“If you’re now standing!” Clint explained, “You will receive a red band! If you’re on the ground, a white band!”

“Here’s how the game works, white bands!” Sam shouted, menacingly. “Sooner or later, you’re gonna wish you had a red band! Don’t come crying to me, begging me to let you change your decision! It has been made!” He fired a few rounds into the ceiling to punctuate his point.

Banded and branded, friends were separated by caste, as were families: husbands torn from wives, children from parents, and brothers from sisters. The oddity was how quickly the distinctive groups coalesced. Each caste mainly kept to itself by choice rather than coercion.

Precisely every fifteen minutes, five white bands were removed. Five shots rang out and the terrorists returned looking even more ominous.

In a quiet, chilling voice Tim explained, “The police will not save you. God will not save you. We have no ransom and no purpose other than to give each and every one of you what you deserve.”