Then Mo’Lock turned to the other two.

They shot at him as he marched. He took the bullets right in the chest but kept on advancing steadily. After they’d been disarmed he tore them apart as he had their leader, without making a single sound. It was the most terrifying thing I’d ever witnessed in my life, and I’ve seen quite a lot, thank you. I was never happier to count Mo’Lock as a friend. Plus, I learned an invaluable lesson—never lie to a ghoul.

When he was finished, arms and legs were scattered all over the chamber floor. I could see Mo’Lock took no pleasure in what he’d done. Regardless, I gave him a nod. He paused and returned the gesture.

I looked up to Cain triumphantly. “Got anything else?”

Cain smirked, and the chamber began to rock.

Mo’Lock and I stood in place, dumbfounded. We were out of options. The heart was obliterated, but Edgar Cain still lived. He’d actually become powerful enough to do without his heart. Cain’s eyes glowed with renewed malevolence as his wide lips parted and he spoke the words that were running through my mind.

“You are so screwed.”

The walls shook, throbbing as the heart once had. Clay and stone loosened and crumbled, crashing down around our heads.

I rolled away from the falling debris, reloading the 9mm and revolver as I moved. I tossed a gun to Mo’Lock who just stared at it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” A gigantic wedge of damp red clay landed at his side. He didn’t even flinch.

“Just shoot!”

Cain’s eyes spun in his head. “No!”

I raised my gun into the air and fired once. Above us the fleshy surface burst open as the slug impacted, and gooey pink matter spat out in violent, gushing bursts. I looked at Mo’Lock and he gave me an affirmative nod. We’d get out of this mess yet.

“Looks like this baby’s about to blow,” I said. “What say we help it along?”

Cain began screaming again, trying anything to distract me. When I felt him pulling at my brain, I shook my head, leveled the 9mm at his distended face, and fired twice. The skin parted slightly where the bullet struck, but there was no blood.

Nothing.

But deep inside the head, the pressure was building, pushing at the small hole until it split and ripped lengthwise. Before I could react, a geyser of snotty pink goo shot across my face.

I dove, rolled to one knee, and picked up one of the Frankenteens’ M16s, unleashing a blaze of automatic fire into the right wall. Behind me, the ghoul was shooting in dangerously random directions. Each shot brought forth a gusher of crude pink brain matter. The fleshy walls rumbled and shook, percolating like bags of boiling tar. And then the smell wafted into my nostrils. I gagged, my stomach lurching. The stench was worse than death, hot and thick, and impossible to ignore.