A rumble in the jungle

The roar he heard turned out to be not so far in the distance. In fact, it was close. Real close. Focusing his ear drums to pinpoint its location, he realized rather painfully it was coming from his stomach. He couldn't remember the last time he had tasted anything but cool water collected from a floppy jungle leaf. How many days had it been? He couldn't say. And even if he could, there was noone around to hear him.

When he awoke to realize his predicament, he had tried to keep track of the sun's position overhead. A long-forgotten skill learned from his boy scout days. In and out of consciousness, he had no idea how many times the sun had risen and set since it all happened. He had lost count.

Days or hours, maybe even a week had passed since the attack. Back in Minnesota, he had been dreaming of this adventure since he was a boy. He struggled through school, a few girlfriends, a few cash registers, a whole lot of raw meat and the general monotony of small town life for his chance. His Dad's collection of National Geographics were dog-eared, dull and torn from his incessant skimming. He preferred them that way. The real thing, the astonishing colours, would materialize soon enough.

Daniel had patience. That was likely the reason he hadn't gone mad with fear and hunger, yet. But he had to find food and fast. He had to take advantage of this period of alertness. He promised himself that this time, he wouldn't give into the warm embrace of sleep. He inhaled rather forcefully. As if by doing so, his energy reserves would go from bordering on E to nearing F. Now to formulate a plan.