Kiamichi Reunion: Book Five of the Kiamichi Survival Series Read online

  The sky was turning that deep shade of purplish-blue that signaled the arrival of night. Helen stood still, listening, letting her sense of hearing seek out any noises that were made by humans. She breathed in slowly, checking for odors of smoke, cooking, or other human activities. She scanned her surroundings in every direction, checking for movement.

  There was nothing. She moved quietly back to the motorhome, entered, and double checked that all the windows and both doors were secure. She was alone, so alone, with nobody to stand guard or wake her if there was danger. All she could do was try to sleep and hope for the best.

  Chapter Four

  December 16, Mississippi

  Helen woke suddenly, breathing in gulps of air, but trying not to make any noise. She listened hard, but detected no sounds other than those of nature. She slowly reached over and got her Glock 9mm from the nightstand, and continued to listen. Something had roused her from a deep sleep, and she didn’t know if it was real or a dream she’d had.

  Several minutes passed, then she rolled off the bed and crouched, raising up just enough to peek out the window. A cardinal flew from one tree to another, and she saw a squirrel gathering acorns within twenty feet of the motorhome.

  Turning with extreme caution, she looked out the other window. A mockingbird sat on a tree limb and began to sing. Helen knew that wildlife wouldn’t be so relaxed if a human was out there, so she stood. Putting on the same clothes she’d worn the day before, she got ready for the morning.

  With rifle in hand, she stepped out and scanned the area. The squirrel had vanished into the trees as soon as the door began to open, and the birds flew away. She took her shovel and found a new spot to use as a restroom.

  Back in the motorhome, she grabbed some trail mix for breakfast, putting a handful in a plastic bowl and setting it on the console beside the driver’s seat. She started the engine and drove out of her hidden camping area, reaching the road in just a few minutes.

  As usual, there were no cars in sight. She drove for nearly two hours, then topped a hill and saw what looked like trouble ahead. A small, wiry black man and a huge, hulking white man were beating a much older black man, hitting him with their fists, then kicking him when he fell to the pavement. The two thugs glanced up when they heard the motorhome and started running toward it. Helen saw something in their expressions she didn’t like and made a snap decision. She slammed on the brakes, put it in park, and grabbed her rifle.

  Opening the door, she jumped out and aimed the rifle at the two men, who skidded to a stop about fifteen feet away. The big guy put his empty hands out to the side, and smiling slyly, tried to talk Helen into believing he was harmless, friendly, and an all-around good fellow. The smaller one started to sidle over toward the other side of the road.

  Helen wasn’t falling for it. “Stop right there, Runt Boy. Not one more step!” she shouted. “Why were you beating that old man?” She glanced at the skinny punk, moving the barrel of the gun toward him.

  “Mister, you better get back over there with your overgrown buddy, or I’m gonna have to hurt you. You like your left knee? If you want to keep it, move!” She gestured with a jerk of the rifle for him to get back with the one she had mentally named “Jumbo.”

  “Sweetie, we ain’t meanin’ no harm t’ward you. We’re just bein’ friendly, ya know,” Jumbo wheedled. He grinned, but his eyes were narrowed, watching for the slightest sign of weakness.

  Helen sneered. “Yeah, and you were just giving that poor old guy some love pats, too.” Her expression turned cold. “I’ve decided I don’t like you. I don’t like people who gang up on weaker people, and I don’t like people who treat me like I’m stupid. By thinking I’d believe you’re friendly folks, you must think I’m really dumb.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not. Now shut up while I decide what to do with you two.” Helen stood with her left foot forward, ready to lean into a shooting stance.

  While she was talking, Helen had been watching the injured man behind the two bullies. He had struggled to his feet and stood for a moment, gathering his strength, then slipped over to the side of the road, out of the line of fire, and walked silently closer.

  When he spoke, the other two men jumped and spun to stare at him. They’d obviously thought he was dead or dying and were shocked when they realized he wasn’t.

  “Ma’am, those two have been stealing from me and my wife for months, taking eggs out of the henhouse, and taking fruit off our trees. They’ve been stealing our clothes right off the line. Neighbors said they been stealing from them, too. I came after them, but they were waiting. They jumped me and beat me up pretty badly.”

  Helen looked into the man’s face and saw nothing but honesty in his eyes. That he was obviously a poor black man in central Mississippi, yet was so articulate, surprised her. He seemed to be telling the truth, and the other two men hadn’t exactly impressed her as upstanding citizens.

  The old man spoke up once more. “Look at the little fellow’s hand,” he suggested, as he pointed. “That’s my wife’s ring on his pinkie finger. It matches mine. See?” He held up his left hand, showing Helen the distinctive golden band.

  As Helen peered at the wedding ring, Jumbo decided to make his move. He’d been slowly lowering his hands, and when Helen glanced back at the old man, he reached behind his back and pulled a dagger from a sheath clipped to his belt. He raised his arm to throw the dagger at Helen, but she caught the movement, turned, and fired, just as he let go of the dagger.

  Jumbo stood, a slightly startled expression in his eyes, then they glazed over, and he crumpled slowly to the ground.

  Runt Boy and the old man stared at him, then both turned shocked faces toward Helen, who shrugged, then grimaced in pain. The knife had sliced across her arm, just below the shoulder. She took a quick look at the cut, told herself it was just a flesh wound that could be safely ignored, and turned her attention back to the wiry fellow.

  “My daddy taught me to love my neighbor, but he also taught me to stay alert and to shoot straight. Runt Boy, you want to live, or join your friend where it’s really hot? I’m sure he’s saving you a seat right beside the fire.”

  “Please…please…let me go. I swear I’ll leave the area and not steal no more.”

  Helen looked at the old man. “That okay with you? Or do you want to take care of this one? It makes no difference to me. I’m not planning to be in the area long, and you’re probably stuck here, so it’s your decision.”

  “I’ve lived around here for several years, and we’re too old to be setting out for a new place. I have a warm house, a little piece of land, and my wife. I thank you for stopping them from killing me. I know that’s what they would have done.”

  “So, are you willing to let this worthless piece of human DNA go, or do you want to kill him?”

  “Ma’am, I don’t think he’ll stop stealing, but he can’t beat people up without his buddy. I’ll give his description to my neighbors, and they’ll know to shoot on sight if they see him sneaking around.”

  Helen nodded, then told the punk, “Take that ring off and put it on the pavement between your feet. Slowly.”

  He did as he’d been told, raising his hands above his head as he straightened.

  The old fellow looked at the emaciated, filthy man, and warned, “I’ll be carrying my gun from now on, and if I see your face anywhere in this county again, I won’t give a warning. I’ll kill you in a heartbeat. You turn around right now and start running down this road. Don’t stop until you’re miles from here, and don’t ever come back.”

  Helen narrowed her eyes and added, “And if I pass you on the road and you do anything that might impede my trip, you’ll wish you hadn’t.”

  They watched the thug run, and when he topped a hill far down the road and kept running, they relaxed. The elderly man walked over and retrieved his wife’s ring, then turned to Helen. He smiled wryly, rubbing the left side of his ribcage with his right hand.

  “Thank
you. I honestly believed I was about to die. I’m Quincy Marshall. May I offer you a cup of tea? My wife would enjoy having some company.”

  “I’m Helen Vaughn. You are most welcome. Are you alright?” she asked, nodding her head once toward his ribs.

  Quincy smiled. “I may have a broken rib or two. My wife will bind them when I get home. I hope I made the right decision, letting that thief go. It’s just that, well, he never seemed as evil as his friend. Maybe with the bad influence gone, he’ll mend his ways.”

  Helen shrugged. “He will, or he’ll wind up dead. Someone will take care of that.” She frowned, then added, “May I ask you a personal question?”

  At his nod, she continued. “You seem to be educated. Your speech and enunciation make me think you aren’t the poor old country farmer I thought you were at first.”

  Laughing, Quincy winced from the pain in his ribs. “You’re very observant, Helen. At one time, I was the preacher at one of the largest churches in Memphis. Yes, I’m educated. Allow me to introduce myself properly. I’m Professor Quincy Allen Marshall, Doctor of Theology, former preacher, and until recently, professor of religious studies at a private college near here. You probably never heard of it because it was so small. Instead of preaching, I taught younger men so they could preach. My wife and I wanted to move south a little and live in the country.”

  “That explains it. I’d love to have time to meet your wife and drink that cup of tea, but I need to get down the road. I’d like to put some miles on this RV before I run out of fuel.”

  “Is it gas or diesel?” Quincy asked, eying the big motorhome. “It’s a nice one. It looks almost new.”

  “That’s because it is. The man who owned it only got to use it once before he found out he had a heart condition. He needed to sell, and we wanted to buy. We were blessed that the timing worked out so well. And it’s diesel. Why do you ask?”

  “You just saved my life. That big fellow sure was enjoying beating me. He laughed the whole time. I’d like to repay you for helping me.”

  At Helen’s puzzled look, he smiled. “We sold most of our land. It was a farm, and I have a big Case diesel tractor that I haven’t used since we sold all but a few acres. I meant to sell the tractor, too, but then things went sour and I’ve still got it. But the tractor isn’t the best part. I have a fuel tank with a little diesel behind the barn. I wish I’d had it filled just before the Collapse, but I did put stabilizer in it, so it should still be good.”

  Helen was shaking her head even before he finished speaking. “Thank you, but I couldn’t accept fuel. It’s too valuable and you might need it for something.”

  “My life is valuable. I’m not afraid to die, but I’d prefer to stay around so my wife won’t be alone. That tractor hasn’t been started in months, and it won’t be, most likely. We only kept about three acres, and I don’t need the tractor for that. In fact, I was getting ready to sell it when the embargo started. We can afford to give you all the fuel we have. Please, come back to the house with me, and allow me to repay a little of the debt I owe you.”

  Helen considered for only a moment. The loss of time was really nothing compared to the distance she could go with her fuel stores somewhat replenished. She nodded slowly and smiled.

  “If you’re sure it won’t cause any hardship for you and your wife, I’d be happy to accept both your tea and your diesel. I’m trying to get home to Oklahoma, and I don’t have much fuel left. Setting out on foot isn’t something I’ve been looking forward to.”

  Chapter Five

  December 16 - Near Hattiesburg, Mississippi

  Demaris Marshall smiled gently as she offered Helen another cookie. “I guess you must be a prepper if you’ve lived this long. How far have you come?”

  “My husband and I left our home near Niceville, Florida, and we made it almost to the Alabama line before he got sick. He was in a lot of pain, and then…he died.”

  Helen didn’t want to tell these kind people that her husband had committed suicide. She didn’t know their specific religious beliefs, but did know that some people thought suicide was an admission ticket to hell. The thought of anyone judging Lewis upset her, so she kept that information to herself. Perhaps she would tell her children someday. They’d understand, but she didn’t know these people well enough to talk about Lewis.

  “Am I where I think I am? Somewhere north or northeast of Meridian?” she guessed.

  “Well, actually, you’re about eighty miles south of there, and just a little west. It’s easy to get disoriented when you’re traveling around here,” Quincy suggested.

  “Yes, and being on the backroads and secondary highways, it’s hard to know how far I’ve come. My husband always checked the odometer before we started out, so he had an idea of how far we went each day, but I forgot to do that. Judging how many miles I’ve gone isn’t something I’m good at.”

  “Did you have a route planned for your trip?” Quincy smiled. “Maybe we can help you choose a good way to go. We know this part of Mississippi pretty well.”

  “We had a plan, but I sure thought I was closer to Meridian. I can’t believe I was so far off in my calculations. I’ve been using an old atlas. Let me get it and I’ll mark a route. I’m worried about getting through Jackson and also any bridges I might have to cross.”

  She excused herself and hurried out to the RV to get the atlas. She also grabbed a spiral notebook, a highlighter, and a pencil she’d gotten out of one of the packs from the accident she’d passed. As she walked back, she surveyed the little property that the Marshalls called home. It was at the end of a dirt road that probably had little traffic before the Collapse, and no traffic at all now. Helen had noticed driving in that there were no tire prints visible at all. Now, there were only the tracks left by her motorhome.

  The house wasn’t visible from the road, either. Their driveway, if you could call it that, was so overgrown that it was hard to see. She hoped the weeds and grass would recover from her visit and keep these nice people hidden and safe. Where she had driven in, the weeds were smashed down. The trees were thick, and the drive curved, so that even if someone was at the end of it, they couldn’t see the house or barn, but the motorhome tracks made it obvious that something was back there.

  It was a favorable setup for people who wanted to stay hidden, but somehow those thugs had found it. She made a mental note to ask about that.

  Her thoughts turned to the couple waiting for her in the little house. Demaris was a small woman, but very energetic for her age. Quincy was a little shorter than Helen, but he made his wife look tiny in comparison. Both of them had gray hair, and she guessed they were in their mid-seventies, maybe a little older.

  Demaris had already cleaned and applied butterfly bandages on Helen’s wound where the knife had sliced her upper arm, making a shallow cut through the flesh. Demaris covered it with a gauze pad and wrapped it with gauze strips. Then she tore long strips from an old sheet and bound Quincy’s ribs.

  Demaris looked up with a grin when Helen returned with the atlas. She scooted over to make room for Quincy, and the three of them sat side by side on the sofa so they could all see the map of Mississippi.

  “I’d like to have a primary plan of which roads to take, with alternates in case there’s some reason I can’t go that way. The Mississippi River has been the monster in the closet of my mind for several days. I’m dreading what I might find at any bridges, imagining all sorts of scenarios that probably won’t come true.”

  “Ah,” Demaris murmured. “I understand. Bridges are traps, perfect places to set up a roadblock or an ambush. Since you’re alone, you can’t fight your way across and drive, too.”

  Helen’s brow furrowed as she stared at Demaris, then she narrowed her eyes and the corner of her mouth twitched. “Okay. I take it you’re preppers, too. Most people outside of military, law enforcement, and the prepping community wouldn’t think like that.”

  Quincy chuckled as Demaris turned to smile at him. She
looked back at Helen and shrugged. “You caught us. We’ve been expecting some type of disaster for a few years. We didn’t know what form it would take, but the signs were all there that something was going to happen. Tensions were high racially, economically, and politically. We weren’t seeing a single government in the world, or any group of governments, like the United Nations, doing anything to alleviate the pressure that was building. Actually, we saw the exact opposite from the UN.”

  Helen had started to nod as Demaris listed their reasons for prepping. When Damaris finished, they sat in silence for a few moments, lost in thought.

  “I grew up in the Kiamichi Mountains in Oklahoma, Helen explained. “I’m pureblood Choctaw and my parents taught us some of the old ways, then I married a man whose parents taught classes in Choctaw history and culture, including farming and handcrafts. One of my father-in-law’s best friends wrote several books on prepping and survival, so I’ve been pretty much immersed in that lifestyle all my life. My first husband died, and I remarried. My second husband was already a prepper; he was retired military. Special Forces, in fact.”

  “Who was your father-in-law’s friend? Was it by any chance Ernie Miller? I know he lived in the Kiamichis,” Quincy asked eagerly.

  Helen nodded, then dropped her chin to hide her tears as memories and fears threatened to overwhelm her. “Yes, it was Ernie. He was one of the finest men I’ve ever met, and a dear friend to my family. I pray every day that his lessons and the things we learned from my in-laws have kept my children and their families alive through this.”

  Demaris patted Helen’s arm in sympathy. “We know the fears you live with every day. Our son and his family lived in Birmingham. We haven’t heard from them since the phone system went down. We don’t even know if they’re still alive. It’s hard.”

  Quincy cleared his throat. “Helen, you mentioned skirting around Jackson. We have a ham radio, but we don’t transmit. We just listen, and we’ve heard bad things about Jackson. I think you better plan on going a different way and try not to get anywhere near that place. It’s bad there. We heard there are three or four gangs and they’ve taken over the city. It’s not safe. They’re fighting each other, and anyone who isn’t in a gang is an enemy of all the gangs.”