Roland nodded and put on his best facsimile of an angry face. “They’re bad men. I want to hurt them back.”

The intake officer chuckled. “Well, I’ve got good news for you then. The Heavenly Kingdom needs soldiers. I’m sending you both to a training platoon. In a few days you’ll be Martyrs, and you’ll have a chance to get your revenge.”

“Wait,” Manny asked. “We’re…we’re being drafted?”

The officer narrowed his piggy eyes. “The Heavenly Kingdom is fighting for its life, boys. Every person we let in has a job. There are no shirkers here, no layabouts. If you aren’t willing to help build the Kingdom of God on Earth, we have no use for you. And I’ve decided you boys will best serve God in our infantry.”

And just like that, Roland found himself inducted into a military for what was (at least) the second time in his life. The intake officer gave them more papers, signed a mustering order, and sent them off with directions to find the barracks that was, apparently, their new home. Manny handled the rest of the interaction well. He even managed to act enthusiastic, after his first startled outburst. But once they were out of earshot, back in the truck, he started to hyperventilate again. It looked like another panic attack.

“Mierda!” he cursed. “This was such a fucking bad idea!”

“Hey,” Roland patted the kid on the shoulder, “it’s gonna be alright, buddy.” Some aspect of his comforting tactic must have gone wrong, because the kid just looked pissed.

“Do you not realize how fucked this is?” Manny shoved Roland back. “We’re supposed to be effecting a rescue here!” he yelled. “They’re going to have us drilling and training day and night. We’ll be surrounded by soldiers. I thought we’d just be squatting in an apartment, saying some ‘Peace be with yous’ when we went outside. I thought we were gonna track down those hostages in like a day. Now what the fuck are we supposed to do?”

Roland thought about that for a moment. He thought about the Martyrs he’d faced on the battlefield three days ago, in their motley armor and battered, rusted weaponry.

“Look,” he said, “if this were a real army, we’d be fucked. But you’ve seen how these guys fight. They’ve got numbers, and some professionals, but the bulk of their forces are just poor dumb fucks with a week’s worth of training and whatever gun was lying around. We’re not gonna be drilling from dawn ’til dusk.”

He gestured at the truck’s dashboard.