Missanabie Falls

Missanabie Falls

Copyright July 2023 by Fit529 Dotcom

Started June 13, 2021 / LastEdit: 9/23/2023

DISCLAIMERS:

Everyone in the below story having anything to do with anything remotely sexy is over the age of 18. Close attention is paid to formalities, as part of what happens, it's a plot point.

All the names have been changed to their exact opposites.

In a grand infinite multiverse where everything that could happen, does happen, this has already occurred and you just don't remember it.

Preface

I've been told by a bunch of people it is super-important I write who I've been and what I've done, for some bullshit reasons like 'it's like, cool'. I do remember things pretty well, for sure.

My memory has always been really good, and beyond that, my OCD means writing calms me down, so I write in my journals a lot. They haven't said I can't just copy what I wrote in my journals, so what the hell, I'm just gonna pull whole sections from those, warts and all.

Plus, there's a lot of times where I'm just telling about some sexy-time I had, and what I noticed, and how cool it was, or not, whatever. You might like it. Great if you do. I published a 3-day set of journal entries (with a lot of sexy-time in them) and got a wide mix of 'Great job!' and 'how dare you' and 'thats filth' so I stopped.

But, looking at it now, I can't cut that stuff, it's full of really important bits.

My seventh grade English teacher had us write 'story sheets', a couple of paragraphs of a story. She said, make it real. Make sure people can see how people are weak and make mistakes, to show how they grow up over time.

Especially if it's you, she said, it has to show where you're weak and wrong-headed and stupid, because it takes a strong person to admit weakness.

I liked her. RIP, Mrs. Donaldson.

So, yeah, this thing is gonna have a lot of sex in it. It's really important to what happens. I can't get around that, so there it is. I'm warning you: prurient content ahead. Another teacher told me once, never be shy when you're writing. Bravery makes for great writing. So, I'm going to be brave, I'm going to tell ... everything I can.

Warts and wrinkles and beauty and moles and smiles and tears - all blend and make this life into a thing examined, a thing worth knowing. Or, maybe not, and I'm just jerking off by writing this at all. I hope not.

Tuesday, April 10th, 2029

My name is Damon Mahonger.

This section of the story is titled, April 10th. Most of my life story doesn't start on this Tuesday (I was 18 by then). I do have to background this a little, so here goes. I was born at Palatine Good Shepherd hospital near Chicago (yes, that Chicago, there was only one), and I grew up in Pineville, a close-in suburb. Growing up, we lived in a 2-story brick 3-bedroom house on a 25 x 50 meter square yard, about 3 blocks from my school, so it was a great place to grow up.

My mom was a nurse and my dad was an accountant. My sister, Veronica (Vera) and I were never in the same classes or school because she was 5 years younger than me and only started not being a total pain when I started high school.

So, Tuesday. I can't tell the story of Tuesday without telling what happened six months before, on October 29th.

On that day, there was an earthquake in Antarctica, a big one. The satellites focused on it, and we all found out that day that a section of ice, 10 kilometers in diameter and about 4 kilometers deep, flashed to steam very fast, and the bedrock under it turned to magma. The thing is, it happened so fast, it wasn't a volcano, it was a weapon.

The steam flash made a boom-sound since it had been flashed to superhot plasma in a spherical shape, including deep down into the rocky surface below enough that the rock became a lake of lava.

The news talked about it for a long time. Eventually, one group took responsibility, the Afkak-Tonah, a weird apocalyptic religious group from Granfenwicki Archipelligo. A video showed up and they said -Where- the next two of these were going to happen.

This prediction was correct; new spheres happened on time and exactly where predicted.

These location were near the first location in Antarctica, and far more tragically, a city in Senegal, a country in Africa. The land turned to magma there, melted flat, very fast.

Everyone in that area, every building, every rock and lake and thing, was made to be magma, lava, whatever, liquid rock, settled into an ultra-flat red-hot hellscape. Nothing survived in that circular area, Nothing At All. It melted flat and stayed that way, solidifying into glass.

There was a boom, for that Senegal explosion. That was the last set of details we had for what happened, the news clamped down after that. But, before it got too sparse, we got details that the land nearby wasn't affected by the heat, only the blast wave of superhot gas venting straight up (the top of the sphere vented first, setting up an inflow of wind). This swept people and things inwards to sink in the molten lava.

Immediately, military responses from around the globe grew Fast, and a news blackout of what was happening made for far more questions than answers.

Our cell phones stopped working in general.

The electricity started going out for whole sections of a day, then whole days at a time. In winter in Chicago, you notice that.

There were earthquakes and rumbles, but no news, no internet, very little radio coverage, just music that no one really wanted to listen to.

People started wanting to leave Chicago. They couldn't. Outer suburbs set up roadblocks to keep out refugees and migrants. City police forces kept people boxed in, 'for your own safety'.

Life was a dystopia, and then things got much worse. Very few people had food.

The President gave a speech and said, 'out of abundance of caution', she was reinstating the draft. Despite news reports of very few people being drafted, Absolutely Everyone was having to report for duty, put on buses and driven away.

All of my classmates, at least the high school senior-aged guys, left. Lots of girls did, too, they could enlist voluntarily but not be drafted. After they left, though... Nothing.

No news of them came back. No letters were written home. No telephone calls could happen, they had to surrender their phones before they got on the bus, supposedly.

Camps were set up, fast, military academies, for underage guys that wanted to enlist but weren't old enough yet, and nearly all the junior and sophomore guys, and even down to 7th graders, went off to be trained in how to be trained, in how to be soldiers.

I heard a lot of this second-hand. My great-grandparents had survived the Holocaust, and they had Strong Opinions on 'everyone going somewhere', I'd heard the family stories, the barely-got-out, the both-prepared-and-lucky stories, and the stories of family members that didn't get out, and the (Russian and Polish and Hungarian) villages that suddenly had houses with no people.

Dad said, starting early, that the US government, and the Brits, and more, were glossing over any bad news and that meant we had to be ahead of the curve, and get more prepared for Really Bad Stuff. I didn't know what that meant, then.

I was in Platoonists, my dad was a Platoonist-Group, or p-group, leader/volunteer. He carried that 'being Outdoors-Ready!' thing to the p-group, and we started working on skills super-intensively, with a lot of parents being involved, too, to make sure we knew all the skills. More than two-thirds of the p-group was girls, because a lot of guys were volunteering for the military since that draft age was lowered to 17.

Mom and Dad made it Very Very Plain that since I was in severe danger of being shipped off to war and needlessly killed (something they'd seen far too often before, and since they were peaceniks anyway), I should be in HIDING.

That is, not just ordinary hiding, but hiding like Anne Frank, hiding.

In mid-December we'd finished getting the basement hiding place prepared. Vera helped a lot, being the person to cart all the dirt upstairs and spread it evenly in the flowerbeds and down our backyard hill and whatever. Dad helped. We went through the concrete-block wall into an area underneath our back patio and I had a decent sized room down there, the 'roof' held up by timbers and being underground, it was reasonably warm-ish, for dirt.

Technically, when I turned 18 in March I had 30 days to register with the 'selective service' draft board before I was a felon. It didn't matter. That was Just Not Going To Happen.

I had a sense of patriotism and everything, but with so many people just disappearing, shipped off to who knows where? I didn't want to go, and we all knew that no news meant those guys were dead somewhere.

So, that Tuesday, April 10th?

April was a long time after October. April was a world of hurt away from October.

April was five months of stark hunger away from October.

That night, Dad's 'shortwave' radio (which could pick up stations all the way around the world) had a station called the BBC, from Britain. They said that Kent in the U.K., Hamburg in Germany, and Modena in Italy, had all been turned into magma, too.

Dad had been grim for the past few days, saying less and less to us because they were both obviously overcome with emotion.

We finished eating, my dad forcing us eat at least double- or triple-servings until we were stuffed, and I knew the food we were getting was dipping heavily into last-minute saved and precious foods.

The corned-beef hash cans had been put away early as special.

We were eating the special corned beef hash.

Dad looked at Mom and they just stared at each other. We were eating by candle-light, behind several layers of blankets in our basement to keep the light in so none of our neighbors could snitch on us.

Dad's constant glancing at his watch told me we were counting down to something, so when it finally came, I knew, something huge was happening, and I'd better be ready.

Vera, even being younger, was clued in. She was even probably better at picking up on their moods than I was.

Finally, the clock ticked past a quarter-hour, and he said with a deliberateness I'll never forget, "Alas, Babylon."

Mom looked back and repeated that back at him. She had the same kind of fierce calm that she'd had when Vera got a cut that needed stitches a couple of years before.

Dad looked at Vera and me and tried to sound upbeat. "Kids, you're going on a Platoonist trip. NOW. Not a drill. Not playing around. Moment is here. Run your checklist. Final minutes."

We'd packed our bags a long time ago, back in February. It was just my Platoonist frame-backpack, stuffed with every tiny little gadget I could find. It ended up being super-heavy, but I had enough fishing lures and line, collapsible poles, compasses, knives, flints, multi-tools, everything. Vera even had one, even though she wasn't in Platoonists. Dad and Mom had them, too, but they'd never let me see what was in them, they were next to the ceiling where the cathedral ceiling had a ledge, for easy grabbing, they said.

The 'run your checklist' wasn't an idle task, or a simple thing. We booked it, just like we'd practiced: Poop and pee, force it. Change clothes. Platoonist Camping gear, but civilian clothes on the outside, Platoonist clothes on the inside. Hiking boots. Floppy hat, brim tied. Cold weather second-bag clipped onto the top.

Dad called out the minutes, and with each recitation, he called out, "Run The Plan."

There were very few steps, but a lot of double-checks - very specific things in very specific pockets, laid out in ziplock bags thumb-tacked to a board just inside my crawl space room.

We'd run this drill before, but Dad had never said the words before like he'd said them just now. The drill was, we'd meet him in the garage. Sometimes we'd bike over to our Platoonist leader's house, 2 blocks away, or to the church where we kept the Platoonist trailer with all our stuff in it.

Dad was standing outside, holding the flare gun. He told us it was something he'd had forever, but I knew someone had given it to him in February because that's when he taught me how it worked, very carefully. He was also holding a boat horn, one of the compressed-air cans, like a spray paint can with a horn on it.

He looked at Vera and I, dragging our packs, Vera's bigger than it should have been but she'd been doing our family workouts just like me, so she could handle hers pretty well.

I should mention, my dad was FAT. Seriously fat. He'd lost a ton of weight since that January, like, amazing amounts, but he was still kind of a semi-spherical person, just a smaller one than before. Mom wasn't small, either, but she had diabetes and it was hard for her to lose the weight. The family workouts were mostly for Vera and Me, but mom and dad tried, hard, to keep up, too.

I'm avoiding describing the next thing that happened, because it was the last time I saw my mom and dad.

They hugged Vera and me, super tight. Dad was holding a tube, 2 feet long, 3-inch PVC, with a bunch of attachment points on it and a screw top. He told me to turn around. I felt him bungee it onto the side of my pack. Facing me, he said, "That's our synagogue's Torah. You're taking it tonight. Guard it well, but don't trade your life for it, there are other copies. Understand?"

I knew that Torah was from before World War 2 - it was super-old, and why Dad had it, I didn't know. It normally came on two scrolls, but had obviously been wound super-tight to fit in the tube Dad gave me.

He said, "Listen carefully, you two. We've done this in drills, this is for real. You are going to the church, you're going on a 'Platoonist campout', that's code, everyone knows it. Mr. Davis knows the destination, it's in Canada, but we have several fallback options. I put them in your pack last week. Mama and I Love you Very, Very much. More than you could possibly know. We cannot go with you. There's no space on the truck. We will stay here, like the President says, and stay inside. Or, we'll try some options." He smiled. I had no idea what that meant, but I did know, he wasn't coming with us. "You should figure this trip will probably be for the summer, and we'll see you in September for the start of school."

He was choking up. There was no way that was happening. If we were going, that meant that Chicago was likely a target, and that meant no one was coming back to a non-existent high school in a flat-glass cooled lava field.

"I hope you make Platoon Leader by then, even if it's too late for the official part."

I was crying, too, but we were all as serious as a heart attack, so it wasn't luvie-dovie, it was business, life and death, for him, too.

He said, "I did some shopping when this thing started, online, and got a bunch of gold and silver coins, and rings, whatever I could find. It's about $9000 worth, not a lot in weight, but something. Mama sewed it into your cold weather gear. There's also a bunch of $100 and $20 bills in your coat pockets, too, and all over, between the lining and shell of your jackets. Never know if that might help."

Vera and I looked at her. Mom had tears, crying tears, but her eyes? Her face was beyond 'determined'. I'd say her eyes were well into the territory of 'fierce'. She had the kind of look that said, You're Going To Do This. I'd seen that look a couple of times, when she wanted something done Exactly Right, and there would be precisely zero argument to the contrary, it would just happen. Mom was a piece of work like that.

She said, tears dripping freely from eyes that would Do Anything. "Sewn in well, kids. There's a bunch of bills in the inner pockets, too, in small bundles you can take out one at a time. You have lots more pockets in those jackets than you think you do. Love is in those pockets. Use that Love to get SAFE."

Dad stepped over to mom, pointing to our bikes. "You've practiced. Get to the church. Stand in the middle of the lot. Blow the horn, the Evac signal -- 3 short 1 Long, wait 10 seconds, repeat it. Do that 8 times, aim the horn on the compass rose, E, S, W, N. Then fire that flare gun in the air, straight up. You will hear someone echo your boat horn signal. Don't respond. There's a pattern. You know... "

I did know, we'd covered this. I'd only ever done it for real with the test signal, never for the real one.

"Mr. Davis will get there in 10 minutes or less. Hell, he's probably there now. I blasted a 'Prep' signal about an hour ago, from down the block."

Vera said, "I heard it. Kind of faint."

"If the cops come, tell them the truth, you're going on a camping trip. If the cops start raising a fuss, two options. Either Mr. Davis will shoot them dead, or you'll go to the fallback rendezvous point - you know, just pretend they're right, act like you're giving up, pretend to go home, and run the backup plan."

I nodded, and Vera did, too.

"Lastly. Worst case. Bike north and west, fast as you can, but avoid roadblocks. If you have to lose your packs, you know what you can ditch and what you can't. You're headed then for Thunder Bay Canada, over the border, left of Lake Superior. Find a Methodist church there, ask for Dave. Instructions are in your pack, obfuscated, of course."

We had directions.

"There's no TIME, my precious..." He choked up a second. "My son! My daughter! I can't tell you everything. I will tell you one thing. If something happens, like my grandpa told me, if something happens, Make Happy Babies, Lots of Happy Babies."

Mom burst out crying. I hadn't seen her like that. She fought it back and stared at us with The Look.

Vera and I were in full-go mode, we knew seconds counted. Vera and I both said our replies of "I love you, too, Dad. I love you, Mom."

It was NOT easy to leave, but they so wanted us to get out of there, to be safe, and I knew the only way we were going to make that happen was to follow our plans.

Vera and I mounted our bikes, carefully with our heavy packs, the boat horn in the basket in front. We pushed off into the overcast and light drizzle, our light jackets over a t-shirt that was over my Platoonisting shirt and another t-shirt. I was hot already. Cutting left down the block and turning the corner two other blocks down, we didn't take long to pull into the Catholic Church parking lot, and to the back where the huge trailer was that had all our gear.

Mr. Davis was already there. He said two words to me, I'd just heard my dad say. "Alas, Babylon." It was apparently code for something, I was supposed to know.

I said, "Dad said that."

"Yes. Blow it. You're about 10 minutes late. Some people are already on their way, I heard prep signals already."

I got off my bike. His diesel super-cab truck was already hooked to the huge trailer, I noticed.

Looking at him and Vera, I said, "There's no taking this back," and blew the horn, just like I was taught. It was SUPER loud, Ach Mein Gott, was it loud. I held it up at arms' length, and did as I was told.

Right after I'd done it 8 times, I got the flare gun. I thought I might be in trouble for having it, but apparently Mr. Davis said, "Excellent. He got it. That should bring out Shelly's kids, too."

Not 15 seconds after I'd shot off the flare gun, there was an answering set of blasts on a distant boat horn, echoing mine. Flashlights showed up from the parsonage where the priest lived, and from houses that faced nearby the church, people moving across the lawns to us.

Gasoline and diesel fuel had been in short supply, something about the military taking all of it. Father Carlos came over to the shed next to the truck and unlocked it, calling over to Mr. Davis, "When, for this?"

"Probably 10 minutes, maybe 15 at most. Everyone's on their way, and they know, they miss the boat, they miss the boat."