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    33 AC The Stash
    33 AC The Stash
    33 AC The Stash
    Ebook302 pages4 hours

    33 AC The Stash

    By W.Wm. Mee

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    About this ebook

    Over three decades have passed since The Cleansing, when the 'Death Clouds' swept the globe, killing 80% of the human population. Bullets now replace cash, lost government stockpiles of weapons are worth fighting wars over and Sierra Seven or ‘The Stash’ is the biggest find of them all! Surviving humans and ‘muties’ alike both want it, and are willing to do anything to get it! But some treasures are best left buried.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherW.Wm. Mee
    Release dateMar 21, 2015
    ISBN9781310598135
    33 AC The Stash
    Author

    W.Wm. Mee

    Wayne William Mee is a retired English teacher who enjoys hiking, sailing and walking his Beagle hound. He is also a 'living historian' or 'reenactor'. You can see Wayne's historical group on Facebook's 'McCaw's Privateers' 18th Century Naval Camp' page. Building & sailing wooden sailboats also takes up a chunk of Wayne's time, but along with his wife Maggie,son Jason and granddaughter Zoe, writing is his true love, the one he returns to let his imagination soar.Wayne would like you to 'look him up' on FACEBOOK and click the 'Friend' button or even zap him an e-mail.If you enjoyed any of his books, kindly leave a REVIEW here at Smashwords and/or say so on Facebook, Twitter, Tweeter or whatever other 'social network' you use.Thanks for stopping by ---and keep reading!!Drop him a line either there or at waynewmee@videotron.caHe'll be glad to hear from you!'Rest ye gentle --- sleep ye sound'

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      Book preview

      33 AC The Stash - W.Wm. Mee

      33AC

      THE STASH

      by

      W.Wm.Mee

      A novel of After the Cleansing

      Dedicated to my son,

      Jason Christopher,

      (‘Firimar Dragonus’)

      Copyright 2015 W.Wm.Mee

      Smashwords Edition

      PROLOGUE: ‘The Mutie King’

      (One year before our story begins)

      The gun looked familiar to the mutie king, but it still felt strange. He knew that it was his gun, the one he had used in the Mutie Wars at the end of the first decade AC, but after using a bow, a lance or at best, an old shotgun or battered hunting rifle for the last twenty years, the modern, sleek handgun seemed strange to the touch.

      In the turbulent years right After the Cleansing it had often been kill or be killed, any way you could --- and a handgun is a very good man killer. But when the wars finally ended and the years passed, ammunition became more and more expensive and harder and harder to find, he and his tribe were forced to switch over to more primitive weapons, hoarding what few bullets they had for ‘serious’ uses --- such as today’s ambush.

      Since most of the muties had come from the local native reservations, the Paiute, Shoshone, Apache and Comanche all found it fairly easy to pick up the old ways as well as the old weapons ---a fact that greatly accelerated their backward slide into barbarism.

      The mutie king’s father had been a full blooded Shoshone and had raised his only son, William Ironhand, on the Wind River reservation, a semi-desert and scrub pine wilderness in the eastern rain shadow of California’s Sierra Mountains. Like many on the reservation children, young William Ironhand, or ‘Wild Billy’ to his friends and family, had grown up much like his forefathers. Having spent far more days hunting, fishing and living off the land than he ever did in school or sleeping under a roof, the switch back to the ‘old ways’ came easily to him and most of his followers.

      Suddenly breaking into these bitter-sweet reveries of his long ago youth, Fang, one of Ironhand’s most trusted warriors, came up to him and, with his flat bow, pointed back down the trail. The dappled light glinted off the man’s shaven, tattooed head and the polished bones through his nose and ears. "The hated gah-shay come, twall, and, just as you said, the traitorous Raven tribe lead them!"

      ‘Gah-shay’ was a mutie word for any kind of foreigner not of the ‘blood’ or mutie kind. That these white skinned ‘northerners’ would invade mutie land was bad enough, but for one of their own tribes, the Gwyear or Raven clan, to actually align themselves with the hated foreigners was both traitorous and sacrilegious!

      Twall Ironhand! Fang said, striking his chest with his open hand in respect. Give the signal and we will put these invaders under the knife!

      Like most of them, Fang was a young man, but old in the ways of tribal war. Over the past decade William ‘Wild Billy’ Ironhand had taken his relatively small Cougar tribe and systematically attacked all the other tribes scattered throughout the south-west one by one. Like some post-Cleansing Napoleon, he had first conquered, then openly accepted, all the other mutie tribes into his own --- with him of course being the ‘Das Twall’ --- the ‘High Lord’ or ‘Grand Chief’ of them all.

      Now, hidden in the greenery and shadows of Mount Whitney, now the mutie’s ‘sacred mountain’, Ironhand peered through his battered but powerful binoculars at the ant-like enemy far below. They were slowly wending their way up the trail to where he and his Cougars waited. Ironhand could see that his warriors were ready, hidden all along both sides of the steep path, but he continued to wait, for his enemies were not yet in the jaws of his carefully planned trap.

      Soon, Fang, Ironhand said to his young lieutenant. We will let their scouts pass us by and wait till the main body reach the falls. They will stop and put their weapons aside to drink and eat. Then we will strike.

      ***

      Twenty-three year old Wolfgang Von Gerber was a spoilt, pampered, rich noble’s son. Tired, thirsty and sore, he turned achingly in his expensive, hand-tooled saddle and looked back down the steep mountain trail. Ten of his father’s most trusted men rode along single file behind him. Ten more rode up ahead. Beyond them and also bringing up the rear were a number of tattooed muties his father had hired to lead them to the Stash --- the so called treasure cave that men had been looking for ever since the Cleansing over three decades ago.

      Across the saddle in front of him was an unbelievably expensive tactical twelve gage shotgun that his father had given him just before he left on this grand adventure. As Wolfgang looked down at the weapon his father’s last words played again in his head.

      ‘I want you to apply yourself at this task, Wolfgang, not just give it your usual half-assed effort! This trip could make our family richer than the king himself, but it could also get you killed, so do not fuck it up!’

      Wolfgang’s father, Baron Gustoff Von Gerber, always conscious of his ‘noble image’, rarely swore or even raised his voice in public, but in private he often let both his temper and his disappointment in his only son show. ‘Lazy, entitled and unambitious’ were three of his favourite adjectives used to describe his only son.

      Looking around at the lengthening shadows of the forest, Wolfgang now wondered if his father should have been included ‘coward’ in there as well, for ever since the short, deadly raids had began a week ago, Wolfgang had lived in almost continual terror. Oh, he tried to hide it; to cover it with youthful bravado --- even ‘bravely’ firing his fancy shotgun at shadows, wasting a small fortune in ammunition and claiming to have ‘seen a goddanmed mutie’! But both he and the others saw this for what it was --- the actions of a nervous, jittery, frightened child.

      The baron’s son now looked up and saw Captain Brenner riding slowly back down the steep trail. Lord Wolfgang, Brenner said respectfully, though Wolfgang sensed a hint of mockery in the man’s tone. The mutie leader, Twall Kaygan, is calling a halt up by the falls. You’ll be able to eat and rest for a time, but I’d like to post some guards and send a small patrol up to the top of the falls.

      Wolfgang waved his hand through the cool, mountain air. Do whatever you think best, captain. I trust your judgement in such things. And captain, how much further to this legendary treasure cave?

      According to the map, sir, another hour or so should see us above the tree line. Once there, Twall Kaygan says that there’s a winding, open trail up to a distant summit. On top there are some sort of Old World ruins. I take that, lord, to mean the entrance to the bunker. Anyway, we’ll soon be out of these damned trees and the going should be easier.

      Wolfgang nodded rubbed his aching backside. I bloody well hope so!

      A short time later they came to a large falls with a crystal clear pool beneath it. While the muties and his father’s men watered and fed the horses, Wolfgang gathered his courage and plunged his head under the freezing water. His hope was to wash has away, at least momentarily, some of the dirt, sweat and fear of the past week. The first two he managed fairly well; the third however proved much more difficult.

      As he dried himself with a spare shirt, shots suddenly rang out from both sides of the narrow, steep trail. Men, horses and mules were hit all around him, both by bullets and by arrows! A stab of fear, much colder than the frigid water, coursed through Wolfgang’s veins and froze him in place. Then he felt a sudden hard slap on his left thigh. Looking down he was surprised to see a feathered shaft sticking out of his leg.

      Then the pain hit and he screamed; his cry however was lost in the echoes as it mingled with the others all around him. He tried to stand, to run, to get away, but his wounded leg buckled and he sat back down in the stream. Half in and half out of the pool, freezing water and burning pain washed over him in equal measure. His leg was both numb and pulsing at the same time. His head felt heavy and his vision began to blur. Sitting there in the stream, he saw his expensive shotgun leaning against a tree only a few feet away --- but it might as well have been on the far side of the moon. Looking down at his leg he saw the foaming white water tinged pink with his own blood.

      Suddenly a near naked, tattooed mutie was standing in front of him! A part of Wolfgang’s brain knew right away that this creature was not one of the ‘tame’ muties that his father had hired, but one of the wild, savage kind.

      Another part of his brain didn’t really care.

      In the creature’s hand was a nasty looking war club with a curved antler tine sticking out of the knotty end. Filed, stained black teeth grinned down at him through a mask of black ink and face piercings. The creature’s head was not completely shaven as were his father’s muties, but a long strip or top-knot had been left, through which various bones, feathers and what looked like a coyote tail were attached. Copper and silver bracelets adorned the man’s arms, under which tattoos of vines or snakes swirled on the living flesh. As the nightmare grin widened and the club was raised to strike, Wolfgang lifted his own pale, weak arm in a pathetic attempt to defend himself.

      But suddenly a loud shot rang out and the savage staggered forward, seemingly pushed from behind by an invisible hand. The creature arched its back, half turned and dropped the war club. A second loud shot filled Wolfgang’s head and the savage was struck again --- then collapsed into the swirling pool of water. The body bounced harmlessly against Wolfgang before floating away. Looking up the baron’s wide-eyed son saw Captain Brenner’s grinning face. A smoking pistol was in one hand; he held out the other to Wolfgang.

      Come on, sir! Let me help you to your horse!

      The rich baron’s ‘lazy, entitled and unambitious’ son reached out to take the offered hand --- and suddenly saw another tattooed, top-knotted head just behind the captain’s shoulder.

      He saw too the glint of a long, flint bladed knife; saw the blade move like a magic wand across the captain’s throat and saw red blood flow off the captain’s chin and down into the white, frothy water.

      Shocked, unable to move, Wolfgang heard someone screaming at the top of his lungs, the high pitched shrieks cutting through both his terror and his pain like a knife of a different sort. It took several heartbeats for him to realize that the screaming was coming from himself.

      Then the painted, tattooed savage cocked his head sideways, slowly brought the bloodstained blade to his lips and licked it clean. Their eyes met and held; one’s focussed, fierce and cruel --- the other’s wild, frightened and hopeless. The creature’s left hand shot out and grabbed Wolfgang by the hair, pulling him up and forward as the sharp, flint blade began to saw off the top of his scalp.

      ***

      The majority of the baron’s people were also killed, though most put up a far better fight than the baron’s son had. Those few that did escape fled back northwards to spread the bloody tale. All except for the four mutie scouts that had gone on ahead, who now had no choice but to watch helplessly as their main group was slaughtered far down below them. Unable to help their friends or to flee back down the trail, they turned and pressed on to the summit --- where the ruins of Bunker Sierra Seven waited silently on the skyline.

      ***

      Chapter 1: ‘A Gathering of Crows’

      One year later: Spring, 33rd Year AC

      The Kingdom of Caledon (old NW USA)

      New Glasgow, The Green Branch Tavern

      "I swear to you, uncle, that this is the real bloody thing! Some cattle baron down near the Mutie Lands with more brass than brains somehow found an honest to god map that shows exactly where Sierra Seven is! And what’s more, he’s looking to hire some experienced lads to go find it for him!"

      Alexander McTavish, in his late fifties and as hard a man as the Cleansing ever produced, smiled coldly at his nephew. "I’ve been in the ‘salvage’ business longer than you’ve been alive, Jamie. I’ve heard about all kinds of maps, hidden treasure and government bunkers --- especially this bloody ‘Sierra Seven’! It was bullshit then and it’s bullshit now! For Christ sake mahn, let it go!"

      "But, uncle, you know that plenty of government stashes have been found! Jamie replied, unwilling to give up this goal of finding unbelievable wealth buried for over three decades. Both on military bases and in other hidden bunkers. Why, you yourself told me about finding one in the Mutie Lands down around old world Los Angeles!"

      McTavish frowned, downed his drink, grimaced and banged the glass down on the battered table. "That was in the early days, lad! Over thirty bloody years ago now! Soon after the nukes fell and long before the goddamned ‘muties’ took over down there! Also it was nowhere near LA, for there was no LA left --- just a very big, radioactive hole in the ground! The whole goddamned coastline from San Diego up to San Francisco was gone as well! "

      "But you did find a bunker down there! Jamie persisted. And it was full of government guns, gear and ammo!"

      McTavish’s smile held little warmth in it. I wouldn’t say it was ‘full’, lad, but yes, there were some guns there.

      "And brass?!" the younger McTavish injected, his eyes gleaming with visions of apocalyptic treasure: stacks of precious automatic weapons and cases and cases of the even more precious ammunition piled high to the ceiling. Enough wealth to make them all as rich as kings!

      "There was some brass, Jamie. A dozen or so small cases in all. Mostly 9 mil and NATO 5.56 rounds. The bloody roof had collapsed long ago and blocked off most of the place, and came down even more when we started to dig! I lost three good men in that damned hole, one of them was your grandfather!"

      A ‘Brief Aside’, Gentle Reader.

      Soon after the Cleansing, money, as the ‘Old World’ knew it, had ceased to exist. With the failing of power, machines and ‘civilization’ itself, such things as credit cards and paper money became instantly worthless. Coins were still used somewhat, but the ‘real coinage’ had become bullets, or, in post-Cleansing slang, ‘brass’. The larger the calibre, the more one could purchase. A few examples might help give some perspective.

      A meal and a nights lodging at a tavern might be a eight or ten of the small .22s, or three or four larger bullets for a handgun, or one or two of the much larger shells used for rifles or shotguns.

      A ‘female companion for the night’ would be about the same price.

      A horse to either ride or pull a plough might be ten to twenty times the night’s lodging, depending on the state and age of the horse.

      A working car or truck could be ten or twenty times more than the horse, and the gas to run it for a year would cost a ‘kings ransom’, for when the machines and power stopped decades ago, all the everyday skills the Old World had taken for granted were quickly lost and had since become mingled with stories of wonders, myth and magic.

      So when young Jamie McTavish was picturing the ‘wealth of kings’, it was not a hoard of gold, silver and glittering jewels that his mind’s eye saw, but a government bunker with guns, ammo and military gear stacked high into the shadows! All of it hidden somewhere deep in the mountains, untouched by nature, plague, nukes or the dangerous ‘businessmen’ called ‘salvagers’ --- businessmen like his Uncle Alexander and the entire Clan McTavish.

      And the ‘greatest’ of all these treasures was said to be the legendary bunker, ‘Sierra Seven’ or, more commonly called, The Stash.

      ***

      Jamie McTavish sucked in a lungful of the tavern’s smoky air and bit down on his beardless jaw. He wanted to respond in kind to his uncle’s harsh words; to tell him of all the long days and wet nights he’d spent searching, watching and paying bribes to make one hundred per cent sure that this map was the ‘real bloody thing’! But he sucked in both the smoky tavern air and his anger, for this was The McTavish standing before him!

      Alexander McTavish

      Alexander Fucking McTavish himself! And nobody, not even God, contradicted The McTavish! Somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties, he’d been some kind of soldier back before the Cleansing. Rumour had it that he’d been a master sergeant. Now, thirty-three years later, he was a ‘general’ of sorts and, more importantly, the absolute ruler of his clan.

      Silence now surrounded the table of the kilted and well armed clansmen. At first glance they seemed like something out of eighteenth century Scotland. Bonny Prince Charlie’s lads eagerly awaiting his return to the Isle of Sky; or perhaps a group of Old World ‘movie extras’ sitting around waiting to be called for the big ‘battle scene’ in some historical epic being filmed for the now long dead Hollywood.

      But these men were not actors.

      Each one there was dressed in muted plaid and a Scott’s bonnet and hung with knives, swords and other killing tools --- yet, Gentle Reader, as I’m sure your mother told you, ‘looks can be deceiving’, for underneath the wool coats and plaid kilts were modern, high-tec Kevlar flack vests able to stop all but an amour piercing round and along with the various blades there were modern handguns of all kinds, makes and calibers.

      Life in the fourth decade after the Cleansing was a precarious mix of Old World and New, with a healthy dash of ‘eccentricity’ thrown in for good measure! Over the years the Clan McTavish had reverted back the ancient ‘Highlander look’, and in so doing had adopted not only the dress, accent and attitude, but the ancient ferocity as well. There were many ‘salvage companies’ working all over what was left of ‘Amerika’, but none were as successful --- or as ruthless as Clan McTavish --- and Alexander, the long time clan leader, was the most ruthless of them all.

      And right now he had other things on his mind that his young nephew’s half-assed dream of some far off baron with a bloody treasure map! His most pressing concern at the moment was that his twenty-seven year old son and heir, Angus, was back at their home base of ‘Dun McTavish’ recovering from a knife wound in his back and McTavish’s hot headed younger brother Jocco had sworn to ‘avenge the cowardly stabbing of his nephew’ --- though right now Jocco was out back of the tavern shagging the owner’s wife. McTavish looked around the noisy, crowded room. All the usual drunken, late night chaos continued.

      The tavern was much like all other such places from time out of mind, either before or after the Cleansing; a questionable shelter from a cold, dangerous world where lonely, desperate men gathered to chase away the dark and share a familiar lie or two. Barmaids navigated through a sea of the groping hands as the drunken farmhands, smelly trappers and horny soldiers got drunker. Nimbly they balanced their trays of watered beer, watered whiskey and, for those who had the brass to pay for it, the real, undiluted Pre-Cleansing liquor!

      Young Jamie shrugged and tried again. Uncle, this map IS the real thing! I know you don’t think so, but you will once I’ve shown you the proof!

      "So, it’s ‘proof’ you have now, is it?!" The McTavish rumbled, pouring himself and his nephew another shot of something brown and strong and then passing the bottle on down the table. Eager, rough McTavish hands reached for it. Well then, Jamie lad, suppose you show me this grand ‘proof’ of yours!

      Jamie dug into his sporran and brought out a ragged, torn piece of paper. Handing it to his clan leader like a bishop might hand out the Host, Jamie offered the tattered paper as proof of his claim.

      WANTED!

      EXPERIENCED

      TREASURE HUNTERS!

      Goal: The Stash known as

      ‘SIERRA SEVEN’

      Search Area: The Mutie Lands

      Payment: ONE THIRD of everything found

      Self Contained Companies ONLY!

      Verified MAPS supplied.

      AMATURES Need NOT Apply!

      Baron Gustoff Von Gerber

      West Slope, California

      The younger McTavish then glanced around quickly to make sure no non-clansmen were watching, reached into the bag at his feet and drew out what looked like a fancy, rather long, wooden, cigar box. Embossed in the polished wooden surface was the round seal of the United States of America. In stencilled letters below the seal were these words.

      PROPERTY OF THE US GOVERNMENT

      MILITARY BUNKER: SIERRA

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