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Back Trollhunters Save as PDF
Chapters (51)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. Part I
  8. 1.
  9. 2.
  10. 3.
  11. 4.
  12. 5.
  13. 6.
  14. 7.
  15. 8.
  16. 9.
  17. 10.
  18. Part II
  19. 11.
  20. 12.
  21. 13.
  22. 14.
  23. 15.
  24. 16.
  25. 17.
  26. 18.
  27. Part III
  28. 19.
  29. 20.
  30. 21.
  31. 22.
  32. 23.
  33. 24.
  34. 25.
  35. 26.
  36. 27.
  37. 28.
  38. 29.
  39. 30.
  40. 31.
  41. 32.
  42. Part IV
  43. 33.
  44. 34.
  45. 35.
  46. 36.
  47. 37.
  48. 38.
  49. 39.
  50. 40.
  51. About the Author

Never had a trollhunter slayed with such style. Even my companions were stunned. Soon the squad of Zunnn was no more and we spent the rest of the night on another fruitless search for the Gumm-Gumms. More than once we had to hide to avoid the zealous eyes of Sergeant Gulager. He was everywhere, all of the time, and I was duly impressed. He wanted to help, that was obvious. But even heroes had their limits. This fight was not for him.

30.

When we got home, I didn’t think much of the light and sound coming from the TV. I packed Jack’s lunch, as I did each morning before grabbing a couple of hours of sleep, but when I found him he was glued to the television. At first I couldn’t make sense of the wobbly, low-resolution footage, but then I recognized trolls, and not just any trolls.

The footage stabilized and I saw Blinky and ARRRGH!!!, standing in what looked like a kitchen, their faces smeared with peanut butter. The next thing I heard was human voices. My voice. Tub’s voice. I went lightheaded and gripped for something to keep me standing. Nothing was there and I staggered, far enough to see the cables leading from the TV to a teddy bear—the nanny cam that I had forgotten about.

Dad sat on the sofa, watching it in a stupor that suggested he’d been watching for hours.

Jack didn’t need to say a word: he’d forgotten to apply the schmoof. The packed lunch fell from my hand with a paper-bag crinkle. The noise broke through Dad’s trance, and with aching slowness he reached for the teddy bear. The grainy footage blinked off and was replaced by early-show video of a sunken-eyed Sergeant Gulager refusing to confirm that more than four kids had disappeared.

“Individuals cannot be considered missing until they have been gone for twenty-four hours,” he said.

“In light of these disappearances,” asked the reporter, “should the Festival of the Fallen Leaves be canceled for the first time in San Bernardino history?”

“Of course not,” Gulager said without emotion. “There is no reason for panic.”

Dad modulated his breathing before turning our way.

“We must band together as a community,” Gulager said from the TV.

Dad stood. The sofa springs creaked. He was much taller than Jack.

“We must show unity in the face of strife,” Gulager insisted.

Dad took a single step. His eyes swam with tears of confusion.

Beside me, Jack was nailed to the floor.

“Jack?” Dad whispered. “Is it really you?”

“Jimbo,” Jack said.

There was a pause, filled with the babble of a commercial break.

“I’m sorry,” both brothers said together.