When a small band of the United Dog Soldier Brigade finally caught up with my father, he was meditating on a small tussock overlooking the northern California Pacific. He had abandoned his security detail, as he did every evening at sunset, to hike up into the nearest hills when the detachment confronted him with their M-16s. They beat him with the butts of their rifles before marching him to a remote spot on the northwestern edge of Humboldt County, stripped naked, for the entire world to see his wounds. They marched through the night, my father refusing the soldiers’ repeated offerings of water, his naked body slashed and torn by the coarse trailside growth. By the time they finally reached the Dog Soldier camp, my father’s militiamen had begun to search the coast by moonlight, stretching their team out as far south as Eureka, toward the Oregon coast in the north and fifty miles out into the warm Pacific.
[Author’s note: I wrote a story in 2007 about a family of men at the vanguard of a revolution in the U.S. in the near future. The story is told in three parts by different generations of women in the family, who catalog the destruction of the family wrought from its idealistic men. The above was taken from the start of the second part, titled The Renaissance.]
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