Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(98)
Preparations for the party were already in full swing as they got ready to leave for the gleaning run that morning. The catering truck had arrived, and tables were being set up all over the grounds. The New Year’s Eve gala was one of Goddard’s few preplanned parties, and the guest list was stellar.
The helicopter landed on the front lawn, blowing away a tent that was being erected for the party as if it were nothing more than a napkin tumbled by the wind.
“Today we shall provided a much-needed public service,” Goddard told them, with far too much glee. “Today we dispense with some rabble.” But he didn’t explain what he meant. Even so, as the helicopter took off, Rowan had a sinking feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that had nothing to do with their ascent.
? ? ?
They landed in a public park, in the center of a vacant soccer field lightly dusted with snow. There was a playground at the edge of the park where some toddlers, unfazed by the weather, climbed and swung and dug in the sand, bundled up against the cold. The instant their parents saw scythes stepping out of the helicopter, they gathered their children and hurried away, ignoring their children’s wails of protest.
“Our destination is several blocks away,” Scythe Goddard told them. “I didn’t want to set down too close and ruin the element of surprise.” Then he put a paternal arm around Rowan’s shoulder. “Today is Rowan’s inauguration,” he said. “You will perform your first gleaning today!”
Rowan recoiled. “What? Me? I can’t! I’m just an apprentice!”
“Proxy, my boy! Just as I allowed you to grant immunity with my ring, so will you glean someone today, and it will be tallied as mine. Consider it a gift. You don’t have to thank me.”
“But . . . but that’s not allowed!”
Goddard was unperturbed. “Then let someone complain. Oh, what’s that I hear? Silence!”
“Don’t worry,” Volta told Rowan. “It’s what you’ve trained for. You’ll do fine.”
Which is what Rowan was worried about. He didn’t want to do “fine.” He wanted to be miserable at it. He wanted to be a failure, because only by failing would he know that he held on to a shred of his humanity. His brain felt about ready to burst out through his nose and ears. He hoped it would, because then he’d glean nobody today. If I must do this, I will be merciful like Scythe Faraday, he told himself. I will not enjoy it. I will NOT enjoy it!
They came around a corner and Rowan saw their destination: some sort of compound made to look like an old adobe mission, completely out of place in the cold of MidMerica. The iron symbol atop the tallest steeple was a two-pronged fork. This was a tone cult cloister.
“Nearly a hundred Tonists reside behind those walls,” Goddard announced. “Our goal is to glean them all.”
Scythe Rand grinned. Scythe Chomsky checked the settings on his weapon. Only Scythe Volta seemed to have reservations. “All of them?”
Goddard shrugged as if it were nothing. As if all those lives meant nothing. “Obliteration is our hallmark,” he said. “We don’t always succeed, but we try.”
“But this . . . this breaks the second commandment. It clearly shows bias.”
“Come now, Alessandro,” Goddard said in his most patronizing tone. “Bias against whom? Tonists are not a registered cultural group.”
“Couldn’t they be considered a religion?” Rowan offered.
“You gotta be kidding,” laughed Scythe Rand. “They’re a joke!”
“Precisely,” agreed Goddard. “They’ve made a mockery of mortal age faith. Religion is a cherished part of history, and they’ve turned it into a travesty.”
“Glean them all!” said Chomsky, powering up his weapon.
Goddard and Rand drew their swords. Volta glanced at Rowan and said quietly, “The best thing about these gleanings is that it’s over quick.” Then he drew his sword as well, and followed the others through a gated archway that the Tonists always left open for lost souls seeking tonal solace. They had no idea what was coming.
? ? ?
Word spread quickly on the street that a small elegy of scythes had entered the Tonist cloister. As human nature would have it, rumor quickly raised the number to a dozen scythes or more, and as human nature would also have it, crowds that were slightly more excited than frightened gathered across the street wondering if they would get a glimpse of the scythes, and perhaps even the carnage they left behind. But all they saw for now was a single young man, an apprentice standing at the open gate, his back to the crowd.
Rowan was ordered to remain at the gate, sword drawn, to prevent anyone from trying to escape. His plan, of course, was to allow anyone to escape. But when the panicked Tonists saw him, his sword, and his apprentice armband, they ran back into the compound, where they became prey for the scythes. He stood there for five minutes, then finally he left his spot at the gate, losing himself in the maze-like compound. Only then did people begin to slip out to safety.
The sounds of anguish were almost impossible to endure. Knowing he’d be expected to glean someone before this was through made it impossible for him to disappear into himself this time. The place was a labyrinth of courtyards and walkways and illogical structures. He had no idea where he was. A building was burning to his left, and one walkway was littered with the dead, marking the passage of one of the scythes. A woman huddled, partially hidden by a winter-bare shrub, cradling a baby, trying desperately to keep it quiet. She panicked when she saw Rowan and screamed, holding her baby closer.