Jack slathered a sour-smelling slime upon the upper lip of any kid we found within the grips of a fever. This slime made the kids need to defecate; we hid in the hallway while the first boy stumbled to the bathroom. Afterward we ran in and Jack commanded me to reach down into the toilet. I did it without question until my arm was submerged in toilet water up to my shoulder. I felt it, some kind of clog, and wrestled with it for a minute before yanking out a lump of white, mice-sized trolls clinging to one another with claws and teeth. The Yarbloods had grown quite a bit before they’d been pooped out.

Unpleasant to catch for sure, but pretty easy to kill.

Sergeant Gulager crawled by in his cruiser as we were leaving. By the dashboard light I could make out his drawn face as he drained the latest in what was probably a long line of cups of coffee. After seeing ARRRGH!!! with his own eyes in the junkyard, no doubt he was questioning his sanity, and yet he had a community to protect. So he was up every night, just like me, doing what he thought was right. I thought about him as we trollhunters spent the next few hours burning gallbladders behind a vacant warehouse.

Wednesday came as it always did, though I’d have been hard-pressed to tell you the day of the week if you’d asked. The only way I was keeping track of time was by the rising number of missing students in each class. Though I ignored Pinkton’s math, I made calculations of my own, adding up the vacant desks. It was no different at play rehearsal. Where was our Mercutio? Our Friar John?

Then, in a crash, it was night. Meet the Zunnn—their dingy drawstring bags told you all you needed to know. They were out to nab kids for Gunmar, plain and simple. The Zunnn fought as a team, rushing at us with arms locked like rugby players and wearing matching jumpsuits dyed with red and green stripes and helmets constructed from the skulls of larger trolls. It was rather intimidating, truth be told, but their bash-and-smash technique was no equal to four well-wielded swords, a few dozen whipping tendrils, and a member of the ARRRGH!!! family fortified by a three-course meal of cats. Even as they were losing, the Zunnn belted out their minor-key fight song. To counter I began shouting bits of Shakespeare coming to me from out of nowhere.

“Take the measure of your unmade grave, fiend!”

Off went a pouch of softies.

“Alack, there lies more peril in mine eye than twenty of thine swords!”

Off went a pair of hands.

“O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright!”

Off went a head, still wearing its helmet.