Terror At Dawn

Kyle Smart had had one particular characteristic in mind when he went hunting for a new dog. Previously he’d been primarily interested in how the dog would get along with the kids, whether it could be trusted around the chickens, and at least the possibility that it might turn into some sort of hunting dog. Black Dog — which is how the last dog had been known — had met those criteria admirably. Though he’d never been much to look at, with his slightly bulging eyes, short shiny black coat, and German Shepherd build, he’d slipped into the family as though he’d been born there.

One night, Kyle had heard the rabid baying of the coyotes. The next morning, Black Dog failed to show up for breakfast.

That was then. This was now. Kyle no longer worried about how good a dog was with kids.

The Internet was responsible for Kyle’s change of priorities. The computer hooked up to the phone line had originally been purchased with the idea that the kids needed it for school. It was an older model, running at a modem speed that would be laughable to most other people, but to Kyle it was a gateway to skills and talents he never knew he had. He understood immediately how it worked, and discovered the Internet was a vast storehouse of knowledge. And if there was anything that Kyle needed right now, it was that.

Things hadn’t been going all that well at the farm. The two hundred acres that had been in his family for generations were still struggling valiantly to produce crops, but time and overfarming had taken their toll. More and more, Kyle had to rely on man-made chemicals that he couldn’t really afford to bolster production. And without the added production, he couldn’t afford the chemicals. The vicious circle went on.

It wasn’t just the land, either. It was the way the whole world seemed to be going, as though not much made sense anymore. Sure, he knew about the ’60s and hippies and everything like that, although he been too young to participate. And there was no denying that some things had changed in some ways for the better over the last several decades. But what bothered him most was the way the government seemed to be working.

Or, more precisely, not working. Increasingly, the measures that came floating out of Washington to the remote areas of Idaho seems aimed personally at him. Farm subsidies were down. Added taxes sent the cost of fuel and fertilizer skyrocketing. The bombing in Oklahoma had even made purchasing fertilizer more difficult, and every day it seemed that taxes went up just a little bit more.

He knew he wasn’t the only one feeling the changes. Last Sunday afternoon, while the children screamed around the church playground and the women gathered in corners to talk about God knows what, Kyle and the other men had tried to figure things out. If only they could see a reason for it all. Like if all the government shit was necessary to protect them from the Soviet Union. Or nuclear war, or depression. But no matter how they turned the issue around, upside down, and inside out, it didn’t seem to make any sense.

Finally, Gus Armstrong, who owned a stretch of land two farms to the north of the Smart spread, put it this way. “It’s not our government anymore. Boys, we just have to face the facts. America’s not what she used to be. And if we don’t do something about it, it’s all going to be gone for good.”

There was a general murmur of agreement, some of the voices angrier than others. “Next election,” Kyle began, but was cut off by a snort of disgust from Gus.

“I’m not talking about elections. There’s nobody left to vote for, anyway. Ever since Nixon, it’s been downhill — except maybe for Ronald Reagan.”

“They’re making the ordinary citizen out to be a criminal, and electing the real criminals to office,” put in another. “It’s just not right.”

No, it wasn’t right. Kyle could feel it in his bones, with an even deeper conviction than any he’d ever felt inside the church behind them. Standing there, with his neighbors and his parents, their grandparents and his grandparents buried nearby, he felt a small surge of hope, or something like it. At least he wasn’t alone. They knew what he was talking about, and it affected all of them.

Gus stood a little straighter, his hands on his hips, pelvis tilted forward slightly. A bank walker, that’s what Gus was, Kyle thought. He had been ever since he was a kid. Strutting around naked on the bank of the pond after the rest of them had jumped in, trying to show off what he had. Not that it was all that much. But it didn’t matter to a real bank walker.

“I, for one, am not letting them take everything I’ve worked for. That my family’s worked for. If they come after me like they came at Ruby Ridge, they’d better be prepared to die.”

One part of Kyle’s mind stepped back at that point, marveling at just how odd the world was getting. From a general discussion of the economy, the price of gas, and the difficulty of getting fertilizer, all at once they were back on Ruby Ridge. And what was even more worrisome was that no one else found it odd.

“Maybe we ought to be ready for something like that,” one of them said hesitantly. They all, even Kyle, turned to Gus expectantly. The silence settled over them.

“It wouldn’t hurt any,” Gus allowed. “There are people out there that think like we do. It wouldn’t hurt to talk to them. It would just be talking, that’s all.”

People out there. Kyle knew what Gus was talking about. While he tried to keep up with the newspapers and magazines, the Internet was now his main source of information. He’d read about the groups that organized around the country, read through their various manifestos and articles and declarations. Most of them were tax protesters. He’d also read the IRS rebuttal to the claims that income tax was unlawful, and he knew what happened to most of the ones that refused to pay taxes. They went to jail on a federal beef.

No, those homegrown militia tax protesters didn’t have anything going for them. And even if they did, they didn’t have a chance against the federal government.

But despite Kyle’s intellectual conclusions, there was something in his gut that howled in warm recognition of the sentiments expressed on some of the Web sites. It was something he didn’t like about himself, particularly when it came to the racist stuff. And yet, underlying all the distasteful stuff, there was something that appealed to him. Something that echoed what he was feeling right now about his country, the one he’d served in the Army, the one he’d been taught to love. Whatever else they had wrong, they had one thing right. The country was going down the tubes.

“I’ll ask around,” Gus said, making eye contact with each one of them in turn. “I’ll just ask. You understand this isn’t anything we ought to be talking about with other folks. Just us, here. No outsiders.”

Kyle felt the small shiver of eagerness and excitement that ran through the group. They were all feeling that compelling need to do something, anything. But what?

As the group broke up, the men making their way back to their women, who were herding the children back toward cars, Kyle felt that same surge of hope.

Maybe there was something they could do. At the very least, they could be ready for anything that came.

When they got home, Kyle’s new dog, a Rottweiler-Doberman cross, greeted them enthusiastically. He was an impressive animal, with the build of the Doberman except for the head. He had large jaws, the joints massive and distinct under his skin, the jaws powerful. Kyle had already seen him deal with one coyote, and he knew that if the dog got his jaws on something, it wasn’t going anywhere.

The dog approached them slowly, waiting to be invited closer, and then leaned against him as Kyle proffered his hand for a scratch. Betsy herded the kids inside, and then turned to him. “Just what was that all about?” she asked.

“What was what about?”

“Back at the church. The five of you looked so serious.” She paused to stroke the dog affectionately. “We all noticed it.”

“Nothing in particular. Just, you know — talking. About the way things are.” Kyle looked away, refusing to meet her eyes.

“What does that mean?”

Kyle saw the look of uneasiness on her face, and reached out to draw her close. He would give a lot to spare her any worry, but if Gus was right, there was no way around it. “It’s probably nothing, honey,” he said. “But just in case there’s a problem, any kind of problem, I think we ought to have an emergency plan. You know, just some general guidelines about what we do if trouble starts.”

“What kind of trouble?” she asked, trying to pull away from him. “Kyle, you’re starting to scare me.”

“Any kind of trouble. It’s not just for us — it’s for the kids.” He tried to smile. “Honey, it’s just something we need to talk over.”

Later that night, after supper, after the kids were out, they talked for a long time. Kyle discovered that Betsy