DAMASCUS

by Edward Ashton

Just past noon on the fifth of July, under a clear blue sky and a merciless southern sun, Marcus comes out of the woods. His shirt is sodden, his face streaked with sweat. His right eye is swollen shut, a gift from a hornet that got into his tent two days before. His pack is less than twenty pounds now, empty of both food and water. He smells like an open sewer.

The town he's reached is called Damascus. It sits astride the Appalachian Trail, at the crossroads of two mountain highways, just north of the Tennessee border. Damascus has an outfitter, several hiker's hostels, and a Dairy King. Marcus needs new socks, and he needs a place to sleep, but it's the last one that interests him at the moment. He's been living on murky spring water, ramen noodles and beans for the better part of a month. The thought of a double cheeseburger haunts him.

Marcus follows white trail marks down the center of a deserted street. The lack of people doesn't strike him as strange until he reaches the bridge over Laurel Creek. From there he can see the Dairy King, just two blocks away. Even from this distance, he can tell that it's empty. He looks back the way he's come. There are cars parked along the sides of the street, but no movement as far as he can see.

He's about to turn back, maybe see if there's someone in one of the hostels, when a clatter of falling rocks pulls his eyes to the far bank. A woman's mud-spattered face pops out from under the bridge. The tip of a fishing pole pokes up behind her.

"Oh," she says. "Hey." She scrambles up onto the bridge, lean and nimble as a spider. "Where'd you come from?"

She wears loose nylon shorts and a tank top. Her hair is pulled back into a lank brown ponytail. She's at least as dirty as he is, and thin, with hard, ropy muscles clearly visible in her arms and legs.

Marcus blinks twice, slowly.

"Um," she says. "Are you a mute?"

Marcus shakes his head.

"No," he says. "I'm not a mute."

"Great," she says. "I'm Kerry. Wanna get a milkshake?"

***