The Toll

by Neal Shusterman

  At six thirty in the evening, an alarm went off in the firehouse. Used to be that the Thunderhead would talk to them and explain the nuances of the situation they were about to get into. Now it just sounded an alarm, programmed their GPSs, and let them figure the rest out for themselves.

  Today’s alarm was strange, however. There was no destination set on their screens. The garage doors didn’t roll up. But still the alarm blared.

  It was only when the door to the firehouse blew off its hinges and figures began to race in that the firefighters realized the alarm was not a fire alert—it was to warn them that they were under attack.

  Tonists!

  Dozens of them spilled through the door, all letting off that nasty beelike droning sound. The Tonists had weapons, and the men and women of the unit simply were not prepared for this unexpected day of wrath.

  The fire chief stood in astonishment. He wanted to defend them, but how? With what? No one ever attacked a firefighter—except for maybe the occasional scythe, but when a scythe attacked, you got gleaned, end of story. You didn’t fight back. You didn’t struggle. But this was very different. These Tonists were rendering people deadish left and right, and no one knew what to do.

  Think! he told himself. Think! He was trained to fight fires, not people. Think! There has to be something I can do!

  And then it came to him.

  Fire axes!

  They had fire axes! He ran across the garage to grab one. But could he actually use it against another human being? He’d have to, because he wasn’t about to let these Sibilants render his entire unit deadish.

  Just then, the Tonists began throwing rocks at the trucks. One came in the chief’s direction, and he caught it before it could hit him.

  It wasn’t exactly a rock, though. First of all, it was metallic and had hard ridges. He’d seen something like this before in history books. Think! What was it called? Oh right—a grenade!

  And in an instant there was nothing more for the chief to think about.

  iii. Confutatis

  High Blade Tenkamenin was a deliberate man. He only appeared to be impulsive and flip, when, in fact, everything about his life was planned and organized. Even the chaos of his Lunar Jubilees was a controlled chaos.

  He suspected that time was of the essence after that urgent warning call from his father, but it was impossible for him to fight his own instincts. He had quickly retreated to his humble residence, where he struggled with his valet to figure out what he needed to take with him for a hasty escape. A second robe, of course. But should it be one for cold weather or warm? Who should be notified that they were leaving? High Blades couldn’t just vanish. He found himself confounded by it all.

  “Your Excellency,” said the valet, “didn’t you say that we were in a hurry?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.”

  And there were things of sentimental value that absolutely had to come with him. The engraved obsidian revolver given to him by Grandslayer Nzinga the day he took her place as High Blade. The silver dagger he’d used for his first gleaning. If this place was about to be overrun, who knew if he’d ever see his prized possessions again. He absolutely had to take them.

  For ten minutes he obsessed over what he should and should not take and was only stopped by the first distant explosions.

  iv. Lacrimosa

  “If we’re leaving, we should leave now!”

  Anastasia paced the grand hall beneath the palace’s central dome with Jeri, waiting for everyone else to show. “Where the hell are Tenkamenin and the others?”

  “Maybe you’re overreacting,” said Jeri. “I’ve had dealings with many Tonists, and never once have I known them to be violent. Annoying and strident, maybe, but never violent.”

  “You didn’t see these Tonists!” Anastasia said. “And if Tenkamenin thinks they’re up to something, I believe him.”

  “Then let’s leave without him,” Jeri offered. “Let him and the others catch up with us.”

  “I’m not about to leave him,” Anastasia said. Just then a series of far-off explosions echoed through the grand atrium. They both stopped to listen. More explosions filled the air, like distant thunder.

  “Wherever it is,” said Jeri, “it’s not here in the palace.”

  “No, but it’s going to be.” Anastasia knew that whatever those explosions were, it was an omen of worse to come. An angry promise that this day would most certainly end in tears.

  v. Sanctus

  The young Tonist was a loyal follower. She did what her curate told her to do, because he was a true man of the Tone. Holy and sanctified. Their curate had not spoken for many years, and on the day of the Great Resonance—the day the Thunderhead went silent—he was the first to surrender his tongue. Words lied. Words connived, they dissembled with impunity, they slandered, and, above all, they offended the purity of the Tone.

  One by one all the Tonists in their order made their vow a permanent one, as their curate had. Not a vow of silence, but a vow of vowels. A complete surrendering of the harsh, unnatural clicks, hisses, and pops that consonants brought. Language was the enemy of the Tonist. This is what their sect believed. Of course, there were many other Tonists who did not. But they would soon see the light. Even the ones who had blinded themselves.

  While one team took out the firehouse, and another the peace officers’ precinct, their curate led the largest team to the palace. They all had weapons—the kind that common citizens weren’t supposed to have. They had been given them by an unknown benefactor. A secret supporter of their cause. The Tonists were not trained in these weapons, but what did that matter? Swing the blade, pull the trigger, hurl the grenade, and press the detonator. With so many of them armed, they didn’t need to be all that skilled to achieve their goal.

  And they also had kerosene. Jugs and jugs of it.

  The Tonist made sure she was part of the first wave. She was frightened, but also joyous for her part in this. Now was their time! In the wake of the Mile High gleaning, when ire against scythes was at a full boil, people would finally see the Tonist way! They would cheer for what would be done here today, and the SubSaharan region would be a klaxon calling out to the rest of the world, waking them into the glory of the Tone, Toll, and Thunder. All rejoice!

  She opened her mouth to intone as she neared the palace, and others joined her. It was so satisfying to be the one who started them intoning. They were of one mind, one spirit, one chord.

  Then, climbing on the backs of her brethren, she and dozens of others began to scale the palace wall.

  vi.  Agnus Dei

  Anastasia and Jeri, with Scythes Makeda and Baba close behind, finally met up with Tenkamenin in the rose garden, halfway between the palace and his cottage. His valet was struggling with a large rolling suitcase that wouldn’t roll on the pebbles of the narrow garden path.

  “We’ve called for the helicopter,” Scythe Makeda informed everyone. “But it will take at least ten minutes to get here from the airport.”

  “And that’s only if the pilot isn’t off in some bar,” Baba added, “like he was the last time.”

  “It will be fine,” Tenkamenin said, a bit out of breath. “It will come for us, and everything will be fine.”

  Then he turned to lead everyone to the heliport, which was on the property’s west lawn. Around them the entire compound was in motion. Palace staff hurried, going this way and that, their arms full of belongings. The BladeGuard were flooding out of the barracks and taking strategic positions—something they had probably done only in exercises.

  And then they heard a noise from the west. A chorus of droning voices, each one hitting a different discordant monotone. And figures began dropping over the western wall.

  “We’re too late,” said Tenkamenin, halting them in their tracks.

  Alarms began to blare all around them, and the BladeGuards took immediate action, firing on the invading force, adding the sound of gunfire to the cacophony. Tonists fell left and right, but for
every one the guards took down, two more scaled the wall. It wouldn’t be long before the guards were overwhelmed.

  These Sibilants were armed with more than rocks, and they used their weapons against the guards with such brutality it was shocking. Where the hell did they get those kinds of weapons? Didn’t Tonism espouse inner peace and stoic acceptance?

  “That which comes can’t be avoided,” Anastasia mumbled. It was the Tonists’ favorite mantra. It suddenly took on a terrible new meaning.

  The heavy south gate was blown off its hinges by an explosion, and, as the gates fell, a mob of Tonists pushed through. They cut through the line of BladeGuards in seconds and began throwing what looked like bottles of alcohol with burning rags shoved in them. Fire broke out everywhere the bottles crashed.

  “They mean to burn us so we can’t be revived!” said Baba, near panic. “Just like Scythe Lucifer did!”

  Anastasia wanted to snap at Baba for even mentioning Rowan in the same breath as this twisted sect of Tonists, but she stopped herself.

  As the battle spilled onto the heliport ahead of them, Tenkamenin had them change direction. “The east patio!” he said. “There’s more than enough space for the helicopter to land there! Come!”

  They doubled back, crossing through the rose garden, getting scraped, scratched, and poked by thorns on the way—but even before they reached the east patio, they could see that this end of the compound had also been breached. Tonists were everywhere, attacking people running out of the staff house, chasing them down, and rendering them mercilessly deadish.

  “Why are they attacking the palace staff?” said Anastasia. “What possible reason could they have?”

  “They are without reason,” said Scythe Makeda. “Without reason, conscience, or decency.”

  Their server, who was so particular about the placement of silverware, was felled by a knife in the back.

  That’s when Baba turned on Tenkamenin. “You should have fortified!” he yelled. “Added another garrison of BladeGuard! Or even gleaned this pack of Tonists before they could launch an attack on us! This is all your fault!”

  Tenkamenin balled his hands into fists and stormed toward Baba, but Jeri got between them. “You can salvage your egos later,” Jeri said. “But first we have to live if you’re going to have this fight.”

  Anastasia looked around. They were under cover of darkness, so had not yet been spotted, but that wouldn’t last long as the fires grew.

  And then, as if the commotion around them wasn’t enough, a new sort of droning filled the air—this one from actual drones. From the sky descended a swarm of ambudrones. They had been mobilized from the nearest revival center when people began to go deadish.

  They zeroed in on the bodies lying in the grass and on the pavement—Tonists, BladeGuards, palace staff—they didn’t differentiate between the dead and the deadish. They scooped them up in their insectlike pincers, carrying them off for revival.

  “There’s our ticket!” said Scythe Baba. “Who needs a helicopter?” And without waiting for the High Blade’s leave, Baba ran across the field toward the closest ambudrone, like a lamb to the slaughter.

  “Ahmad! No!” called Tenkamenin, but Baba was already committed and wasn’t turning back.

  The moment the Tonists saw a scythe’s robe, they shifted gears and raced after Baba, intercepting him. He pulled out blades from his robe, took Tonists down all around him, but it was no use. They overwhelmed him, threw him to the ground, and attacked him with everything they had—including his own weapons.

  Scythe Makeda tried to go after him, but Anastasia stopped her. “There’s nothing we can do for him now.”

  Makeda nodded but didn’t take her eyes off her fallen comrade. “He may be the luckiest of us,” she said. “If they’ve killed him, the drones will get him. They’ll carry him off to be revived.”

  But the drones did not go after him. There were so many other bodies around the compound, they were all already committed—and to an ambudrone, one body was no different from another.

  And that’s when Anastasia realized. “They’ll killing the staff to tie up the drones… so that there won’t be any left to go after the scythes….”

  And with no drone to carry Baba away, the Tonists grabbed his body and dragged him toward a flaming pyre that would reduce him to unrevivable ash. They hurled him upon it, and the flames surged.

  “To the palace!” said Tenkamenin, and once more led the way, as if somehow being in motion made them any less trapped.

  vii. Benedictus

  They piled into the palace, where half a dozen BladeGuards closed the ponderous bronze doors behind them and took up defensive positions, should the Tonists break through. At last there was a blessed moment of peace. A blessed moment to strategize within the madness. It could mean the difference between living or dying as ignobly as poor Scythe Baba.

  Although the palace had many windows, they all faced the central atrium, which meant that the High Blade’s pleasure dome was also a mighty fortress. The question was, how mighty?

  “They must have gathered every Sibilant in SubSahara for this,” Scythe Makeda said.

  “It will be all right,” Tenkamenin insisted. “The peace officers of Port Remembrance will arrive to fight alongside the BladeGuard, and the city’s firefighters will douse the flames. All will be well.”

  “They should have been here by now!” said Makeda. “Why don’t we hear sirens?”

  It was Anastasia—insightful as ever—who burst their bubble. “The first explosions,” she said. “The far-off ones…”

  “What about them?” said Tenkamenin almost threateningly. Fighting for his tether of safety.

  “Well… if I wanted to wage an illegal attack,” she said, “the first thing I would do would be to take out the peace officers and firefighters.”

  And the truth of it left them all in silence. Until Tenkamenin turned to his valet, who was silently wringing his hands in terror.

  “Where are my things?”

  “I’m… I’m sorry, Your Excellency. I left the suitcase in the rose garden.”

  Jeri glared at the High Blade. “We’re all about to be incinerated, and you’re worried about your things?”

  But before the High Blade could respond, a flaming truck crashed through the massive bronze doors of the palace, the doors fell off their hinges, crushing four BladeGuards beneath them, and Tonists began to flood in.

  That’s when Jeri grabbed Anastasia and pulled her behind a column, hidden from everyone’s view.

  “I have an idea,” Jeri said, “but you’ll have to trust me.”

  viii. Offertorium

  The sibilant curate was in his element. This was what he was born for, this was his purpose, and had been his plan for years. Even before the Thunder fell silent he knew this day would come. His extreme brand of Tonism would soon be the dominant one. All those lesser Tonists who believed in tranquility, tolerance, and passive acquiescence would soon die off and burn, just as the High Blade of SubSahara would burn today. The time for words was gone. Had been gone for a long time. If the curate had his way, language itself would be outlawed and replaced by wordless adulation to Tone, Toll, and Thunder. As it was meant to be. And he would be High Curate over it all. Oh what a glorious day that would be! But first this.

  A scythe in a turquoise robe raced up a grand staircase, trying to escape. The curate pointed, and half a dozen of his flock raced after the scythe. Before him a woman in a salmon silk robe, whom he recognized as Scythe Makeda, was on the attack, skillfully gleaning the Tonists attacking her. Loyal and true, they were sacrificing themselves for the cause. Then one was able to get around behind Makeda and ran her through. She froze, gasped, then fell like a rag doll, her fight leaving along with her life. Three Tonists grabbed her body and dragged it out toward the growing pyre outside, and its purifying flames.

  “You’re no better than Goddard if you burn us!” said one of the servants huddled at the base of the stairs with
High Blade Tenkamenin. “If you go through with this, the very thing you worship will never forgive you.”

  The High Blade put a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her quiet, but her eyes were still angry and defiant. If the curate could speak, he would tell her that her words—all words—were an abomination to the Tone. And that the only reason the Tone didn’t shatter her skull with furious resonance was because cleansing the world of the unworthy was left to the curate, and people like him. But he couldn’t tell her. And he didn’t have to. His actions spoke much more loudly than words.

  But the High Blade was all about words.

  “Please…,” Tenkamenin begged.

  The curate knew what was coming next. This pompous, cowardly scythe—this purveyor of unnatural death—was now going to plead for his life. Let him plead. The curate’s ears were not deaf, like some other sibilant sects’, but they might as well be.

  “Please… you can end me, but spare these two,” Tenkamenin said. “You have no gripe against this valet and housekeeper.”

  The curate hesitated. It was his desire to end them all, for anyone in service to a scythe deserved a scythe’s fate. Guilt by association. But then the High Blade said, “Show your followers the true meaning of mercy. The way my parents showed me. My mother and father, who are both among you.”

  The curate knew this about the High Blade. His parents wordlessly begged not to be part of the attack on the palace. He had obliged by sending them to the firehouse—and they had clearly done their job well. Tenkamenin would not be spared, but out of respect for his Tonist parents, the curate would honor the man’s last words. So he pulled out a pistol, shot Tenkamenin through the heart, and then gestured for the two servants to leave.