As the survivors ran into the parking lot they were able to hear the angry cries of the infected. Thankfully they were still unaware that they had left the building. Nick could hear them as they broke through the blockade of furniture. Then a loud, thundering roar of rage erupted from the distant throat of Renard. His furious voice screamed orders at the infected. As he ran Nick kept an eye out for any rattlesnakes. Last time he had nearly stepped on one. Behind him he could heard the fast-paced shuffling of the horde as it started spreading throughout the streets. He looked back to see the hunter had locked in on his trail. Nick swore as he pushed himself to sprint faster.
"Any ideas now?" he asked Coach. Coach said nothing, but instead wheeled around and emptied both barrels of a shotgun into the fast-approaching horde. The few in front howled as the buckshot entered their skulls, staggered and fell. The creatures behind them started tripping over their downed comrades. Coach then turned around and continued running. The survivors dodged down another alleyway and into a small suburban cul-de-sac. Nick almost collided with a rusted swing-set but managed to swerve around it just in time. Ellis wasn't so lucky. His foot caught on one of the poles that held it aloft, and fell to the ground with a thud. Zoey and Francis both grabbed his arms and hauled him to his feet. As the survivors hurried across the cul-de-sac they heard the inhuman shrieking of the infected. They were only a few paces behind them. Louis kept looking over his shoulder and fired a few shots every few minutes. Rochelle, who was in the lead, looked everywhere for a safe place to barricade themselves. As they ran through a small, ruined park she was able to see the huge river that lapped against the edge of the park. It just so happened a small boathouse was situated on the bank, nestled in a cluster of sparse trees. Rochelle motioned for the others to follow her to the wooden shed.
The door was locked, but the adrenaline-fueled strength of Francis's hand was enough to break it open. The seven refugees rushed inside and tipped a barrel over to block the door. The inside of the boathouse was full of cobwebs that belonged to gigantic fishing spiders. The pale blue of their double stripes seemed to glow in the dark boathouse. But the spiders were the least of their problems.
"There's no engine on that boat," Ellis said blankly. It was true. The only boat in the shed was a rowboat with no motor whatsoever. It was a large boat that could probably hold the seven of them with all their gear. But it was still only a rowboat.
"Who cares?" Nick said as he tossed his belongings into the wooden craft, "Those things can't follow us in the river." The others silently agreed as they threw their things in and crawled inside. Francis stood on the dock and pushed the boat out into the river, jumping inside at the last moment. By that time the infected had broken through the flimsy plywood door and were sprinting towards the water's edge. But it was too late. The survivors were already fifteen feet out into the massive river and getting farther away by the moment.
"Move your elbow," Coach said as he rowed his oar. Nick grunted as he squeezed closer to the stern of the boat. The seven were by now in the middle of the river and the slow but powerful current was pushing them downstream. Coach and Francis manned the oars, and the others supplied power by using their arms as paddles. Rochelle noticed that Louis was only sticking his arm into the water up to his elbow.
"What's the matter?" she asked. Louis looked up, and his face bore an embarrassed expression.
"I'm kind of afraid of…you know, getting it bit off."
"Alligators?" asked Rochelle as she raised an eyebrow. Louis nodded.
"They don't like this part of the river," said Rochelle, "It's too cold." Louis looked relieved. Rochelle smiled, even though she was totally lying to make him feel better. But still, alligators were rare in this part of town.
Bokor Renard watched the boat as it drifted downstream. It looked tiny in the middle of the huge river. Knowing that the infected couldn't chase after them, and that the river was too deep to send out his own brand of zombies, Renard knew he had only one person to turn to. Well, it wasn't exactly a person. It was a friend, someone who he had known since he had first come to America. He would need something special to summon him from the swamps, and fortunately he had it in his bag. The skeletal being reached in and pulled out a small bag that had been made from the sleeve of a man's suit. The little bones that made up a human hand rattled inside. This gruesome artifact had been made from the remains of the last victim of Renard's friend. The suit and bones had once belonged to a bigoted preacher in the early twentieth century. He had verbally attacked and condemned the religion of Voodoo one too many times for Rendard's liking. Renard had sent his friend after him. The official report was that the preacher had drowned, but only Renard knew the truth.
"Who do you think he is?" Zoey asked no one in particular. All of them knew of whom she was referring to.
"A mutant infected?" suggested Nick. Rochelle shook her head.
"Whatever mutates those freaks rots their brains," she said, "He wouldn't be able to talk."
"I dunno," said Ellis, "Maybe he's immune like we are."
"That wouldn't explain why they listen to him," said Louis.
"I don't care who he is," Francis grunted, "All I know is I'm going to kick his ass if I find him."
"You don't even know what he looks like," Nick said.
"He's a vampire that talks," responded Francis, "He'll be easy to find."
"We don't even know if he's an infected yet," said Zoey, "He could just be a guy who figured out how to control them."
"That's real likely," Francis said, his voice heavy with sarcasm, "'cause you know they're so easy to train."
"Will all of you knock it off," Coach snapped, "Let's focus on getting outta here."
"What's your problem?" Francis asked irritably. Coach looked him directly in the eye.
"My problem is that we're all too damn focused on that freak and not paying enough attention on getting away!" he shouted. His sudden burst of anger caused a mutual silence among the group. Coach sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said apologetically, "I'm just tired."
"We all are," said Rochelle.
The actual reason for Coach's irritability was that he was troubled by the mysterious being he had spoken to earlier. Coach had an Aunt in New Orleans. In his youth he spent the summers at her house. He remembered it fondly. He had many friends and they played for hours together in the backyard. Behind his Aunt's house was a massive chain of swamps. The swamps stretched for miles in all directions, and Coach remembered thinking what a great place it would have been to play hide-and-seek. But his Aunt forbade them from ever going in. She told them of a horrible, horrible creature that resided in the heart of the swamp. Bokor Renard. She told them stories of how people, young and old, would journey into the swamps and become lost. That's when Renard would find them. He was a wily and malicious old wretch. Renard was supposedly the most powerful Bokor to ever exist. He had the entire swamp at his command. Every frog, every gator would answer to his call. He would trap the unfortunate souls who had wandered into his domain and turn them into zombies to serve him for eternity. When he was little Coach was absolutely terrified of Renard. Sometimes he would have horrifying nightmares about him. It was only when he was older that he realized his Aunt had used Renard to keep him away from the swamp. Poisonous snakes, alligators, wild boars and quicksand were the real things to look out for. Renard was nothing more than a boogieman to mask the real dangers. But in the back of his mind the fear of Renard had still been there; dormant and asleep. But Renard was real now. Coach didn't know how he had gotten all the way to Rayford, but the terror of New Orleans was here. The fear in Coach's mind was awake.
The sun was setting as Bokor Renard sat on the small dock of the boathouse. Although he could summon his friend anytime he wanted, it would be wise to send him at night. He would be able to stalk them better in the darkness. As the last rays of sunlight faded from view Renard held out the macabre charm he had taken out earlier. He shook it vigorously, and the rattling bones inside echoed throughout the night. Then he waited. It wouldn't be long now.
