Association for the Fight against Unwanted

It was a cool night. Thick, grimy clouds obscured the moon, separating the city from the stars.

Lightning flashed over the shipyard. Split into dozens of strands, it hung in the air, the sky momentarily turning a jagged blue—the enormous outlines of cranes and derricks were visible against it. A somber rumble of thunder rolled over the city.

From behind a building built of crumbling brown brick, a small man emerged. What he lacked in somatotropin, he made up for with massive shoulders. The street he was walking on was dim—the remains of broken lightbulbs strewn under some streetlamps.

The man, dressed in nylon tracksuit bottoms, walked very unsteadily, the shuffle of his sneakers short and jerky. He stopped suddenly, carelessly lowering his tracksuit bottoms to his knees. Swaying from side to side as if dancing, he began to pee, marking the sidewalk with fanciful patterns. He finally spat, pulled up his pants, and staggered on. He passed one streetlight, then another... His legs became tangled, he almost fell, but he managed to reach out and grab the trash can. He clutched it tightly, coughing. Suddenly, he vomited into the bin, a fountain of vomit.

The stench of alcohol filled the area. The tracksuit man rested for a moment and looked around. Between the now-empty taxi rank and the distant old tenement houses, right at the park's threshold, stood a dilapidated bus shelter. He approached it. The windows were smashed, and only the side of the advertisement, illuminated by a white neon sign, survived. The bench was torn off, and the tracksuit man had to content himself with leaning against the only remaining glass.

Two men hidden behind the trees pulled their balaclavas over their faces. The shorter of the two reached into the pocket of his camouflage military jacket and pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. His name was Andrzej Marcinkiewicz.

The taller and slimmer one, Mariusz Bleszewski, pulled a light-wooden baton from under the ceiling of his coat. The man clenched his fists nervously around the handles.

Both of them wore white armbands embroidered with the "SWN" symbol.

"Association for Combating the Unwanted.

" "Let's go," Bleszewski whispered. Without waiting for his companion, he jumped from behind a tree and in a few jumps was already at the bus stop. He crashed into the shelter through the broken side; the tracksuit boy barely lifted his eyes. Mariusz saw the pimply face of a seventeen-year-old at most and didn't hesitate. He took a swing and struck the boy with all his might.

The boy raised his hands defensively, covering his head. The club slammed into his elbows, the sound of breaking bones echoing throughout the area. Bleszewski pulled again at his exposed stomach. The tracksuit man was jolted backward, slamming into the sign, which was covered in a spiderweb of cracks. He wheezed, doubled over as if about to vomit. Marcinkiewicz was already on him. A short movement, and the brass knuckles struck his cheekbone. His head snapped to the side, and a wave of blood sprayed onto the sidewalk. The spotty man was thrown against the window again, shattering it into smithereens, and he tumbled onto the sidewalk on the other side. He convulsed, shaking uncontrollably.

Lights came on in the tenement windows.

"Enough, fuck!" Andrzej shouted nervously. "Let's get lost!"

Bleszewski didn't listen. He stepped over the broken frame of the shelter and stood over the tracksuit man. He raised the club above his head and brought it down. His skull cracked, blood flooded his eyes. The boy curtsied once more and froze. The last bubble of red burst on his lips.

The world spun, he began to dance, he felt like vomiting. Marcinkiewicz's knees buckled, he sat down on the sidewalk. He was shaking, staring at the murdered face of the dead boy. They killed him for some stupid, flawed weakness. They killed him just because he was wearing cheap, stinking tracksuits. Why? That smell... The irritating smell of death... It was a mistake. SWN was a mistake. He shouldn't have... Blood. Blood on the sidewalk, there lies the tracksuit-boy with his head smashed into splinters. He's covered in blood. Blood everywhere. The police will come for me. Fuck, what a mess...

Something was happening. Screams, screams. Getting closer. A massed shuffle of thin soles against the concrete sidewalk. A mass approaching him. What's happening, what's going on? Someone punches him in the face, lifts him by his feet, yells furiously. The voice becomes clearer, cleaner. The figure's outlines merge into a black face. It's Bleszewski. His balaclava reeks of blood. He pushes Andrzej, and amidst the squeals and cries imagined by his mind, Mariusz's frantic shrieks break through:

"Get the fuck out!!!

Get the fuck out!" They run out of the shelter, run along the sidewalk for a moment, Bleszewski grabs Marcinkiewicz by his camouflage jacket, dragging him into the park. They flee in the dark between the trees, leaping over thorny bushes.

They chase them. A group of tracksuit-wearing men is hot on their heels.

Hearts pounding, adrenaline surging through their blood. Panic. They flee. They leap through more bushes. Bleszewski suddenly stumbles against a bush, sprawls on the ground, and calls for help. Marcinkiewicz doesn't give a damn. He keeps running. They can't get to him...

"Jesus Christ," he gasped. "Jesus, help..."

He stumbled onto a bike path, where a homeless man was sleeping on a bench.

"Help me!" Andrzej yelled in passing. The man pulled the blanket tighter over his head.

He didn't know where he was, his legs carried him on their own. He fled down a sandy path, the black silhouettes of trees all around him terrifyingly resembling human figures. Hide in the darkness, he thought. Jump back, hide behind a tree. In the darkness.

A powerful boom sounded.

He was struck in the back of the head by something hard. He lost his balance and fell. His nose scraped across the gravel, turning his face into one large gash. He tried to push himself up on his hands, but was kicked in the ribs and fell onto his side, unable to catch his breath. Through tearful eyes, he saw a clean-shaven boy in cheap sweatpants. He had small, ratty eyes, a ratty nose, and a mouth quivering with mad laughter. He wore silver brass knuckles on his fingers. Similar to mine, Marcinkiewicz thought.

"What now, you dickhead?" the boy cackled, spittle spurting disgustingly. "What now, what?! Now you're done, you whore!"

The rest were approaching. They were panting, exhausted, steam billowing from their breaths. The largest of them immediately jumped at the fallen Andrzej, kicking him in the face with the sole of his shoe. Marcinkiewicz groaned and sprawled on the ground. He breathed spasmodically. Meanwhile, the biggest guy reached into his sweatshirt pocket, pulled out his cell phone. He dialed a number, and put the phone to his ear. Waiting for the connection, he approached Andrzej and ripped the balaclava off his head.

"We've got a dick," he said after a moment, looking Andrzej straight in the eye. "Yeah? Good. We'll be there soon. Right by the bunker. Yeah. Just make sure he doesn't get away. And who was that? Dominik? Well, that's fucking great. Take him away, make sure there's no trace of him."

He hung up and pointed at Andrzej, nodding to the others.

"Get the dick. We're going to the bunker with him."

A small, rat-like boy stroked his brass knuckles and laughed hysterically as he watched his friends lift Andrzej.

"I told you, after a drug bust, there's no one I couldn't fucking kill. Holy shit! I was throwing that lightning bolt..."

A tracksuit guy flew up to him and slapped him in the face with an open hand.

"Shut your mouth, Szczur," he gritted through his teeth, barely controlling himself. "You want to bring dogs in here, you idiot?"

Szczur actually shut up and started massaging his stinging face. He just watched his friend go.

"Dogs?" he muttered quietly. "Here?! No way..."

They grabbed Marcinkiewicz under the arms and began dragging him behind them brutally. Andrzej, terrified, began to struggle, thrashing as hard as he could. He got hit in the face with brass knuckles, his lips split, and his teeth fell out. He continued screaming, spitting blood from his mouth. He was hit again: right in the nose. He couldn't take it anymore.

He fainted.

The room stank of blood.

Marcinkiewicz opened his eyes.

A small, forty-watt bulb dangled from a cord, hopelessly illuminating the windowless room. It was clear, however, that the walls were a ruin, built of rotten, cracked bricks, suggesting they might collapse at any moment. Various debris lay scattered around. There was some scrap metal and decaying wastepaper. There was no floor: it was replaced by a simple dirt floor.

Marcinkiewicz was tied up. He was sitting, or rather, half-lying, next to an old, leaky, rust-smelling barrel, unable to move his arm or leg. But he could turn his neck enough to see a group of ten tracksuit-men standing around a huddled, bloody figure.

"Jesus..."

They heard him. The leader of the gang, the biggest tracksuit-man in the group, turned and looked at Andrzej. He walked over to him, grabbed his camouflage jacket, and pulled him to his feet.

"You're awake, little bird," he sneered. "Come see what we did to your friend."

He dragged him to the center of the room. The tracksuit's men parted, spreading to the sides, holding reddened bars, pipes, and clubs. They jeered, laughed, mocked him. And Bleszewski...

"Christ, no..."

Bleszewski was massacred. His crushed face bore no resemblance to the handsome visage of a few hours ago. Thick blood oozed from his shattered skull, his head resembling a disgusting hematoma. His limbs were unnaturally twisted, contorted in a way that made you want to vomit.

He was still alive. He opened and closed his mouth unconsciously.

A thin, but very tall tracksuit man approached the scuffed wall and grabbed a canister from there. He opened it, looked at Andrzej, and smiled, revealing his horribly diseased teeth. The smell of gasoline filled the den.

"What are you doing?" Marcinkiewicz's muscles tightened, he began to shiver, and he felt a wet warmth on his thighs. "What are you doing, gentlemen? Please, forgive me, please let me... Us go. We'll go to the police, we'll confess. I'm begging you, I'll pay you. I have rich parents. I... I can't die, I don't want to die. SWN was a mistake, a fucking mistake. Fucking hell, gentlemen, have mercy, I'm begging you, I'm sorry," he began sobbing. "I didn't kill him, he did. It was Bleszewski... I didn't mean to, I just wanted to hit him, to pay him back for everything... It was stupid, I'm sorry... Give me a break..."

He cried like a little child. The tracksuit driver released him, Marcinkiewicz fell to the ground, pulled his legs up, and started calling for his mother.

A tall, thin boy approached Bleszewski and poured gasoline on his blood-soaked head. He looked at his friends; they were all silent. And simultaneously, they swallowed. The consternation lasted a few seconds. Suddenly, Szczur took out a Zippo lighter, lit it, and threw it at Bleszewski.

Mariusz's head caught fire.

Even though it was impossible, he jumped up. He jerked several times. And howled.

He howled as if summoning Satan himself.

The city will go mad, Marcinkiewicz thought, as Bleszewski died screaming behind him. People will finally discover what has been done to us. They will discover what happened in that bunker. They will forget that we were the first to kill. That will be secondary. They will be furious, overcome by fear, and blind fury will take over. The city will go mad. There will be mass demonstrations, huge rallies, and everywhere white flags with the words "SWN" (Society for Combating the Unwanted) written on them. They will discover our status, they will know why we did this. There will be successors, more SWN members will appear. Anarchy will reign, groups of cheap sweatshirts will be fought, there will be life-and-death struggles. And maybe chaos will reign on the streets, but eventually society will cleanse itself of all this filth. There will be a crisis, there will be murders. But in a few years, maybe even months, life will be better. It will be safer. Thanks to us, damn idealists...

Our deaths will not be forgotten. In fact, we will go down in history...

Andrzej Marcinkiewicz didn't feel the heavy iron pipe strike his neck. His neck snapped like a matchstick, the sudden spasm of his facial muscles relaxed after a split second. Marcinkiewicz died. Quickly and painlessly.

***

Thanks to a homeless man's tip, the police quickly found the site of the brutal murder. The dismembered and buried bodies of two students and an unidentified person were found there. The traces led to the suspected group of murderers.

This information became public knowledge.

A few hours later, the city was in a frenzy...