An armed Martyr prodded Oscar and the SDF man in their backs with his rifle and ushered them up onto the stage. Dead silence reigned over the cafeteria. No one spoke. It took Manny a few seconds to realize that he was actually holding his breath. Once the captives were up on stage the armed Martyrs pushed them down onto their knees. Ditmar set his bag down, unzipped it, and pulled out a wooden rod, about two feet in length and as thick around as Manny’s forearm.

“Warriors of God,” the pastor intoned in a low whisper. Manny felt himself lean into the man’s words, even as dread pickled the pit of his stomach. “These men appointed themselves enemies of our Heavenly Kingdom; foes of God.” He raised a hand up to Ditmar. His hand shook, but not out of fear. He positively vibrated with excitement.

“Who among you will take up the rod and punish these men?”

The chair-scraping-floor sound of someone standing up very quickly rose up behind him. Manny glanced back and saw that one of the men from his cadet group had been the first to stand. He was tall, with broad, thick shoulders and chest muscles that spoke of a youth spent laboring in the field. He had thin, dirty blond hair, a thick jaw, and blue eyes that shone with excitement.

“What’s your name, Martyr?” the pastor asked.

“Eric Friedman, sir!” the young man cried back.

“Martyr Friedman,” Ditmar called out as he held the rod up, “come forward and do the Lord’s work.”

The young man walked forward, stepped up onto the stage, and took the rod from Ditmar’s hand. He glanced down at the captives. His eyes passed over Oscar and lingered on the battered Black soldier.

“Strike a blow for the Lord,” the pastor whispered. And Martyr Friedman obliged. His first swing was weak, unsure, and poorly aimed. It struck the soldier on his shoulder. He didn’t cry out. Martyr ­Friedman’s second strike was harder, surer. He hit the soldier right in the gash on his forehead and the man dropped with a muffled cry. Eric hit him again. And again. And again. Ditmar grabbed another rod from the bag and held it out.

“Step up, men of God,” the pastor’s voice rose again, to a pitch so high it was almost a shriek, “step up and be the hands of justice!”

Just for a moment, Oscar saw him. Surprise, then confusion, and then anger passed over the stringer’s face in the space of about a second. Manny didn’t want to think about what Oscar saw in his face.

And then men rushed the stage, and Oscar disappeared in the swarm of Martyrs-to-be rushing in to share in the beatings. Roland took the opportunity provided by the chaos to lean back and whisper a question to Manny.

“What’s going on, guy?”