When the day finally came, The man was ready. A military transport bus pulled up outside his house just before dawn. He tossed his duffel over his shoulder and climbed aboard, scanning for an open seat.
Most of the recruits were already dozing off, heads tilted against the windows or drooling on their jackets. The air smelled faintly of sweat, coffee, and diesel. As he moved down the aisle, he spotted an open seat in the back—next to a broad-shouldered guy with a neatly trimmed mustache straight out of a Mexican western.
"Uh, excuse me—mind if I sit here?" Brian asked.
"Nah," the guy said with a flat tone.
Brian blinked. "Right. Well, enjoy the view then." He turned to look for another spot.
The man suddenly laughed. "Baha!, hey, hey, amigo! I'm kiddin'. Sit down. I ain't that kind of pandejo. Come on, man." He scooted over to make room.
Brian chuckled, sliding into the seat. "Thanks. Didn't expect to meet a polite Mexican this early in the morning. Buona noches, right?"
The man snorted. "No, no, it's buenos días, my dude. It's almost sunrise."
"Oh—yeah. Right, six a.m. already," Brian said, a little embarrassed. "So, you're actually from Mexico?"
"Not really, born in New México, raised in Mérida," the man said, rolling his R's with a grin.
"Mi padre's from México, and mi madre's Americana. She sells beauty products—big business in Ohio. Me? I used to sell nachos in Iowa, you know. Saved up, spent it all. Thought I'd be the Big Daddy or somethin', but my wife said if sports didn't work out, I'd better get a real job. So, here I am—signing up for hell camp! Hehehe."
He slapped his thigh and laughed loud enough to wake a few people. "Sorry, man. I talk too much. Even my wife talkin' to me less, so now I just talk to whoever's breathing."
Brian smirked. "Hey, somebody gotta bring joy to the world, right? You look like one."
The man's eyes widened. "You serious? Damn, my old man used to say I was a cabrón! Anyway, name's Dantonio Montez—but you can call me Dan."
"Brian Dixon. Good to meet you." He paused, then asked, "You got anyone waiting for you back home?"
Dan sighed, scratching his jaw. "Ahh, i guess.... my wife. She's working down in South Dakota. Hasn't called me in a month. Probably ran off with some trucker by now." He shrugged. "You?"
Brian chuckled quietly. "Same story. Just… switched."
Dan frowned in mock offense. "Hell no, man! You can't just ditch your lady like that. She's a gift, you hear me? You don't toss away a gift! Those random' on the street? Temporary. But your woman—that's your foundation, amigo. That's home."
Before Brian could reply, a voice from up front barked,
"Holy shit, Could you two shut the hell up already!" A guy yelled with a Southern accent.
The whole bus stirred awake. Heads turned. Dan squinted toward the front, jaw tightening.
"¿Que?! ¿Quién chingados?[1] What, you wanna start somethin'?" Dan yelled back at him.
A few men coughed; others went dead silent. Brian felt a shift in the air—a sharp tension crawling up the aisle. The man who had yelled stood up slowly, stepping into the center aisle. His uniform was crisp brown, with a silver pin glinting above his left breast pocket. The tall campaign hat on his head bore a single star. His expression was blank—but his presence made the whole bus fall quiet, as if the air itself had stopped moving.
"Dios mio~[2]" Dan left his famous last words before things got real messy.
[1] Who the fuck?
[2] God's gracious!