Chapter 2: Treasure Hunt/A Chest Full Of Maggots
Present Day
In Italy, they are known as Tombaroli; in America, Prospectors; and in Japan, Matagi. These treasure hunters do not earn their living through normal or virtuous means: laboring as an office drone, scrambling to disaster areas and burning buildings; nor through sinful acts: theft or fraud. They live in the gray area of semi-quasi-legality: seeking out the ruins of the old world. They delve into libraries, ancient internet archives, and pluck out the secrets of the past from the mouths of the elderly; and when they discover a hint of their next quarry, they race off in pursuit.
Their salvage varies from military bases, corporate strongholds, doomsday bunkers, and caches of weapons left behind for wars that never came to pass. They unearth technologies and blueprints long thought lost, and are rewarded in wealth and glory for their efforts. It is a modern-day treasure hunt, with all the danger and excitement of the unknown, and it captures the imagination of the world.
One hunt is taking place now. This particular group of Matagi have stumbled upon their latest tip from the coughing wheeze of a lovely grandmother, who proudly bears a Japanese name and Western features; and had come to their attention when a small local newspaper ran a filler on the dramatic lives of her ancestors—of both families: her in-laws and birth. Each has a proud tradition of military service, with multiple members making the cut in their respective special forces.
The Matagi, over tea and a wonderful batch of cookies, learn all they can, paying double and double again the market rate as she talks about family lore, operations unseen and unspoken of; gives letters, and shares her own intuition. After wishing a fond farewell, both find themselves satisfied with the meeting—the grandmother, for ensuring her grandchildren will have the funds to attend college; and the treasure hunters, for the future of decadence. They say: "It's about time we hit the jackpot."
Months pass, examining written and audio recordings, financial statements, and old receipts of defunct gas stations and restaurants; they search for any information that might be related to the secrets whispered by their now-deceased source. Finally, on a map on the wall marked with dozens of red scribbles, the leader of the group circles a ten-mile zone.
Located in the heart of Shikoku, Iya Valley is a deeply isolated and mountainous region. In some aspects, it is fitting that the Matagi should be exploring there: for centuries, Iya Valley had been the refuge of samurais and generals fleeing from their enemies, its geography letting the cunning hide entire armies for years at a time. In the early 2000s era, it appeared the Americans had added to that storied history by building a secret base.
There is a hum of conversation, as the Matagi ready for the trek ahead in a myriad of superstitious routines; ostensibly to prepare their mind and body, but also serving a greater purpose in calming their nerves and fear. None among them has quirks that can shatter buildings, ignite forests, or do anything particularly noteworthy. In lieu of being born lucky, they have cultivated their skills and muscles like priceless vines of fruit; and of course, their collection of guns as well. But little of the weaponry they carried is legal, so great care has gone in acquiring them…discreetly.
This practice is common enough to become a staple in the Matagi culture: a sort of code among them, embedded enough that none would snitch upon each other. Other notable aspects include not stealing from the living, not striking the first blow, and dedication to hunting and researching old-world relics. The common grave-robbers may kill each other over stashes of treasure, but the Matagi held themselves to a different standard of ethos, morality, bearing, and nature: should one group, dedicated enthusiasts or weary archeologists, lose their prize to another, they gave congratulations and arrogant boasts instead of blood and death.
Some groups, like this one, keep an almost religious fervor to those that came before them. They reminisce on the old days, decades and centuries removed from them. They tell stories of past heroes, and the chaos, collapse, and rebirth of nations.
And of how groups like theirs came to be. When they first appeared, the half-collapsed or newly restructured nations had a tenuous relationship with them; they were lawbreakers by all accounts, the Matagi had no right to dig up old government facilities and bunkers. But the new institutions that had sprung up lacked knowledge—they barely knew these places existed. And in those tumultuous times, even in modern times, governments couldn't afford the resources or political capital to hunt down every rumor of lost technology. So an unwritten and unspoken pact was reached.
One in which the treasure hunters had more than pulled their fair share. The alleged descendant of the 'glowing baby', Fāguāngde, was a daring Chenbaozhe during the People's Republic's collapse. His securing of nuclear warhead silos helped deescalate fighting among petty warlords and broker peace. Then there was Laura Cruz, who hacked her way through South American jungles, fought metahuman warlords to a standstill—all to access the hidden away treasures of the New World. And of course, Dakota James. During the collapse, he raided the countless military caches in the Midwest of America. He kept to his code and sold the advanced technology to the closest thing the desolate Americas had to a successor of the United States: the United Pacific Coast. It was what won that region the war.
Matagi, Prospectors, Ladronas, or whatever other title whispered around campfires and lullabies, provide a service and benefit to the world—in their own humble opinion. The worst catastrophes from breaking into these facilities are usually done by those not in their profession: dirty opportunists and thieves. Matagi have standards, all others do not.
That stubborn pride is what keeps them going through the search. It is a wet, muddy, and frustrating season in the valleys and mountains. The drones they use are constantly battered by the high winds and rain, and the metal detectors fail to unearth anything besides more mud. In truth, their equipment is minimal. Other teams have access to world-class detection quirks and technology, but not them.
Their light wallets wouldn't let them forget the shoestring budget they operate on, either. When not tracking down facilities, they repurpose their tech and skills for odd jobs: pictures of cheating spouses, tracking stolen corporate prototypes, anything else not illegal. It's grimy work, but makes their ends meet. It is nothing close to the adventure of finding a long lost piece of their history, but it's honest labor. From a certain perspective. To them, anyways.
And it all serves as a respite from the constant research months before. Ninety percent of Matagi work is reading, writing, prepping, and copious amounts of caffeine. The other ten percent of the job is sweeping a large area and securing any facilities. It is harder, and tedious at times, but it is what they all live for.
They deal with the odd unexploded landmine from post Quirk emergence conflicts, putting to rest past mistakes by their ancestors. They hike deep into the valleys and mountains, marking off locations from their map. They make small talk with the small number of locals residing in the area, asking idle questions about old facilities or anything strange they've seen. And they pour over all of this information—after work, late at night—fervently, kept awake by the thrill of the hunt and unadvised usages of not-quite legal stimulants.
But they too have limits. Yet when all appears lost, when they turn to each and whisper of giving up, they finally hit their breakthrough: a random picture of the thousands taken from their drone. Overgrowth covering all but the middle, where they see it: metal, well-forged in the middle of seemingly nowhere. Other shots put together reveal a slightly unnatural incline—the analysis sub-team says: "Topsoil depletion has eroded the land around it"—leading to one of the few dirt roads in the area.
Past experience and stories from other Matagi tell them the purpose of this hatch: resupply. With such careful deceptions, it can only mean one thing: a lost piece of human history and treasure underneath the mountain.
The game changes in that instant. Speed and secrecy are their best allies; poachers often let Matagi do all of the hard work, before swooping in with bribes or threats of violence to get their way. With great care, the group covers up the entrance using nearby greenery, records the coordinates, and heads back to their base of operations. It is time to prepare for the moment of truth.
They choose old, beaten-down vehicles; while rusty, they are serviceable. Paired with the camouflage nets, the trucks are able to hide in plain sight. Along the way, the Matagi bicker over dead drop locations: their hopes lead them to believe there may be more treasure than they can carry in one trip, their fears warn them of possible watchers back in town. It will not do for them to be known for entering town several times with strange loot in quick succession. Better to hide the extras and come back another time, should it come to that.
Their tools of trade bump and rustle against each other as the trucks forge their way through the dirt path, mirroring that of a burglar: rope, crowbar, and lockpicks; with far more exotic and strange additions: blowtorches, plastic explosives, and a pistol. Also included is a Japanese to English dictionary, a mechanical watch, a non-functioning crash dummy, and a robot equipped with wheels. They also bring shovels and other digging tools to fully expose the surrounding elevator area.
Once there, they quickly get to work: they cut a hole into the metal with a blowtorch, big enough for a drone; they send one—their only one—to map out the shaft, armed with flashlights in all directions, GPS, sonar, and recording equipment; and slowly lower it down the bunker elevator shaft.
The elevator floor at the bottom is large enough for two to three trucks: a perfect size for the vehicles hauling equipment and supplies. Drawing the eye, though, is a wide steel door; oddly enough, it is locked from the outside. The strange design has the group whispering: "Who'd want to lock themselves in?"
Once they assert that it is safe, they prep rope for rappelling down the elevator shaft. Two stay up top on sentry duty, the rest go in with more rope and a metal winch for heavy extraction.
As they rappel down slowly, they notice the clunking of vents: the breeze and noise signify that the ventilation system, and by extension the power, is still working after all these years. One says: "This isn't rare in pre-Quirk bunkers, they were built to last." The Matagi just hope any defense systems are offline; there are enough tales about dead kindred all over the world, and they possess no wish to be another story of the many terrible fates awaiting those in their profession.
Standing below, they stare at 'The Door'. It is worthy of admiration, a monument to surpass fever dreams of both pre-Quirk militaries and preppers around the world. Preliminary scanning shows the blast doors to be an astounding four feet thick. At three times the height and width of an average man, they are sure even a tank could drive through them. The panel to the side is at chest height, still glowing with activity.
Instructions flash on the screen: English; luckily, their skills and the dictionary are up to par. It's the work of minutes.
Lights flash above them. Sounds should accompany it, the strong aesthetic demands it, but no alarms or sirens go off. Some system must be malfunctioning. It's a relief, despite their growing concern; the grinding noise of the door is loud enough as it is.
The door finally opens fully, ushering in blessed silence. Humvees and trucks filled the loading bay. Thick layers of dust cover them, evidence of centuries of accumulation, even with ventilation. The group sniffs around, searching for more valuables. They see barrels and equipment adjacent to the car pool, while several human-sized doors lead to offices. They hope to find pre-Quirk documents in the ancient desks, which are always popular with museums and private collectors. However, the better prizes tend to be further inside the facility.
The loading bay condenses into a one and a half tank-sized tunnel, where the group discovers the first sign that something is wrong. In ancient military facilities all over the world, there is always a large chance of encountering automated defense systems pointed towards intruders. However, these turrets face inward, sowing confusion among the group—they say: "Is it twisted? No." Unable to budge the weapons, the group continues further down the tunnel.
As they progress, they encounter dormitories and medical stations. Their unease grows. There are no signs of life, no personal touches of people living there, and the medical supplies are untouched. One Matagi remarks: "It's as if the facility was built and then abandoned." Unlike other sites, there are no journals, graffiti, or any signs of bored troops. The Matagi wonder who once lived here. One says: "Surely it had to be someone with extreme professionalism or control over their personnel, yes?" Another says in response: "What secrets were hidden that necessitated such tight control over the inhabitants?"
Part of them, rooted deep and buried, warns them to turn back now. That this place isn't like the others they've excavated—the leader says: "The other sites were already looted". But they are Matagi. They push onwards. It certainly didn't stop them from greedily eyeing the armory, their own equipment feeling mighty inadequate all of a sudden.
Soon they have progressed down an empty tunnel for over a kilometer. Up ahead lays a large gate. A sign proclaims it as 'AIRLOCK 1' in big, bold letters. It's the work of moments to set up another break-in; the security for the panel, all panels they've encountered really, is lousy. The leader of the Matagi states in a melancholic tone: "This place never envisioned someone trying to break in—the secrecy and army that must have occupied this place would have been all the deterrent one needed."
With a hiss of steam, the doors slowly open. The group feels a breeze as the cold air from inside the airlock meets the warmer air of the tunnel; and echoing through the tunnel are the wailing of sirens.
Jackpot. Adrenaline rushes through the team like a raging current. It draws them into the allure of the treasure beyond. Grins break out as they dream, in the heartbeats that follow, of the prize of the decade—no, century.
Then the door opens and steam vanishes. Their sight sets on something not seen for centuries. Their stomachs turn in nausea. The smiles and jubilation are as dead as the people sprawled in front of them.
If death could paint, this would be its masterpiece. Each corpse is lovingly preserved by the sterile and cold air. There are half-skeletonized mummies with missing limbs. Blood sprayed liberally across their airlock room. And so much worse—the youngest says, weakly: "I'm going to vomit."
On the secondary airlock door are crimson words, sloppily written. Two men lie below the text. One is in better shape. Salt and pepper hair on his forehead compliment his clean shaven face. The scar on the lip lends him a dangerous edge, like a panther caught sleeping, only eternally. His black high collared uniform is marred with a deep wound across the gut.
The other man, bald and tall, has only a single arm. Light blue armor covers his body. In his hand is a picture of two women, presumed to be his wife and daughter.
The crimson message, written in their life's blood, simply states, "Leave".
Unanimously, the Matagi agree to swipe as many guns and equipment as they can find, then collect the finders fee. The leader says, shaken: "Better the government deal with whatever…horror lies inside."