The Marus Manuscripts

by Paul McCusker

  When Wade woke up, he was standing at his cell door. His hands and arms were bruised. He’d been pounding at it in his sleep.

  He slumped to the floor and wept until he ran out of tears. He thought of the Unseen One. “If You’re the same as the God in my world,” he heard himself praying, “then wake me up from this nightmare. Take me back to my coal cellar. I’m sorry for what I’ve done. Please . . . save me!” He sobbed again, “Save me.”

  The guard didn’t come the next morning. Wade tried to convince himself that the guard had simply forgotten about him. It was a mistake. He had no reason to worry.

  When the guard didn’t come for lunch, Wade grew anxious. Surely they had replacement guards. If his regular guard was sick, they’d send someone else.

  Wade watched the city from the arrow loop. Except for the occasional car or man or woman rushing down the street, it seemed unnaturally quiet. A few times he thought he heard what sounded like rioting or looting, but the buildings blocked his view. Smoke from various fires rose continuously until a dull brown haze hung over the city like an old ghost.

  He paced from the door to the arrow loop and back again. His stomach ached from hunger. He prayed again to the Unseen One for help, but he also started to give up believing it would come.

  The city was dying, he knew. The end had arrived, just as Arin had always said. And Wade was doomed to watch it all from the window of a tower, where he, too, would die.

  It was another dream, Wade thought. Dr. Lyst, gaunt and dying, had him by the shoulders and was shaking him.

  “Get up,” the doctor rasped at him, then coughed.

  Wade winced as spittle hit his cheek.

  It wasn’t a dream. Dr. Lyst was leaning over him, a gray morning light on the walls behind him.

  “Doctor?” Wade said, sitting up.

  The doctor braced himself against the table. “I thought you were dead,” he wheezed.

  “I thought I was dreaming,” Wade replied.

  The doctor went into a coughing fit. It sounded as if every ounce of liquid in his lungs was coming up. When he finished, he said, “Tyran is dead.”

  Wade was speechless.

  “He came down with the sickness. It seemed to attack him more quickly than some of us. I don’t know how it is I’m still alive. But last night, right before he died, he muttered something about you being locked up here. I was too weak to find the keys. But I felt a little stronger this morning and . . . came . . . up . . .” He coughed again, then collapsed on the floor next to the table.

  “Thank you,” Wade said. “Thank you, thank you. I didn’t know how I was going to get out.”

  “Help me back down the stairs,” the doctor instructed. “I don’t want to die up here either.”

  The journey was slow and difficult, but they eventually made it down the tower stairs. Dr. Lyst fell into the first chair they found in the hallway at the bottom.

  “The old fox tricked me,” Dr. Lyst explained. “As soon as I agreed to meet you at the Dome, he cornered me. I think he had a listening device on my communicator. Anyway, we argued, I told him what I really thought, and he put me under guard in my laboratory.”

  “He sent his guards to capture me.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have known better. Arin would’ve taken care of you.”

  “I came back to see you,” Wade said. “I figured out why everyone was getting sick, and I thought we could stop it.”

  Dr. Lyst smiled weakly. “You were born to be a scientist,” he said fondly. “Always thinking. Always speculating. I used my time under lock and key to investigate this illness. I was my own patient, you see. My notes are in the lab. You should read them.” He went into another coughing fit. Then, recovering a little, he continued, “It’s too late now. I’m dying. We’re all dying.”

  Wade knelt next to the doctor. “Maybe not. By finding the source of the radiation leak—the viranium—we could seal it up.”

  The doctor looked at Wade with bloodshot eyes and slowly shook his head. “No,” he said, then coughed again. “Take me back to the cot in my lab. I don’t want to die in this hallway.”

  “You’re not going to die.”

  The doctor grunted, then stretched out a hand for Wade’s help. Again, slowly, they made their way to the lab. The halls were empty. The castle was silent. Wade suspected they were the only two living people inside.

  Wade helped the doctor lie down on a cot near the lab table. The man didn’t speak but breathed heavily and coughed occasionally. Wade thought he’d fallen asleep.

  Unsure of what to do next, Wade went over to the desk and found a leather-bound book, the doctor’s journal. The notes were scrawled in an almost illegible way. He scanned the pages and stopped at an entry from a couple of days before where the doctor had tersely described the symptoms of the illness.

  “The timetable seems to vary from person to person,” the doctor had written. “But the symptoms are nearly the same. In the first 48–72 hours, coldlike symptoms: runny nose, congestion, sore throat. All symptoms intensify over the next 24 hours or so, including a high fever. Gradual breakdown of the immune system.”

  A few pages held notations that Wade couldn’t figure out. Then he found an entry that said, “Investigated viranium poisoning as possibility. All containers sealed. No leakage. No exposure. I have one more theory—”

  “Wade,” the doctor called from the cot.

  Wade went over to him. “Yes, doctor?”

  “Go to Arin.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “But what about you?”

  “I’m dying.”

  “Come to Arin with me.”

  “No. I won’t survive the journey. I’m very nearly dead now.”

  “You won’t die.”

  Dr. Lyst chuckled. “It can’t be helped. There’s no cure.”

  “I don’t understand,” Wade said, his eyes brimming with tears. “You said in your journal that it wasn’t the viranium. It wasn’t poison from radioactivity.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Then what is it? Where did this sickness come from?”

  “Dear boy,” the doctor said, then coughed. “It came from you.”

  A terrible burning worked its way through every ounce of Wade’s body. “What?” he whispered.

  “You are the host of this illness,” Dr. Lyst said. “You brought this plague to us.”

  “No. No!” Wade cried.

  Dr. Lyst closed his eyes. “Do you remember how I did a physical on you that first day you came here? I did blood tests then, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You said you had just recovered from a flu, and I didn’t know what that was. Well, after exhausting every other theory about this sickness, I studied your tests. Then I studied the samples of my own blood. There it was. Your flu is the thing that’s killing us.”

  “But it was only a small flu,” Wade protested. “It wasn’t anything serious.”

  “It wasn’t serious in your world. But in this world, which hasn’t seen anything like it, it’s fatal. Our immune systems don’t work against it because it’s completely new to us.”

  Wade put his head down, feeling overwhelmed by the truth.

  Dr. Lyst stroked his hair gently. “There, there,” he comforted. “It’s not your fault. How could you know?”

  “But . . . I caused this,” Wade said into his lap. “Everyone is dying because of me.”

  Dr. Lyst wheezed for a moment, then said, “Or maybe Arin was right. It is the judgment of the Unseen One on all of us. You were simply His final sign, as Arin said. You were the means through which the Unseen One judged us.”

  Wade looked up at Dr. Lyst’s face.

  The doctor attempted to smile. “Terribly unscientific to say so, I know. But I’m dying now, and it doesn’t matter anymore. Now, be a good boy and hand me that controller on the table.”

  The controller was a small device with a dozen electronic buttons on it. “Wh
at is it?” Wade asked as he placed it in the doctor’s hand.

  “My final gesture,” he replied. “I’ve always had a backup plan in case things didn’t go the way I thought they should. I’m going to blow this place to smithereens.”

  Wade gasped out, “You can’t!”

  Dr. Lyst worked his lips into a smile again. “Yes, I can. Do you think I want anyone in the future to learn my terrible secrets? Let them figure it out if they’re so determined to blow each other up.”

  “But Doctor—”

  “Go quickly to Arin, Wade. I’ll make sure you’re safely away before I push the button.”

  “But I don’t want to leave you here!”

  “Now is not the time to be sentimental. You always hoped to go back to your world anyway. You would have said good-bye to me then. Say good-bye now and be done with it.”

  Wade fought back the tears. “Good-bye.”

  “Hurry. And don’t dillydally.”

  Wade ran out of the room without looking back.

  Wade had the presence of mind to grab some fruit from a bowl on his way out of the castle. He ate it as he ran through the courtyard, across the bridge, then down the winding drive. He didn’t know how long Dr. Lyst would give him before pushing the button, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

  At the bottom of the drive, Wade encountered a figure lying prone in the street. He went up to it to see if he could help. As he got closer, he saw it was a woman. The dead, staring eyes told him there wasn’t a thing he could do.

  Hers was the first of many bodies he saw as he raced blindly through the streets, hoping he was going toward Arin’s compound. Not only were the people dying, but the animals had collapsed as well. Birds fell from the trees and struggled against their illness with flapping wings. Bloated horses lay dead along the streets. Dogs whimpered, then expired. Dead cats dotted the sidewalks.

  Wade passed one shop where feverish looters tried to drag out merchandise. What was the point? he wondered. Or was it that the old habits refused to yield to the dying souls?

  “It’s the boy!” a man shouted.

  Wade suddenly realized he’d forgotten to cover his head.

  “He’s the cause of all this!” a woman yelled. A small band of men and women headed for him. They stumbled weakly, like puppets held up by only half their strings.

  “Stop!” another man shouted.

  Wade dashed away and down an alley. He easily outran them.

  Fires poured out of some of the shops and buildings. The streets were covered with broken glass, debris, and the occasional corpse. Wade tried not to look. The sight was too horrifying, particularly when he remembered he was the cause. This is all my fault, he said to himself again and again.

  An old man stumbled in front of him, lurching and reeling, grabbed for him, then collapsed onto the road. He gasped once, then twice, then breathed out long and hard until he breathed no more. Wade fell against a nearby wall and shoved his fist into his mouth to keep from screaming or throwing up—he didn’t know which was more likely.

  Regaining a little composure after a few moments, Wade pressed on. A few blocks down the road, a younger man in a black uniform—one of Tyran’s guards—recognized Wade. He blew a whistle and was soon joined by three more guards. They took up the chase after Wade.

  These four weren’t so easily outrun. Wade ducked down various streets and alleys, but they cut him off. They knew their way around the city much better than he did. Finally he jumped through a doorway into a large building. It looked like a hotel. The guards followed him.

  He ran up one flight of stairs, down a hall, then up another flight. Up and up he went with the guards always behind, always pushing him on. Spotting an open window at the end of the next hallway, he went to the ledge and saw a fire escape that would take him back down to the street. He climbed out onto it and began his descent.

  When he had gotten halfway down, one of the guards spied him from a window he was passing, opened it quickly, and grabbed for him. Wade sidestepped the guard’s hand, but in the process he stumbled and fell off the side of the railing. Clawing wildly at the air, he caught hold of a rung on the fire escape ladder. It came unhitched from its spring and shot out horizontally, carrying Wade with it. When it reached its full length, it stopped suddenly, then coasted down toward the ground. As soon as it seemed safe, Wade leaped off, regained his footing, then sprinted away without looking back.

  As he rounded a corner, he was nabbed by the first guard who’d seen him. “I’ve got you now!” the man announced with a leer.

  At that instant, an enormous explosion rocked the city. Dr. Lyst had pushed the button, Wade knew, and there would be little left of Tyran’s castle. The force of the blast caused windows to shatter around them. The guard, wanting to protect himself from the debris, let go of Wade, who immediately dived under a nearby car. He heard something strike the guard, and the guard yelled in pain. Wade looked out from beneath the vehicle. The guard, now on his knees, blood pouring from the side of his head, shouted at Wade and then sputtered as he tried to blow his whistle. Wade turned away, crawled out from under the other side of the car, and took off at high speed, turning into the next alley he found.

  This alley led to another main street. He had no idea where he was. He hesitated. Should he go left or right? The rush to get away from the guards had turned him all around.

  Help me, he prayed, then ran to the right. After 50 yards or so, the street deposited him onto a large courtyard—and the Dome. He was relieved to see something he recognized. Up at the top of the stairs, looters were carrying works of art out of the museum. One said something about the “blond-haired boy,” but Wade didn’t stick around to hear any more. He thought he remembered how Arin had brought him to the Dome a few days before and headed in that direction.

  Several minutes later, Wade approached the gates of Arin’s compound. They were torn off their hinges, just as Wade had dreamed in the tower. His heart sank. He hurried into the compound and over to the house. Also as in the dream, it was ransacked. Half of it was a charred ruin, with its black timbers thrusting this way and that. But, contrary to Wade’s dream, the forest was still there.

  Wade took the path that he knew led to the shelter.

  Once in the thick of the forest, he slowed down and tried to catch his breath. He also wanted to be careful. Whoever had ransacked the house might still be nearby. He looked around and noticed that the trees looked grayer somehow, as if even they were ready to give up on life. The flowers had dropped their petals and withdrawn their scents. The whole garden now smelled of soot, smoke, and ash like the rest of the city. Arin’s paradise looked like an old, decaying park.

  Reaching the shelter, he went around to the door. It was scratched, scuffed, and dented as if people had tried to break it down. Wade wondered where the attackers were now. Had they given up and gone away?

  What would Arin and his family think if Wade pounded on the door now? Would they dismiss him as just another crazed native?

  He knocked on the door. His small fist made tiny taps against the large steel structure. He knocked again, harder. Then harder still. Finally as hard as he could. Nothing stirred on the other side. He began banging more heartily, pretending he was playing some sort of game. When no one responded, he attacked the door out of fear that they might never open it to him.

  He started to shout, but he quickly realized his voice would probably draw a mob or Tyran’s guards, if any of them were left.

  His pounding on the door got him nowhere, so at last he sat down and waited. Still nothing happened. The shelter showed no signs of life. He was locked out and completely alone.

  He tried to decide what to do next. Should he leave? Perhaps. But where would he go? Soon he would be the only living boy in the city. If Arin were right, he might be the only living boy in the entire world. How long were Arin and his family planning to stay inside the shelter? Days? Years?

  Then, like a seed of terror, a thought grew in h
is mind. What if Arin and the others couldn’t let him in? What if they were afraid that they’d catch whatever sickness Wade was carrying? They should be afraid, Wade realized. Why would they be immune to it?

  No, they didn’t dare let Wade in.

  He struggled with this thought and fell into a deep despondency. He could no longer imagine what to do or where to go. He wished he had stayed in the tower—that Dr. Lyst had never opened the door—and then he would have died without experiencing this hopelessness, this final consequence of the sickness he’d brought to this world.

  I am totally and completely alone, he thought. Even the Unseen One has probably deserted me and gone into the shelter. I deserve to die out here.

  With nothing else to do, he lay down in the dirt and curled up into a small ball.

  The nightmares came not long after he’d fallen asleep. Out of the darkness, the dead came to accuse him of killing them. Their faces were twisted into grotesque masks. Their accusing, skeletal fingers were draped with decaying skin. But Wade didn’t run from them. He stood his ground and listened to their harsh, raspy voices that called him a murderer.

  “You’re right,” he replied to them. “And now I’m suffering for what I’ve done. I’m alone in a dead world. Alone.”

  He heard the sound of a crypt opening, with rusty hinges and the smell of moss. Hands reached out for him, beckoning him into the casket. He closed his eyes. The hands wrapped around his arms and shoulders and pulled at him. He felt his body being swept away . . . caught like a dead fish on a wave . . . pulling him . . . pulling him . . .

  And then he saw a bright light and heard the voice of Arin whispering for him to wake up.

  Wade’s heart jumped at the sound of the voice, but he didn’t open his eyes. He feared that he would look up and see nothing more than the closed shelter door. He feared the hope that the voice kindled inside him. He couldn’t bear to have it dashed.

  “Are you playing a game with us, boy?” Arin whispered.

  Wade slowly opened his eyes. Arin’s face came fully into view. Wade reached up and touched his cheek, wanting to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. The skin was real. Arin was real. Wade looked around and saw the faces of Muiraq, Oshan, Etham, Pool, Nacob, Riv, and Hesham gazing back at him with worried expressions. He was inside the shelter with them.