He woke to consuming darkness.

Wind whipped around him, freezing his naked frame. He lifted his throbbing head and spit blood. His stomach churned. He vomited. His entire body ached from injury and exposure. Jack struggled against the ropes that bound his wrists and ankles. Pain exploded like flashbulbs behind his eyelids.

Scraping the side of his body on rocks and underbrush, he inched over to a large oak tree and rubbed the rope that bound his wrists against an exposed root. He wore down much of the bark on the root as he slowly shredded the twine and the skin on his wrists.

His fingers, stiff from lack of circulation and the cold, touched his face and felt something crusty – dried blood. His right eye would barely open, and his cheek was swollen underneath.

He reached to untie his ankles, but his breath caught at the stabbing pain in his ribs. He held still and took a shallow breath. Then another one.

Someone beat the crap out of me, Jack thought in confusion. He laid back and carefully probed the damage to his ribs.

Shit, the last time he felt this bad was the day after that barroom brawl in Turkey, and the only thing that made that bearable was knowing the other guy had been hospitalized for weeks. Jack laughed, but pain lanced through him like a knife blade, silencing him.

He licked his lips and tasted more blood. He was obviously in a game of hardball, and someone else had wielded a heavy bat. Jack strained, trying to recall what had happened. He knew he’d gone to the diner. After eating, he’d read the newspaper, then… he didn’t know. The trail of his memory ended.

Jack heard an owl screech.

Where am I? He inched himself up on his elbows, dead leaves and twigs snapping beneath the weight of his body. He tried to focus in the dark. He heard another shrill scream in the distance.

With each passing moment, Jack’s thinking became clearer. His adrenaline started to flow. All his instincts told him to get the hell out of there. But where was he?

Jack’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. A cloud moved past the sliver of illumination offered by the moon. Dense forest surrounded him.

He grimaced as he forced himself to a seated position. Jack’s body felt heavy and weak, as if he’d been drugged.

Where the hell were his clothes? He untied his ankles, then gingerly shifted to his knees. He straightened, trying to stand. Oh, God. He wrapped his arms around his chest and curled into a ball. Tears welled in his eyes. Not good, Rudly, not good.

He knew he needed to get up and start walking or die of exposure.

The howl of coyotes floated on the sharp wind. Jack clenched his teeth and forced himself to his feet. A wave of dizziness rolled over him. He steadied himself against the tree. His arms and legs felt weak and rubbery.

Shit, this was not good. Jack looked around – he saw no sign of his shoes and clothing. They’d dumped him in the middle of the Missouri backwoods as a snack for ravenous animals. An efficient way to provide torture while disposing of a body, he thought. In short order, the animals could have scattered his bones throughout the forest leaving no recognizable trace of his presence.

He glanced up at the sky, trying to get his bearings. Clouds obscured the stars, making it impossible to determine his location or the direction he needed to pursue.

Was it before or after midnight? Maybe some time before dawn? Just get moving, and keep moving.

He hobbled forward. Jagged stones tore at the soles of his bare feet. His body throbbed from the beating. Leafless branches whipped at his arms and legs.

He peered through the darkness for a landmark. Where the hell am I? He could see nothing in the periodic flashes of moonlight other than trees and shadows. His left eye was focusing better, but his right eye was almost swollen shut. The smell of rotting leaves and decaying underbrush assaulted his senses.

I bet I’m an attractive sight, he thought as he lightly touched his bruised face. Boy, he must have really pissed someone off. He’d obviously been beaten beyond unconsciousness? Nice crowd. He rubbed his hands together. His feet tingled in the aftermath of numbness. Jack rubbed his sides to warm himself, then flinched from the pain. He tried to increase his body temperature by jumping around, but his body wasn’t up to being jarred. Jack looked back over his shoulder, hoping he wasn’t traveling in circles.

He had no idea how long he walked, or how much ground he covered. He suddenly spotted a road. Jack approached cautiously, fearing that his captors might still be nearby.

Hearing a car in the distance, Jack ducked into a cluster of bushes. He prayed that poison ivy didn’t bloom until late spring. Once the vehicle passed, he followed the road, staying in the brush and ready to dive into the low growing shrubs if necessary.

He had to find someone to help him, he realized. If he could find a home, he could wake up someone and ask for help.

At that thought, he gave a short laugh. Right, he would just walk up to a door in the middle of the night, naked, with a bloody, distorted face, and ring the doorbell. Sure, the residents would be delighted to assist him. In fact, when he told them he’s Jack Rudly, they’d probably ask for his autograph. Jack shook his head.

He needed to develop a feasible plan of action: first, establish his location; second, clothe himself; and third, set the hell out of there. Jack continued through the brush, branches smacking his face and arms, the cold accentuating his pain.

Jack stumbled upon an old gas station, closed for the night. There must be a way in, he thought, longing for the warmth it could provide. The front doors were padlocked. Jack walked around to the back. He studied the rear door, which had the old push-button type lock.

He knew what he needed to do, although he couldn’t summon much enthusiasm for the task. Damn, he wished he wasn’t so sore. Still, he didn’t have much of a choice. Jack stepped back, held his breath, then threw his shoulder against the door. He gasped, clutching his side as he doubled over in agony.

“Shit, shit fucking shit!”

Tears formed in his eyes. When the pain subsided, he looked up and watched the door swing open. Jack stepped over the threshold and ventured into what appeared to be the garage office. The warmth of the building provided him with instant relief. He sat on a chair and began rubbing his feet. He felt the urgent need to formulate a plan, and then move on.

Jack got up and began to explore. In the garage portion of the gas station, he found a blue work suit, stained with oil and grease, hanging on a door. He grabbed it and put it on. The suit was huge, but he felt immensely better with clothing over his body.

He continued to rummage around the shop. Jack didn’t want to turn on any lights and risk drawing attention to himself if a car happened to pass by the station. Far in the back corner, among a pile of old tires and cans, lay a pair of rubber boots. They too were large, but at least they promised protection for his feet.

Jack walked into the office and sat at the desk. There was a telephone, but whom could he call? He assumed he was still in Missouri, but barely knew anyone anymore. Who could he trust?

Erma Miles. Wonderful Erma, the lady who had told him the story of the people killed in the plane crash. She lived alone. In his heart, he knew that she would help him. Jack dialed information, got her number, and called her. Even though it was the middle of the night, Erma sounded alert when she answered the phone.

After a quick hello. Jack described his location.

“You’re just outside of Jerome, in the Mark Twain National Forest,” Erma said. “I know where that gas station is, we used to vacation there.”