Trollhunters (20 page)

“There,” Jack said. “There. There. There. There.”

It took me several minutes before I could see the Nullhullers. Concealed in shadow by scruffy gray coats, they were the size of monkeys and had noodly arms and legs unequal to the task of
carting around their obese bodies. Their eyes were large and completely black and their noses dark and runny. Most notable were mouths so wide that the corners almost met at the back of the head.
As they crawled, the top halves of their heads popped up and down like garbage can lids.

“Dammit,” Jack whispered. “There’s number six.”

“Why, is that one worse?” I asked.

“Nullhullers, the odious cretins,” Blinky replied. “They travel in packs of five.”

Indeed, four more fat, long-limbed creatures wobbled onto the scene, and then there were ten giggling and snorting Nullhullers. Eight of them were gesturing at a second-floor window, though I
could not imagine how creatures so fat would scale the wall. Meanwhile, the remaining two began scribbling across the side of the house with what looked like red chalk. They made a circle, then
within that circle drew an upside-down star. I recognized it as the sign of Satan cherished by all the heavy-metal kids at school.

“Nullhullers are Satanists?!” I hissed.

“Don’t be silly,” Blinky scolded. “They’re Irish. More to the point, the Nullhullers are such a disorderly bunch that they are attracted to order wherever they can
find it. Hence the traveling in fives; hence the attraction to drawing symbols of perfect symmetry. It was only by accident that they discovered that this particular symbol struck fear into the
hearts of suburban adults, who would blame attacks on humans with impure beliefs. An ingenious cover, I must admit.”

There was a nattering among the Nullhullers indicating that they were ready to act. The ten of them drew together in a loose circle, quivering in excitement, their mouths lifting open to reveal
sparse, square teeth that looked like chunks of granite.

“How lucky you are,” Blinky said. “You are about to witness possibly the most vile ritual in all of trolldom.”

The Nullhullers’ squat bodies began to hitch and jiggle. Thick drool poured from their agape mouths, followed by a brown lard. A symphony of choking sounds emitted from their bodies as a
plump, translucent sac began to emerge from each gaping throat. The sacs were nearly the size of a Nullhuller itself and crammed with soft objects of different shapes and colors. They squirted out
of the Nullhullers’ mouths and landed upon the grass with moist splats, where they palpitated and shivered.

“We’re spending Saturday night watching trolls barf,” Tub said. “Good times, Jim.
Legendary
times.”

“The Nullhullers are nothing if not cunning,” Blinky said with a measure of respect. “Knowing that their weight prevents swift movement, they eject their organs for a short
time—all but their hearts—making them among the most nimble of all trolls.”

Now as light and empty as pillowcases, the Nullhullers scrambled up the side of the house with the dexterity of squirrels. Beside me, Jack reached into the bramble of bike chains around his
thighs and withdrew three corroded old horseshoes. He handed one to Blinky and one to ARRRGH!!!.

“I’ll schmoof the parents,” he said. “If there are siblings, grandparents, anything like that, use the horseshoes.”

“Horseshoes,” I repeated, trying to keep up. “Why horseshoes?”

“Didn’t we mention?” Blinky asked. “Ye gods, there is so much ground to cover! Nullhullers are changelings. They are here to replace a human baby with one of their
wretched own. It’s an abominable practice. If left undetected, a troll changeling can grow to full adulthood under its human skin, terrorizing the world with ruinous behavior. A good deal of
your world’s top CEOs and politicians are Nullhullers, I’m sorry to say. Thus we must test the family members for trollhood. The quickest way is by pressing a horseshoe to the forehead.
Iron works best, but in a pinch, anything of horseshoe design will suffice.”

“Well, give me one!” I cried.

“You’re not coming in,” Jack said. He shoved into my hands the burlap sack in which he had transported my swords. “You cut open those organ sacs, throw the gallbladders
in the bag, and stand guard if any of those things start coming out the windows. If they do, remember your lessons.”

“Hold on!” Tub cried. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

Jack pointed at the satanic stars.

“Wash those stupid symbols off the wall. Use that hose.” He scanned our faces. “Everybody ready?”

“No!” Tub and I cried in unison.

“Let’s go!” Jack shouted.

ARRRGH!!! smacked her frothy lips and tore across the lawn. Jack ran at a full sprint at her side, the moonlight splashing across the metal edges of his armor. Blinky, too, raced along on his
unknowable legs, though Tub and I were able to keep up with him.

“It was with unflagging dedication that I taught myself to move by touch and smell,” Blinky narrated for our listening pleasure. “Tonight that is a mixed blessing.”

Seconds later I knew what he meant. The organ sacs were rancid. Tub and I stopped short, gagging and coughing. Blinky continued without us, joining Jack at the back door he’d just jimmied
open with Doctor X. Jack hurried inside the house, followed by Blinky. ARRRGH!!! was too large to fit inside, but mere physics didn’t stop her. She popped both arms from their sockets and
twisted her oversize simian body in startling ways, then, somehow, disappeared inside.

Tub and I stared at the back door as it shut. The house was dark and quiet. We peered up at the second-floor window, conjuring horrible fantasies of what might be happening just out of sight. At
last there was nothing else to look at. We dragged our eyes down to the ten rippling organ sacs.

“That’s all you,” Tub said. “I’m on graffiti duty.”

Tub held his nose and headed for the hose.

I forced myself to edge closer to the ten sacs. They throbbed upon the dark lawn like soft mutant embryos. I leaned over the nearest one. Purple lungs inflated against the translucent film; a
slimy stomach surged against it like a red, blobby wave; pooled near the bottom was a white heap of squirming intestines. All of it floated within a snotty glop.

Slowly I withdrew Cat #6. I placed the tip of the cutlass against the sac and pushed gently.

It pierced the skin with a flatulent sound and liquid the color of mustard sprayed across my arm. It reeked of spoiled meat and my eyes began streaming tears. Briefly I considered just walking
away, but then, before I knew what I was doing, I jammed the sword down so hard that it embedded in the dirt below.

The sac split down the center with the high-pitched whine of a perforated balloon and the organs spilled out in a multicolored tangle. The second the translucent skin touched the grass, it
melted into a foul gel. The bowels traveled the farthest, expanding around my shoes. I minced away in disgust. A tiny wave of movement caught my eye and I realized it was the escape of every ant,
beetle, worm, and other insect that lived on that patch of soil. They wanted nothing to do with the sickness soaking into their world.

I surveyed the mess. That brown pouch was a stomach, and that large green thing was probably a liver. But what on earth did a troll gallbladder look like?

From inside the house, a single clash of metal.

Tub and I looked at each other. His fear was broadcast by the sheer amount of his displayed braces. He began scrubbing frantically at the upside-down star with his wet shirt, turning both
objects pink. I looked back at the spilled offal and tried to sift through the organs with Cat #6. More noises from the general direction of the second-floor window, this time a thumping and
scuffling. There was no time to be delicate about this autopsy. I dropped to my knees and my jeans dampened in the coagulating mucus. I took a breath and plunged both hands into the warm
viscera.

The entrails didn’t like my touching them. They spat acidic juices that burned my skin. Ribcage blades scissored down on the tips of my fingers. A net of blood vessels twined up my forearm
and gripped with painful ferocity. Each organ cried out in a tiny, angry voice. And still I dug with furious fingers, kneading each slick piece of meat for a hidden surprise.

I knew I had found the gallbladder as soon as I touched it. It was boiling hot. I pulled it from the muck with a loud slurp. The blood vessels around my hand snapped off and the rest of the
innards went limp and moaned in tones of pipsqueak loss. I raised the gallbladder in a victorious fist. It was the size of a golf ball and the texture of wet spinach. It roiled in my hand as if it
were filled with maggots. I reached for Jack’s burlap sack and tossed the little orange bastard inside. Nine more to go.

From somewhere on the second floor came the sound of splintering wood. I flinched; Tub hit the deck as if under fire. A baby began crying from the upstairs window and I expected to see the
parents’ bedroom lights turn on before I remembered that everyone else in the house had been schmoofed. Victory here was up to the trollhunters.

With a battle cry more falsetto than intended, I exchanged Cat #6 for Claireblade and cut through the next sac. In seconds I had the gallbladder; seconds later, it was in Jack’s bag. I
hacked and scattered and splattered and grabbed: three gallbladders, four, five, six, seven, eight. Specks of guts sprayed against the house and I shouted for Tub to wipe those off, too. From the
second-floor window came an agitated, bat-wing flapping—the loose flesh of the Nullhullers being disrupted from whatever they were doing to the baby. I sliced open the ninth sac with a
swordsmanship that was darn near admirable. The gallbladder, as if surrendering, hopped right to the top of the gore, and I snatched it.

Chaos erupted. The trollhunters had breached the nursery. Lights turned on and the battle began to rage. I heard the panting of Jack, the growling of ARRRGH!!!, the sanctimonious snorts of
Blinky. The Nullhullers made no other sound than the laundry-line snapping of their skin—after all, their throats had been left down with me on the lawn.

Some instinct, the same one with which I had memorized Jack’s fighting techniques, told me that we were losing. There was a lack of finality to Jack’s sword strikes and too many
surprised yips coming from ARRRGH!!!. The Nullhullers grew louder as they flapped their skin in unison. But it was the absence of one noise that disturbed me most.

The baby had stopped crying.

I dropped the sack of gallbladders and hurtled toward the back door.

“Are you nuts?” Tub shouted.

I gave Cat #6 a backhand toss, and it impaled itself in the grass at Tub’s feet.

“Use that if any come out,” I yelled.

“
What?
Paint, Jim! I’m only authorized to scrub paint!”

Even at my speed the darkened rooms of the house gave off a mausoleum chill. The humming refrigerator, the empty easy chairs, and the random pattern of the scattered remote controls all took on
deadly significance. These would be artifacts of the dead if I didn’t hurry. I found the stairs, took the steps by threes, and was at the nursery in seconds, bashing through the doorway with
Claireblade gripped in both hands.

The walls were painted a sunny yellow with a motif of pink panda bears. This detail I noticed despite the fact that I could see very little wall. Half of the room was matted, black fur:
ARRRGH!!!, looking larger for being confined to such limited space. It had not occurred to me that, in the human world, her size could be a disadvantage, but that was the case: the cramped quarters
slowed her down as the Nullhullers nipped at her like angry dogs.

Jack and Blinky were having better luck. I counted five dead Nullhullers, lying tattered on the floor like ripped rugs. The others waged active war, claws xylophoning across Jack’s
pinwheeling swords. Even with his face concealed behind a mask, I recognized the thrilled expenditure of energy unique to thirteen-year-olds. For the briefest of moments I saw a glimpse of the kid
Jack could’ve been, if only he’d been gifted a life of snagging fly balls on the diamond instead of hacking at unspeakable hell-spawn.

With the flat side of his blade, Jack knocked a Nullhuller across the floor. Instantly one of Blinky’s tentacles lashed out, squeezing the troll with enough force to tear right through the
skin. Death was instant and bloodless. Six dead, four more to go.

Even without throats, the remaining Nullhullers could speak in a breathless wheeze, and with the medallion still around my neck I could understand them. These were not conversations. This was,
instead, the ritualistic chant of a brainwashed cult, the same three chilling words repeated:

“Change the baby.”

“Change the baby.”

“Change the baby.”

The crib had been pushed away from the window so that it acted as a barrier to shield the Nullhuller duo hiding behind it. The crib itself was empty; these two trolls had the baby. I pressed
myself flat against a wall and began skirting the room’s perimeter, booting aside candy-colored toys. So far I was going unnoticed. I reached the edge of the crib and leaned over to have a
look.

One of the Nullhullers had wrapped its empty skin completely around the baby. A pale nectar secreting from the troll’s pores had covered the infant from head to foot. Before I could close
my astonished mouth, the baby slid out of the ooze and landed supine and sleepy on the floor. But the nectar itself was stiffening, and I realized that the troll had essentially made a plaster cast
of the baby. I leaned even farther over the revolting display and saw the baby-shaped space inside the hard nectar begin to weave with veins and nerves that started to grow organ clusters like
hanging grapes. Already soft pink marrow was being fortified with white bone and covered with a pale elastic skin.

They were forging their own fake baby to leave behind.

The second of the Nullhullers reached out with its spindly arms, took the real baby by her feet, and began to lower her into its open mouth. There were no organs left inside, which meant the
troll intended to use its empty torso as a bag in which to carry the baby home.