“Well,” said Hot Sauce, “we knew that.”
Honesty said, “Finished,” and he folded up the bit of paper, and he deposited it in Nona’s waiting hands. Nona immediately shoved it into her pocket, in case the wind wanted to blow it away. Honesty said, “Don’t get involved in the Convoy, you know what, Nona. That shit’s creepy.”
Nona decided not to tell Honesty that the Convoy was probably full of zombies.
“Don’t you take jobs like that again,” she said. “There’s lots in my ceramic fish, okay?”
She scrambled to her feet and brushed some of the wetter cardboard off her black trousers. Hot Sauce also rose to stand—Hot Sauce always stood so beautifully—and she walked Nona to the door, which took two and a half steps.
Nona looked at Hot Sauce. She was terribly afraid she was about to cry, but then she burst out—
“Hot Sauce, why are you called Hot Sauce?”
Hot Sauce blinked at her. “You really want to know?” she said.
“Yes,” said Nona. “Yes, yes. Terribly, yes.”
Hot Sauce looked up at the chipped ceiling of Honesty’s apartment, then down at the carpet, and then at Nona.
“Because I really like it,” she admitted.
“What?”
“You can put it on anything,” said Hot Sauce. “Spicy food’s always better. You can put it on rice but you can also put it on bread.”
Nona reached out. She wrapped her arms around Hot Sauce. She whispered, “Hot Sauce, forgive me—forgive me so I can know what it feels like.”
Hot Sauce was as still as a statue in Nona’s arms. Then she gently perambulated Nona toward the door—bumped her gently over the threshold—looked her dead in the face.
“We’re cool,” she said, and, awkwardly: “I’ll always love you, Nona.”
Nona found that huge tears were dripping out of her eyes, making it hard to see Hot Sauce.
“Can I be in the gang again?” she whispered.
Hot Sauce wavered.
“Yes,” she said, “but you’re on Kevin bathroom duty forever for being a zombie. That’s fair.” And she shut the door.
27
THE THUNDERCRACKS HAD INCREASED tenfold, with no rain to be seen—the night had grown so hot that everyone in the big truck had started to sweat. The moment Nona had moistly thrust the note into We Suffer’s hand, the commander had barked into her headpiece: “Go. All units not on barracks duty are now deployed. Inter-wing rules no longer apply. Ctesiphon Wing cells, repeat, this is Cell Commander We Suffer and We Suffer. We have recommenced Operation Lock and Key—repeat, we have recommenced Operation Lock and Key.” There was a ragged cheer from the drivers and a powerful oo-RAH from deep in Pash’s chest, one hand steadying herself against the rattling car seats as she pulled a pair of tough rustling overalls up over her day clothes. We Suffer continued, “No speeches. All I shall say is, revenge is a dish best served ice, ice cold. Cells Saaftinge, Zoar, Birmingham, Troia, Maputo, Taree, proceed. Memphis, Tak?a, Calakmul, Valencia, Opava, Dundee, proceed.”
There was an aerial screech far overhead, another long, whistling crack of something atmospheric. The commander levered her headset away from her face, sighed nigh-hysterically, and said: “I never thought her operation would begin afresh by extracting Housers from another Blood of Eden wing … and yet, it is unmistakably the first step.”
Pyrrha said, “It’s not one she would have taken.”
We Suffer looked at Pyrrha inquiringly, tapping her fingers on one knee. “I have noticed you love to make these statements,” she said. “‘Commander Wake might have said this. Commander Wake would have thought that.’ I have come to the conclusion that you are not simply trying to annoy me and others like me, but I have no idea what you are doing otherwise.”
Next to Nona, Pyrrha gave an ineloquent shrug. “Maybe I just like talking to other people who knew her.”
“And should they wax so nostalgic with you—her murderer?”
Pyrrha was unmoved. “I like to think I knew her as well as anyone else, Commander … as well as anyone could know her.”
Pash viciously snapped shut the clasps on her trousers and pulled a vest over her head, putting her brightly dyed hair into complete disarray. “Say one more word on this fucking subject and I swear to all fuck, I’ll do for you.”
Pyrrha said, “Wake had your photo, you know. She kept it on her.”
When Pash’s head whipped around, Nona could see that this had shaken her badly. Her bird’s-beak features had all scrunched together toward the front, as though clustering for safety, and this made her scars zigzag up her forehead and her nose. She said, “Oh, shut your mouth,” but there was a desperate note to it.