UnSouled (Unwind Dystology 3)

His head hurts in so many places, he can’t begin to know where he was actually hit. It feels as if all the members of his internal community have taken up arms against one another and are slicing his brain to bits.

The young woman sitting beside the chain saw hefts a rock in one hand.

“Good, you’re awake,” she says. “I was running out of stones.”

He notices that there are rocks all around him. She’s been throwing them at him to wake him up. Smaller aches on his body attest to that—and throbbing in his shoulders attest to the fact that his arms are tied to poles on either side—strung up with his own clothes. He gets up on his knees to relieve the strain on his shoulders, surprised that his seams haven’t split—but then, Roberta always told him his seams were stronger than the flesh they held together.

He takes in his surroundings before speaking. He’s in a large dome-shaped structure made of stones and mud—or at least made to look that way. Morning sunlight spills through gaps in the stone. It’s far more primitive than anything else he’s seen on the reservation. There’s a washed-out pile of ashes in the middle, and on the other side of the ashes, sits the girl and her chain saw. The light pouring through the hole up above illuminates her face just enough for him to recognize her as the girl from the guitar shop.

His last memory was playing for her. And now he’s here. He can only guess what transpired in between.

“I guess you didn’t like my song.”

“It wasn’t your song at all,” she responds. He can feel her anger from across the room like a blast of radiation. “And by the look of you, that’s not the only thing that isn’t yours.” She gets up, grabs the chain saw, and steps over the pile of ashes toward him.

He struggles to get to his feet. She touches the silent chain saw to his bare chest. He can feel the cold steel of the dormant chain as it caresses his skin. She uses its curved tip to trace the seams.

“Up and down and around—those lines go everywhere, don’t they? Like an old shaman’s sand drawings.”

Cam says nothing as she moves the chain saw along his torso and then across his neck. “The shaman’s lines are meant to trace life and creation—is that what your lines are for too? Are you a creation? Are you alive?”

The question of questions. “You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

“Are you that man-made man I’ve heard tell of? What is it they call you? ‘Sham Complete’?”

“Something like that.”

She takes a step back. “Well, you can keep all those other parts, Sham. But those hands deserve a proper funeral.” Then she starts the chain saw, and it roars to life, puffing forth acrid, hellish smoke and releasing an earsplitting report that makes Cam’s seams ache in alarm.

“Brakes! Red light! Brick wall! Stop!”

“Did you think I wouldn’t figure it out when you came last night?”

His eyes are fixed on the deadly blade, but he tears his gaze away to focus on her—to get through to her. “I was drawn here. He was drawn here—and if you take these hands, you’ll never hear him play again!”

It was the wrong thing to say. Her face contorts into a mask of sheer hatred. “I’d already gotten used to that. I’ll get used to it again.”

And she swings the blade toward his right arm.

Cam can do nothing but brace himself. He readies himself for the surge of pain, watching as the chain saw comes down—but then at the last instant, she twists her arm, aborting the attack, and the momentum veers sideways, cutting his knotted jacket, and setting his right arm free from the pole.

She hurls the chain saw across the room, screaming in frustration, and Cam thrusts his free arm toward her. He means to grab her by the neck and hurl her to the ground, but instead he finds his hand reaching behind her to the ribbon in her hair and pulling it free.

Her long dark hair flares out from behind her as the ribbon falls to the ground, and she backs away, staring at him in horrified disbelief.

ips the key into the lock, turns it, and slowly opens the door.

Immediately he recognizes the shapes hanging from the ceiling. Guitars. Did Wil work here? Cam searches his memories, but can’t find evidence of that. There are songs from this place, though. They’ve begun playing in his head, and he knows if he gives voice to them, more connections will be made.

A guitar sits on the counter. It must have been played recently because he finds it in decent tune. A twelve string. His favorite. He breathes in the woody, earthy smell of the guitar shop and begins to play.

37 • Una

She dreams of Wil again. She dreams of him way too often. At times she wishes he would leave her alone, because the waking is always so painful. This time, however, when she awakes, the music he played in her dream continues. It’s faint, but it’s still there.

At first she thinks she must have left one of his recordings playing in the living room. Or maybe Grace, who tends to dig out everything from every drawer, has found one and is playing it—but when she goes into the living room, she finds Grace asleep on the sofa. Connor and Lev are asleep as well in the spare room, and the music, she realizes, is coming from downstairs.

Una opens the door, and the volume rises. She hears it echoing in the stairwell, ghostly, but very much real. It’s not a recording; it’s live—it’s a song of Wil’s that only he can play, and her heart nearly bursts from her chest. He’s alive! He’s alive, he’s come home, and he’s greeting her with a serenade!