. The battle for Concord. The skirmishes of Lexington. It was never-ending. Fighting against other militias. Against thugs. Against bandits. Attempting to set up a semblance of order in the chaos that had followed the blackout.
"It was a stupid idea," Bass said after a while, closing his eyes.
"No, it was a good idea. It's the best way for us to recognise each other. What do you think, we'll find a shop to buy lanyards and badges?" sighed Miles. "We need something more permanent."
He pushed himself on his elbow.
"You do it, Bass. You brand me."
Bass laughed.
"Don't be ridiculous."
Miles looked at him, eyes blazing with fervour.
"No, really. You can do it. Once the men and women of the militia see that I'm fine, they will also do it."
"Don't be ridiculous," said Bass again, shaking his head. "I can't hurt you like that."
Miles got up and pulled the iron rod from the coals.
"Here."
He placed his forearm on the floor, and held it down with his other hand.
"Come on, Bass!" he yelled, as if they were on the parade ground.
Bass grabbed the rod, placed a foot on Miles's forearm. Miles nodded. Bass brought the rod down on his wrist, etching an indelible M on it. Miles's whole body shook, but he did not pull away. A low moan escaped his lips as he fought back a scream. Then Bass pulled the rod away and collapsed on the floor. He looked even more shaken than his friend. He placed the rod on the coals for a few moments, then gave it back to Miles and resolutely closed his eyes.
"Here. Your turn."
Miles did not give himself time to think. He pushed the rod down on Bass's wrist, as Bass was still keeping his eyes firmly shut.
"I am so sorry, Bass," he kept repeating. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry about all of this."
It took only a few seconds, but for Bass it was an eternity. When Miles pulled the rod off, he was still squirming. As his breath gradually came back, he slid back against the wall, grabbed Miles's hand.
"Now we are truly brothers."/