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.