“Whew!” said Nona. “Is the classroom munted?”
“Well, the windows are going to have to be replaced and the blinds are busted,” said the Angel evasively, “and I think someone fell on the bean experiment, and Noodle did a wee in the staffroom, but really—it could be worse. The juniors will have to add got smushed to their bean experiment variables, there’s no coming back from that one.”
Nona was sorry for the bean experiment. The Angel said, “Did Pash hurt you when she bundled you in here, Hot Sauce? She can be—a bit aggie,” but Hot Sauce said tonelessly, “I’m fine,” and “Let’s go.”
Nona was more than happy to follow this edict. She and Hot Sauce held hands all the way down the corridor. She thought Hot Sauce looked at her a little strangely, but after everything they had been through that didn’t really strike Nona as odd. As they came to the lighter part of the corridor—as they entered the square of light the doorway opened on to, on to the classroom, Hot Sauce detached her hand from Nona’s altogether.
The classroom was much more of a mess than the Angel had let on. Nona barely noticed the wreck of the bean experiment. Pash was nowhere to be found and Cam was dragging bodies out to the cloakroom—human bodies, real bodies—and Nona’s eyes followed a pair of boots disappearing at Cam’s feet, in awful fascination. She stared unseeing until suddenly Cam was back in the classroom and said sharply, “Nona, come here.”
Nona couldn’t, for a moment. There were more boots behind Cam in the cloakroom. Wind scoured through a big hole in the window where the edges of the glass were strung with red globs and gobbets, a hot and drying wind that made Nona’s eyes wrinkle up. She stared in wonderment at what remained of a display on the wall she had helped staple together: a big impressive art and writing collection about People in Our Community, with most of the People in Our Community riddled with holes. Otherwise everything was quite clean, though the Angel was right about the beans. There wasn’t really much blood, certainly compared to the stuff Nona and Cam had left on the floor themselves. The spell was broken when Cam lifted her chin with one hand, so that she was forced to stare at Cam’s grave grey eyes, at the drying blood and the holes in her top. Camilla was wet with sweat. Nona buried her face in Cam’s chest. She listened to Cam’s heart thudding in her ribcage, the big soft da-DUMP … da-DUMP, and she was amazed at how fragile and silly a heart was, how poorly protected. Camilla let her stay there for quite a long time, until she extracted herself.
Nona said, “Are they all…？”
“Nearly,” said Cam.
Hot Sauce stood in the middle of the classroom. She was standing where Nona had been shot. The sun had moved and the blood was now in shadow. Hot Sauce squatted on her haunches to touch it, then she stood up, and she looked at Nona—more particularly, the side of Nona’s head. Nona reached up past a braid and found it was stiff with blood.
“I didn’t make it up,” Hot Sauce said, and her voice sounded wrong.
Nona felt uncomfortable. “I didn’t—I didn’t quite lie to you, Hot Sauce,” she said.
“There was a hole in your head,” said Hot Sauce.
Pash came back from the cloakroom. She was sweaty too, and there was a red line of grime where her hard-shell mask had rubbed her face. She said, “Driver’s down. The unit’s wiped.”
The Angel said, “Oh, God, Pash, was that really necessary?”
Both Cam and Pash said, “Yes,” at the same time, and then looked at each other. Nona would have found that funny except that Hot Sauce was still looking. She broke away from Cam to take a step toward her, and then—Hot Sauce took a step back.
Nona felt wild and sparkling, electrocuted with despair. She said, and found her voice quite tight and funny, “Hot Sauce?”
“I saw you die,” said Hot Sauce.
“But I’m not—you see I’m not.”
The Angel said, “Hot Sauce, I think you need to come with me,” but Nona had crossed over to Hot Sauce, caught her hand before she could run away again—pressed it to her chest, so that Hot Sauce might feel Nona’s own ba-DUMP, ba-DUMP just like she had felt Camilla’s. She cried out, “You feel? Feel it, feel my heart going.”
Hot Sauce seemed to feel it. She stared at Nona’s chest. She moved her hand up next to Nona’s neck, quite professionally, like a doctor might, to feel the pulse there. Nona willed everything into that pulse—willed away the cold, dead expression in Hot Sauce’s eyes; willed away the shiver at Hot Sauce’s mouth.