The Pontiac came to a rest along the narrow gravel shoulder.

"You all right?" Tucker said, Jake's condition all too obvious.

"Yeah," Jake whispered. "Just a cramp." He clutched his left side. "Need to. . .walk it off."

"You do what you need to do." Tucker got out of the Pontiac. "I'm gonna' fix whatever tire it is so it don't give us anymore problems."

As Tucker neared the rear trunk, Jake heard him mutter, "Now where's that flashlight?. . ."

Tucker preoccupied, Jake took that moment as his cue. He opened the passenger door and stepped down onto the sloping shoulder. His feet crunched on loose gravel. But for the faint ticks of the cooling engine, not a sound could be heard from the desolate night. A rattling of keys, followed by a creaking and groaning of metal marked the rising trunk.

Rifling through the rear compartment, Tucker called out, "Will you check your front side tire? See if it's okay?"

"Sure. . .No problem."

Jake crouched down low before the wheel. He faced away from the rear of the Pontiac. In the dark shadows he positioned his backpack, making the knives accessible for a surprise attack.

The lumbering horn of a semi bellowed faintly from the distant highway.

"Yep," Jake said. "You were right. The lugs on this wheel are loose."

By now Tucker's noisy fumbling and groping for a flashlight had ceased. Jake waited for a reply to his comment about loose lug nuts. . .

No answer.

"I said the lugs on this wheel are loose."

No answer.

Jake rose, his backpack held low at his side, turning towards the trunk. He peered cautiously into the night. Tucker was nowhere to be seen. He took a hesitant step forward. And froze. His ears craned for any sound.

Nothing.

He took another hesitant step.

Gravel crunched behind him.

Startled, Jake spun around just as a forty pound cast-iron baróthe handle to an industrial size jackócollided violently with his right side, shattering the bones in the arm which had taken the brunt of the crushing force. The pain was instantaneous. With an ear-piercing scream of anguish, he was knocked to the side of the Pontiac. He bounced off, his head striking the sharp gravel below. It took a few seconds for the clouds whirling through his head to wear off. He blinked his eyes in an effort to rid his vision of the blurring colors. Gradually his sight returned. So did the pain in his smashed arm. He could feel it now rapidly numbing where it was pinned beneath him, twisted at an unnatural angle. And then the fear returned. He recalled the attack. Terror set in. It could have been minutes ago, or maybe hours.

Groaning, he struggled to roll over.

As he did, the sound of shifting gravel gave way to another swing of the iron bar. It connected with his left arm. The elbow shattered. The flesh broke apart in an explosion of skin and blood.

"NO!" was all Jake could manage. The pain was overwhelming. He knew that at any moment he would probably pass out. "PLEASE!" he sputtered in between ragged breaths. His cries of agony continued, his lungs bellowing out sickening wails like a dying alley cat.

How it hurt.