The Marus Manuscripts

by Paul McCusker

  “You—not us,” Arin said.

  “I have to try.”

  “I promise you, son,” said Arin gravely, “you will not alter these events by a single fraction.”

  Wade was resolved now. “Maybe you’re right,” he admitted, “but I’d feel awful for the rest of my life if I didn’t try.”

  “Then try. And when your heart is ready, try to come back to us. This is the only place where you’ll be safe.”

  Arin let Wade use a communicator, not unlike a telephone. He told an operator who sounded like a robot to connect him to Tyran’s castle. The request caused some confusion since there was no listing for a “Tyran’s castle,” but eventually things got sorted out and Wade heard a rapid series of tones. He found himself talking to some kind of automatic switchboard, which put him through a series of questions, requests for passwords, and identification after he’d asked for Dr. Lyst. Finally he said angrily, “If you tell him it’s Wade Mullens, he’ll want to talk to me!”

  The line seemed to go dead. Wade was just about to hang up when suddenly Dr. Lyst’s voice crackled to life.

  “Wade? Wade!” Dr. Lyst said.

  “Hello, Dr. Lyst,” Wade replied.

  “Are you safe?” Dr. Lyst asked. “I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I’m safe. Where are you? In the laboratory?”

  “No, I’m in my car, searching the streets for you.” He paused to cough violently, then continued, “Tell me where you are, and I’ll come get you.”

  “Wait a minute,” Wade said, then cupped his hand over the communicator. He told Arin, “He wants to know where I am.”

  “Tell him to meet you in front of the Dome,” Arin instructed.

  “The Dome?”

  “He’ll know where it is.”

  “I’ll meet you in front of the Dome,” Wade said into the communicator.

  “Right,” the doctor said. “Oh, and cover your head. There are people out here who’d like to see you dead.” He hung up.

  Arin led Wade back the way they’d come, through the corridor to the warehouse and back into the alley. He then guided him through the city streets until they came to a large courtyard with a building shaped like a dome in the center.

  “It’s a museum,” Arin explained. “It was once filled with great works of art dedicated to the Unseen One. Now it’s filled with the chronicles of man’s folly.”

  “Thank you for bringing me,” Wade said.

  “My heart’s desire is for your safety.”

  “I know. I’m grateful.”

  “Are you certain you want to go through with this? I don’t trust Tyran or his Dr. Lyst.”

  “I don’t trust Tyran either, but I think Dr. Lyst will watch out for me.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Arin glanced around and said sorrowfully, “From this moment on, the people of Sarum will not see or hear from me. My duty is fulfilled. My family and I will finish what’s left to do in the shelter and go in until the Unseen One tells us it’s safe to come out.”

  “Even if we can stop the illness?”

  Arin looked as if he felt sorry for Wade. “You won’t stop it any more than you can stop the turning of the tide or the rising of the two moons,” he said gravely. “Look to the Unseen One, Wade, and return to us if you can.”

  “I will.”

  Wade looked over at the large front steps leading up to the Dome’s entrance. He recognized Dr. Lyst’s car waiting at the bottom. “There he is,” Wade said. But when he turned back, Arin had disappeared.

  How does he do that? Wade wondered. He walked over to Dr. Lyst’s car. The door opened just as he reached it. But it wasn’t Dr. Lyst inside; it was one of Tyran’s guards. Wade backed away and into another guard, who quickly grabbed his arms.

  “Into the car, young man!” the guard ordered. “Tyran and the doctor have been waiting for you.”

  Tyran blew his nose and then pondered Wade, who was slumped in a large chair in front of Tyran’s desk. Wade wondered where Dr. Lyst was.

  “You were at Arin’s compound,” Tyran said with a hint of accusation in his tone.

  “Yes, I was. How did you know that?” Wade asked.

  “Dr. Lyst’s communicator identified it when you called. What did Arin want with you?”

  “He took me to the compound to keep me safe from the crowds.”

  Tyran smiled. “We will have to thank him for that one day in the future.”

  “He says there won’t be a future. He says the end is coming now, through the mysterious illness.”

  “That is predictable.” Tyran leaned forward against his desk. “But I do not understand. You were safe with him. Why did you make contact with Dr. Lyst?”

  “Because I think I know what the illness is that’s going around.”

  “Oh? Please enlighten me.”

  “First I have to go to Hailsham.”

  “Hailsham? Why?”

  “I think the illness is a reaction to the radioactivity from your bomb experiments.”

  Tyran thought about it a moment, then encouraged Wade, “Go on.”

  “Dr. Lyst told me about the viranium he’s using. If it’s like our uranium or plutonium, it’s radioactive. That’s what’s making everyone sick.”

  “Fascinating.”

  Wade sat up in his seat. “Dr. Lyst has some of the viranium here at the castle, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, we have a small amount in a storage area. He has needed it for tests in his laboratory. He assured me that there was no health risk involved.”

  “He was wrong.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because Cromley died.”

  “Cromley—the cat?” Tyran laughed unbelievingly. “You will have to come up with a better example than that, my boy.”

  “The staff have been sick, too.”

  “That does not mean the viranium is causing it.”

  “Then let me go to Hailsham to see if the viranium has somehow gotten into the water supply. Maybe it’s contaminating the river that comes to this city.”

  Tyran placed a hand on his chin thoughtfully. “Our laboratory is positioned on the river, now that you mention it,” he admitted.

  “Then please let me and Dr. Lyst go to check it out.”

  “I am not sure we can do that.”

  “Why not?” Wade asked, then added as an enticement, “You’ll be made a hero if you can stop the illness.”

  Tyran looked at him skeptically. “Is that what is important to you now, making me look like a hero?”

  “No,” Wade replied honestly. “Stopping the sickness is what’s important to me.”

  “Why? You do not belong here. You do not even appear to be sick. Why should you care?”

  “Because . . .” Wade hesitated. He didn’t want to confess the truth to Tyran, but he felt as if he had no choice. “Because I think some of this is my fault, and I want to try and make it right.”

  Tyran said soothingly, “You are not to blame for anything, Wade. Just the opposite. You have helped me to usher in a new age.”

  “I know,” Wade said in a way that couldn’t be mistaken. He blamed himself for Tyran’s success.

  “You do not like me anymore, do you?” Tyran asked.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I think you’re going crazy with your power.”

  Tyran looked impressed. “That is interesting,” he said. “Dr. Lyst made the same comment.”

  “He did?”

  “Right after the riots. He told me to my face that he thought I was losing my grasp on reality.”

  “He’s right.”

  “On the contrary, he is terribly wrong. And he is suffering for it even now.”

  “Suffering!”

  “I do not take kindly to traitors, Wade.” Tyran pushed a button on his desk. “But the two of you are too valuable for me to dispense with. So here is what I am going to do: I am going to put you in my own personal prison in the tower. That will give you
a chance to think things over. It is not too late to prove your allegiance.”

  Guards suddenly appeared on both sides of Wade’s chair. He stood up, and they led him to the door.

  “Wade,” Tyran said before they left the room, “your refusal to kneel was deeply humiliating to me. Even though I suspect you have more information that would be of use to me, a part of me regrets that you were not killed in the riots. Your martyrdom would have brought more sympathy to my cause. Now we will have to come up with other plans for you.”

  The guards took Wade away.

  The tower was exactly that: a tower on one side of the castle, with a long, narrow staircase leading to the top. At various landings were doors leading to small cells, each containing a straw mattress on a wooden frame, an old blanket, a wooden table, and a bucket to use as a toilet. Each cell also had a narrow slit in the wall that had once been used by archers to fight off enemies. It was called an arrow loop, Wade remembered reading in a history book. When they got to his cell at the top of the tower, Wade looked out and took in the entire city of Sarum. But the view was small consolation for his loss of freedom.

  The door slammed behind him, and the key grated in the lock.

  What am I going to do now? he wondered. And what’s happened to Dr. Lyst?

  He hoped the doctor would find out where he was and come rescue him. But what if he wasn’t able? What if Tyran had tortured or killed him? Sinking into despair, Wade lay down on the mattress. Within seconds, he felt fleas biting at him. He leaped up, slapping his skin. When he thought he had killed them all, he grabbed the blanket, beat it against the wall, then sat on it away from the bed. There he remained as the sun faded and night claimed the sky.

  He couldn’t sleep. The cell was cool and damp and made his bones ache. He paced around the room to keep from getting stiff. Somewhere outside, he thought he heard women crying. Occasionally something exploded and he wondered if the city were being attacked by planes again. Peeking through the arrow loop, he saw bright reds, greens, golds, and silvers erupting in the sky. Fireworks?

  He jumped when he heard a key in the door.

  “Stand back from the door!” a man shouted.

  Wade watched from his place by the arrow loop as the door opened and a guard entered. He was an older man with white hair and a face drawn into a permanent frown. He wore a shabby version of Tyran’s guards’ uniforms—the smart black had faded to a dull gray, and the shiny jackboots were scuffed and worn. The guard sniffled and, without saying a word, dropped a tray of food onto the small table. He then turned to leave again.

  “Excuse me,” Wade said.

  “What do you want?” the guard snarled.

  “My bed is full of fleas.”

  “So what?”

  “Don’t you have something I can use to kill them?”

  “What’s wrong with your hands?”

  “I mean, a powder or something like that.”

  The guard shrugged. “I’ll ask.”

  “Oh, and—”

  “What?” the guard asked impatiently. He suddenly and violently sneezed into his hands and wiped them on his trousers. “Well?”

  “I was wondering about the fireworks. Is a celebration going on?”

  “Tyran has negotiated treaties with the Albanites and the Palatians. They won’t be attacking anymore. The Adrians, Monrovians, and Gotthardites are expected to agree to a peace as well. Any more questions, your highness?”

  “When can I leave here?”

  “When Tyran says.” The guard went to the door.

  “Will you please tell Dr. Lyst that I’m up here? He may want to talk to me.”

  “Dr. Lyst is in no condition to talk to you.”

  “Why not?” Wade asked.

  “He’s sick. I think he caught what a lot of the rest of us have.”

  “Oh, no . . .”

  “But I’ll tell him if I see him, which won’t be likely.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good night.”

  “You’ll be back in the morning?”

  “Maybe.”

  The guard left, slamming the door and locking it again.

  Wade looked down at the tray of food. It contained a bowl of a murky brown broth, a piece of bread, and a cup of water. He sat down, slowly dipped the bread into the broth, and began to cry.

  Wade had curled up under the blanket next to the wall, but he hardly slept. The guard returned the next morning with another bowl of brown broth, bread, and water. Wade asked him about the flea powder, but the guard merely grunted. “I don’t feel very good,” he complained. “I haven’t had time to ask.”

  The guard certainly didn’t look good. His face was pallid. His eyes were bloodshot, and his nose was red and raw from wiping it. He coughed with a deep-chested raspiness.

  “Is the sickness still spreading in the city?” Wade asked.

  “Yes. Everyone seems to have it.”

  “Have the doctors found a cure?”

  “Doctors!” he snorted. “They’re useless. People are dying left, right, and center, and the doctors can’t do a thing about it.”

  Wade was shocked. “People are dying?”

  The guard’s expression told Wade that he didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “I’ll be back at lunchtime,” he said with a tone of finality. He left again.

  Wade listened for the click of the lock. He then went to the door and looked it over carefully. It was made of solid wood, with the hinges on the hall side. The lock was basic: The key turned the bolt into the frame. Wade peeked into the lock itself and could see the dark hallway beyond. The guard obviously took the key with him.

  Wade sat down to his breakfast. The brown broth turned his stomach, so he pushed it away. He absentmindedly chewed on the bread. What was he going to do? How long would Tyran keep him locked up? Was this a quick punishment for his rebellion, like being sent to his room, or a long-term sentence?

  The morning dragged on slowly. Wade took to pacing from one end of the room to the other, which wasn’t far at all. His mind raced with all the events that had brought him to this point. He thought of Arin and his family, of the compound that Arin had said was the birthplace of this world, and of the Unseen One. Arin was so certain about his faith in this person no one could see; he was convinced of the reality of the message he’d spent most of his life proclaiming. “Repent!” Arin had said again and again to those who wouldn’t listen. And now he stood alone—just he and his family—sure that the end was imminent. What if it is? Wade mused. What if the end comes and I’m still trapped here? Will I die here?

  Wade kicked at the table leg. This was all his fault. He was so quick to ignore Arin and so ready to believe in Tyran and Dr. Lyst. Why? Little wonder, really. Tyran and Dr. Lyst made him feel important; they appreciated him for all the things he got teased about at school; they made him think he was part of a glorious new day in this strange world. Arin, on the other hand, told him he was a sign of the end of the world. Wade didn’t like to think about being part of the end of something; he wanted to be part of its beginning.

  But Arin might have been right. Whether the world ended because of radiation sickness or because Tyran blew it up with an atomic bomb, it was still the end. And Wade had played his part in it. His efforts to undo the damage were worthless as long as he was trapped in the tower. Who else could do it? Tyran didn’t care as long as he had his position of power. Dr. Lyst wasn’t around.

  Oh, if only I could get out of here! he thought. I could still save the day.

  He frowned to himself. Save the day? How could he save anything when there was no one there to save him?

  The guard returned at lunchtime with yet another tray of brown broth, bread, and water. He didn’t speak to Wade at all, nor did he answer any of Wade’s questions. He simply coughed and sneezed. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes looked feverish. He left again.

  Wade’s mood shifted from anger to despair. He took to kicking at the door and screaming out of the
arrow loop for someone to let him go. No one responded.

  A siren sounded off and on throughout the afternoon, then went silent.

  As night fell, Wade saw fires down in the city. When the guard eventually came late with the dinner tray, Wade asked about them.

  “Funeral pyres,” the man mumbled. “They’re burning the dead.”

  He set the tray down on the table, and Wade saw that it held only a piece of bread and some water.

  “The cook is out sick,” the guard coughed. His speech was slurred, and his movements were slow and weak, as if he might collapse at any moment. Wade secretly wished he would. He also wondered if the guard could catch him if he ran for the door.

  The guard grumbled to himself, then staggered toward the door before Wade could make up his mind. After going out, he closed and locked it.

  In a furious burst of energy, Wade threw himself against the door and screamed, “Let me out of here!” His tantrum lasted a full 15 minutes, after which he felt drained and depressed. He cried himself to sleep.

  That night he dreamed about Movan, lying in that dark room in the alleyway, his nose and eyes covered with yellow muck. He reached out for Wade and asked him in a raspy death rattle to take him to Arin’s compound. “I’ve realized the error of my ways,” Movan said. “Take me to Arin, where I’ll be safe again.”

  Wade picked Movan up—in the dream he was no larger than a small boy—and carried him to the gates of Arin’s compound. The gates were torn from their hinges. Arin’s house was ransacked. The once-beautiful compound was desolate and scorched, as if an atomic blast had blown it away.

  Still carrying Movan, Wade rushed to the shelter. The door was sealed shut. Wade put Movan down and pounded on the door for Arin to let them in. No one answered. Exhausted, Wade turned to Movan to apologize for his failure. Movan was now nothing more than a skeleton with a mustache above its upper teeth. It leered at him. Wade tried to step away, but the skeleton had hold of his ankle and wouldn’t let go. Wade kicked at it, screaming again and again, “Get off! Get off!” He finally gave the skeleton the hardest kick he could manage, and it shattered into hundreds of pieces.

  Wade went back to the shelter door and banged at it with his fists. “Please let me in!” he cried. “I’m sorry! I was wrong! I repent! I repent!”