TRAINING

He stood in front of the door, waiting for his parents. They were still scrambling down the hallway, taking off their shoes. He was amazed that the same distance from the car to the apartment door could be covered in such different amounts of time. He hadn't even gone inside yet, and this waiting only reinforced his conviction that he shouldn't have come here. Bored and impatient, he looked down the hall. His father was straightening his tie, his mother as if searching for something in a bouquet of flowers, muttering something like, "...she could have used more asparagus, I'm paying, so I demand." Before they could reach the door, he rang the bell.

His grandmother, the birthday girl, answered. Today was her seventieth birthday, and that was the direct reason they were here. His grandmother's name was Marta, his father's mother. She had lived in this small village all his life. He was very fond of it; as a little boy, he often came here on vacation, but he had never seen so many black, expensive cars in the small square in front of this house. He didn't mind her birthday; he wished her to live for a hundred years or more. But he couldn't stand the party, which was attended by all the relatives, even those old strawberries seasoned with a third glass of jelly—their extended family, who came only to indulge their spoiled children on Grandma's cheesecake or to take care of business. Maybe he'd be lucky and meet an older cousin with whom he could discuss something.

"You're finally here! I thought you wouldn't come," Grandma greeted the guests with a smile.

"Ah... you know, Mom, there's traffic everywhere," Father said with a faint smile. The truth was, Mother had been getting ready in the bathroom for an hour and a half too long. "But I think there's still cake left. Happy birthday."

Wishes, greetings, and kisses were exchanged. Parents greeted their "family" they were seeing for the first time; strangers whispered to each other upon seeing them.

"You're here too, Piotrek. It's good that you came."

"Yes, I'll wish Grandma

a Happy Birthday too." He gave her a gift, not even knowing what was in the package his parents had given him. He undressed and looked around the apartment. In the largest room were his entire family, his aunts, uncles, and even his whole family.

"Heniek, but I have to disagree with you. Remember when I built my first store, I immediately installed the best alarm system. Safety is key." "...And, please, he's telling me I mis-invoiced the alcohol. I've been in the business for ten years, and no one's going to explain how to run a business to me." "...Back in the day, people didn't care about children like that. My Jonathan, every day I take him to daycare..." "And so you could listen to all the nonsense that was being broadcasted there forever. Some guy was bragging about his new car radio, another was sipping a drink while giving a speech about vodka prices in Germany, some businesswoman (probably his wife) was changing the diaper of her three-year-old, who had already stained his two-hundred-zloty jacket with jelly on her knee.

In the other room, there was an even larger amusement park (covered in poop and cake-covered).

A flock of creepy-crawlies, aged three to ten, were swarming across the carpet. The number of children could be estimated, but the damage they could have caused is beyond the realm of reality. The smallest ones (those who could walk well enough) climbed over chairs onto the table and jumped from it onto the couch or a pile of clothes, or ripped cables from the TV's T-connector. The older children crawled over the furniture and threw candy at everything within reach. The oldest children—regardless of gender—participated in an amateur kickboxing match set up in the corner of the room. Every so often, one with a tuft of hair or a torn T-shirt would run crying to their mother. The sight was quite amusing.

Dawid and Krzysiek—Piotr's oldest cousins—sat in armchairs by the windows. When they saw him, their monotonous expressions brightened slightly.

"Hi, Piotrek. You have no idea what horror we're going through here."

They shook hands.

"I can imagine. When did you arrive?" he asked Dawid. Krzysiek lived in this very house, on the first floor.

"Two hours ago. Couldn't you have gotten here sooner? We were just about to go to the bar without you."

Krzysiek finished his orange soda and stood up. "Shall we go outside?

" "Sure."

They went out into the hallway, and their grandmother met them and asked if they needed anything. They didn't want to bother her and lied that they didn't. When they reached the garden behind the house, Dawid pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered them to his friends. After leaving the party, they felt incredibly happy to have a secret smoke—the three of them, in the fresh air.

"I thought you didn't smoke anymore," Piotrek said to Dawid, blowing smoke directly onto the lard for the tit hanging from a cherry tree.

"What are you... A person has to do something."

-But when your father recently took away your pocket money for smoking, you said it wasn't worth it anymore - Krzysiek interjected.

Dawid's lips curved into a faint smile. The cigarette in his mouth didn't even twitch. He exhaled smoke through his nostrils, and replied, "

Ever since my mother forbade him from smoking, he's been stealing my cigarettes. She never checks my pockets, but she always checks his. "

His friends laughed lightly.

"I wish I could," Piotrek concluded.

They stood there for a moment, silent. They watched the full moon slowly disappear behind the clouds. A light breeze blew through their hair, and the cigarette smoke formed various patterns. The garden was close to the back windows of the house, from which they could hear the sounds of adults talking and children screaming. But that didn't bother them. If the ground they were standing on were higher than this window, they would surely have been throwing cigarette butts into it.

They were dressed in their best clothes, but they sat down on the grass anyway and began to reminisce about the good old days, when they were thirteen and spent their summers here together. Krzysiek disappeared for a moment and reappeared with a case of beers. They each opened one and continued their conversation. They knew one of the adults would appear at any moment. They weren't afraid of being discovered, but of interrupting their moment of intimacy and breaking the spell. They didn't even realize they were out of beers.

Piotrek looked disappointedly at the empty bottom of his can, then at Krzysiek.

"You don't have anything left?"

Krzysiek was thinking very visually; his ears were reddening, his eyes were rolling, and his tongue seemed to be searching for something in his mouth. He was thinking about the vodka stash in the annex. There were almost twenty cases of "Absolwent" and a few of "Finlandia," not counting the beers. However, the door to the room was locked with two locks that couldn't be opened with a fork. Secondly, his father would probably notice the missing bottles – for his birthday, all the bottles had been removed and left in the guest room. Someone was always sitting by them. Thirdly, he knew full well that if they went in there today, they wouldn't be able to get out on their own. They'd steal the whole crate at once, thinking it would be harder to notice than missing a few bottles. Then they'd drink it all, regardless of the consequences. Sure, Piotrek and Dawid's fathers would probably let themselves be fooled by anything, because tonight they wouldn't be able to tell a streetlight from their own wife. But I'd be screwed, he thought. He'd have to pay back the equivalent of the alcohol from his own pocket money, and besides, something definitely unpleasant awaited him, something no amount of vodka could numb.

When Krzysiek's eyes returned to their original position, they saw the waiting faces of Piotrek and Dawid before them. In the black circles in the centers of their eye sockets, he could almost see white question marks painted on them. He didn't know what he would say to them, because he hadn't given it much thought.

"Come on."

They rose from their seats and, following his directions, slipped into the annex on the other side of the square. He led them upstairs, up a small, winding staircase. There, they saw a storage room door. And they learned what was behind it. Then they went downstairs and went to the building where Grandma was celebrating her birthday.

It was seven in the evening. They sat in armchairs, staring at the television. The program was boring, and any sounds were drowned out by the children "playing." Piotrek was eating a piece of cake without much enthusiasm, Dawid was in a transitional state between consciousness and sleep, and Krzysiek was shooting his little cousins ​​with a plastic water pistol. He seemed to be the only one not yet bored.

For over an hour, they were focused on finding the key to the storage room. They searched every pocket and closet belonging to Krzysiek's father, but found nothing. Krzysiek breathed a sigh of relief, but he also regretted getting his hopes up unnecessarily.

Some guests had already started to leave, but the guest room was still noisy. Only a few would stay overnight, as many as would fit in the building, where the three oldest boys would sleep—no one knew. The parents had assumed their children would play all night. But how—the boys couldn't for the life of them figure it out.

Piotrek, bored, reached for another slice of cake. He was just about to stuff it all into his mouth when something tugged at his sleeve. It was a small, greasy hand sticking out from behind the edge of the armchair. He looked down and saw the little boy, his eyes fixed on his cake. The little boy's expression was one of outrage, but his small eyes betrayed the tears welling up, clearly pleading for mercy.

"That was my cake..." he stammered.

Piotrek was left with his mouth open and a piece of cheesecake in his hand. He felt a small hand grip his arm tightly. The situation didn't last long enough for Krzysiek to stop shooting and see it, but long enough for the boy's small hand to begin trembling with the effort. "So be it," Piotrek thought.

The boy, who looked about five or six, grabbed the cheesecake, turned, and walked away, eating it as he went. Piotrek wondered for a moment if he'd made the right decision by handing him the last delicacy on his plate. He glanced around the room, trying to find the fugitive. With so many children darting around before his eyes, he'd have a hard time spotting...

Something flashed through his mind. A thought that part of his consciousness refused to let go. It vanished so quickly that Piotrek couldn't recall it anymore.

He stood up, picked up his plate, and went to the kitchen. His aunt was bustling there; she was putting portions of chicken in the oven.

"Can I have some more cake?" Piotrek said.

"Take it yourself; it's on the table." With all this chaos, I don't have time for anything, she snapped.

Piotrek was cutting a cake and putting it on a plate. He thought the cream cake could use some of those colorful flecks of icing and chocolate, so when Auntie left, he started searching the cupboard. He found them next to other bags: cinnamon, powdered milk, jelly, and there was also a bag of pudding.

...That image. It flashed before his eyes again.

As he turned, he collided with Krzysiek. A few pieces of cake fell off the plate and scattered on the floor. They both looked at them simultaneously and thought, "Never mind." "

Do you have anything to drink?" Krzysiek asked, looking around the kitchen. "Oh, there are some orange sodas."

"Okay, take one and come on," Piotrek said. Krzysiek detected a slight excitement in his voice. Or a tremor.

Yes, Piotrek already knew what he wanted to do. The time and place were right.

They went into the room where the children were roaming. When they placed a plate of cake on the table, a swarming crowd gathered around it. They sat down in the armchairs and woke Dawid. Piotrek leaned forward slightly and said,

"Listen, I've had an idea. This is better than a case of vodka." Krzysiek and Dawid were curious what could be better than the key to the storage room. Nothing came to mind at the moment. Piotrek narrowed his words. "What do you think if we give the kids a little training? Like for commandos. Only better.

They probably didn't expect that.

" "All of them?" Krzysiek asked.

"What kind of training?" Dawid wasn't quite sure what he was talking about.

A small smile played on Piotrek's lips. "

You'll see. We'll take everyone from three years old up. I'll explain everything. You'll see, you'll like it." After a pause of a few seconds, he added, "Krzysiek, surely no one will be visiting the annex for the next twelve hours?

" "Well... no.

" "That's good."

Piotrek turned to the children. He stood on the table and said, "Kids

, want to have some fun?"

Almost every head in the room turned toward him.

"Want to have some fun like the grown-ups? Shoot real guns? Drink some beer? I know you do."

The smaller boys didn't know what beer was, but they were well aware of what a gun was. And those who didn't even know that followed the bigger ones. They thought that where the older ones went, it must be more interesting. Only later would they discover that "more interesting" can be very different.

A whole herd of three-year-olds and older, arranged in pairs, obediently followed "Uncle Piotrek" to the first floor of the annex. Behind them walked Krzysiek and Dawid.

When they reached the door leading to the great hall, Piotrek stopped the procession and announced:

"Attention! This threshold separates the boys from the girls. What you'll experience beyond the door will separate the men from the boys. Anyone who wants can still go downstairs and visit their parents or pet their doll. Girls are obligated to go down." At this point, the little girls made surprised faces, and Krzysiek and Dawid's faces gave off a similar impression. Dawid ran up to Piotrek and said quietly,

"Why are you telling the girls to come down? Why did we bring them here?"

"Because this isn't for them, understand? Besides, the boys will feel singled out." Indeed, some of the little ones were already sticking out their tongues at their friends.

"And those who don't want to go any further?

" "They're wimps; it's better they stay with their parents than spoil the fun."

Dawid looked at the children standing on the winding stairs. The girls were coming down with sad expressions and taking their younger brothers, if they were among them. Some of the boys (those who had just come out of curiosity, or who had already gotten bored) were leaving too.

Krzysiek counted all the boys who remained. Sixteen boys...

He approached Piotrek.

"You, there's a slight problem. One little girl doesn't want to leave. She said she likes boys more and always plays with them. And that she looks like a boy herself, so she wants to stay. We could leave her alone, we'll see how she handles it.

" "Okay."

They entered the largest room. It was about six meters wide and ten meters long. In the center stood a tennis table. A few kids immediately jumped at the rackets, but were just as quickly slapped.

The building was quite well-equipped. At the back of the room was a rather spacious back room: a bathroom, a small kitchen, two rooms, a storage room, and a few other hiding places. The walls were relatively soundproof, and the curtains in the windows gave little away. Perfect.

Piotrek went to the windows, drew all the curtains, and then dimmed the lights a bit. It's best if the outbuilding looks completely empty from the outside.

Dawid carried the bag he'd been carrying on his back the entire time to the kitchen.

"Did you get everything I told you?" Piotrek asked.

"Sure. We can always jump in if anything happens.

" "OK."

Krzysiek noticed that some of the kids were already starting to tinker everywhere out of boredom—including his new tower. At first, he thought he'd glue the kid to the wall with one good kick, but he caught himself in time. Such interventions should be saved for later. He simply grabbed him by the collar and set him aside.

"Maciuś, it's not your tower, it's your fingers in your pocket or in your mouth," the last word belched with a resonant echo. After a moment, he roared, "Okay, commandos! We're in a line, but quickly!"

Not everyone knew what a line was, but they soon did.

Piotrek watched them closely. Some, at first glance, seemed to have no chance in the general competition. There were also a few tricksters – they looked to be six or seven years old, and one of them had an earring and a ponytail, the other had bleached hair. He'd keep a close eye on them. And he'd teach everyone some discipline.

"Want to have some fun?" he smiled warmly, yet mockingly.

"Yeah!" the children squealed, though they had no idea what awaited them.

"Make you men?

" "Yeah!

" "Well, there you go." All the children lie down on the ground and do push-ups. But that's good, because Uncle Dawid will see to it.

Some of the little ones thought it was a joke at first. The stronger ones, like true commandos with puffed-out cheeks, began to push-up fervently.

"He's actually doing pretty well," Krzysiek laughed, nudging Piotrek. One of the kids was lying on the ground with his hands under his chin, wiggling his butt up and down. His substantial belly flattened out, sometimes more, sometimes less, indicating that it was taking some effort.

The kids, under Dawid's supervision, were all exercising, willingly or unwillingly. In the first five minutes, they did between twenty and forty-three push-ups. Their little hands were already aching after fifteen. But Dawid only allowed them short breaths. They blushed and sweated, but kept pushing. At one point, the bleached-haired brat started to run. But the door was locked. Dawid successfully encouraged him to join the group. However, his blond hair was tied to the doorknob—a warning to the others.

Piotrek stood with his arms folded, setting the pace. He counted that the strongest kid had already done over sixty (almost real) push-ups. He approached one of the kids.

"What's your name, little one? I've seen you somewhere before.

" "Jasio," the other cried. He lay on the ground, trembling all over. One arm was blue at the shoulder.

"But don't stop practicing, just answer."

The little one struggled to his feet.

"How much have you done?

" "Two... twenty-three... or four... four. Please, Uncle, I can't do it anymore...

" "How old are you? ...Did I give you permission to stop?"

Jasio didn't answer for a moment, trying to muster one more effort.

"Six..." he stammered. He struggled to support himself on his shaking hands. "Can I finish now?

" "Pump, pump," Piotrek said, and approached Krzysiek. He didn't take his eyes off little Jasio.

"Come to the kitchen, we have to prepare something. Do you have pudding?"

"Strawberry and vanilla."

"Great."

Piotrek put the milk on the stove, and Krzysiek began stirring pudding from a bag. They weren't in a hurry. No one would look into the annex all night. They could party until dawn—just as their parents had planned. Now almost the entire family didn't have to worry about their children. They would be in good hands.

Looking at the room, it looked like it was filled with the corpses of seventeen children. The youngest was four, the oldest seven. The bodies were essentially lined up in a row, but there were some deviations from symmetry. One teenager with bleached hair lay by the door. Almost all of them had purple faces, sometimes bluish-pale. Anyone entering this room now would surely think a mass murder of minors had taken place here. But these weren't dead bodies. Real corpses didn't move, didn't breathe. And those little bodies were trembling (not to mention convulsing), panting heavily, coughing hoarsely, and even groaning. They were alive. Although in this case, there was nothing to celebrate.

"Exercise number one is over..." Dawid announced. He walked among the children, stepping over those who couldn't get up from the ground. "We'll soon find out who can become a cadet and who can't."

Piotrek emerged from the kitchen and began clapping his hands.

"You can rest. Sit nicely against the wall. We'll introduce ourselves."

The little commando candidates were lying or sitting against the wall. Although most looked like sniffed handkerchiefs, there were a few who seemed content. Among them, surprisingly, was the only girl.

Piotrek, Dawid, and Krzysiek knew at most half of their charges personally, so they thoroughly questioned every stranger for personal details.

It turned out the room was a real motley crew.

There were a few sons of upper-class people – including the one with the piercing and bleached hair – named Jakub Ciupa and Wojtek Golberg. The former, as you can see, already spoke volumes about his background. There was some truth to this, as his older brother had indeed served time for drug possession. Besides them, there was another little brat in the group – Maciuś, who had gotten into the Cross Tower. He wore a satin T-shirt and looked like a girl in it. Because he did the fewest push-ups, he was practically crossed off the cadet list.

Besides them, the lucky seventeen included two brothers – the four- and six-year-old Klaryczeks. Both wore glasses as thick as the bottom of a whiskey glass, but they were quite resilient. Dawid liked them because, despite their age, they swore more than he did and constantly told dirty jokes they'd overheard at the adults' table. They hardly understood any of them, but they knew they were sure to make someone laugh.

Of course, we shouldn't forget little Jaś, who worked so hard on those push-ups. His name was Fasol Jan, but his friends called him Grochol. Piotrek liked his original surname better, but he adapted to the majority. Although Jaś's nickname sounded a bit mare-like, the boy himself was rather slim and inconspicuous. Piotrek knew to beware of such people.

If you looked closely at the only girl, Karolinka, you'd get the impression he was a small, fat boy with a pig-like face. Only in a dress. Karolinka claimed she never normally walked like that, only her mother dressed her like that for her birthday.

"I would never doubt it," Dawid agreed with a serious expression. And he really thought so.

"And who are you from, you punk?" Piotrek approached the boy in the corduroy trousers with suspenders and looked deep into his eyes. He thought he'd see glistening tears there, but he'd clearly stumbled upon a tough one. Instead, the little one laughed in his face. Then he put his hand in his mouth and started drooling.

"Bll...glll..."

"Get that paw out of your mouth." Piotrek yanked his hand away, unfortunately, his slobbery fingers brushed against his shirt.

"Be careful, kid, I don't hurt you," he growled.

"My mom's name is... er... because we came to Grandma's for her birthday, and I was supposed to congratulate her, but I forgot, and Mom spanked me... and then I got cream all over myself, and... and... Mom spanked me again, and I didn't want to... and... and..." and the little boy burst into tears. He was saying something else, but he stuttered so hard that no one could understand him. Snot was running from his nose and splattered on his white socks. "

I thought you were going to be something," Piotrek sighed. He walked over to another person sitting against the wall. He glanced at the kitchen with one eye. Krzysiek was already pouring pudding into the ascii. Great.

When he turned his head, he saw a familiar face before him. He didn't know him, and yet...

"Ah... it's you." Now he remembered. It was the same face that had begged him downstairs for a cookie. "Haven't you escaped yet? What's your name?"

"Tomek," Tomek said, pulling a slice of cheesecake he'd acquired a few minutes ago from his pocket. He looked away from Piotrek and began licking the surface of the cookie. He clearly wasn't concerned about the situation.

"You'd better eat it quickly, because you might lose your appetite later," Piotrek said, and went to the kitchen. Dawid ordered everyone to sit down and not touch anything. He went to the stereo and put on a Metallica album—"Master of Puppets."

Piotrek and Krzysiek were emerging from the stove, carrying trays of nothing but delicious pudding. The young relatives, despite having already eaten their fill downstairs, were gazing at the appetizing dessert with great desire. Children are so spoiled that they don't need to be hungry, yet they try anything they like at the moment. Even if it's just to stuff their mouths with it and then spit it out or vomit it onto the ground. The enormous effort they had recently made had greatly fueled this desire.

Krzysiek donned a flowered apron and looked like a cheerful housekeeper who had spent her entire life entertaining children with her homemade delicacies. As he set out the portions on the table, he smiled charmingly and licked his fingers. The little ones sitting against the wall were trembling, even though they hadn't even touched the pudding yet. After the first lesson, they understood that nothing should be touched in this room without their uncles' permission. They just devoured the pudding with their eyes.

Finally, Piotrek emerged from the kitchen and placed a few more servings on the table. Meanwhile, Dawid turned up the volume on the Pro Logic stereo system, and "Master" boomed from the speakers, causing the pudding in the asciiettes to shake in time with the music. One of the tennis rackets fell off the table.

Piotrek watched his charges sitting against the wall, staring at the cooling pudding. Let them stare, wait for it to cool. Then they'd attack him recklessly. Like children do. As long as they didn't break the asciiettes, Dawid would probably keep a close eye on them. They just had to time the climax before the tasting began. Finally, Piotrek cordially invited them to the table and encouraged them to help themselves. It was supposed to be a reward for being accepted into the cadets. For now, everyone had received it. He himself devoured a strawberry-flavored portion and watched as the children practically tipped the table full of bowls upside down. He smiled faintly as he did so.

"Your uncle made you a good pudding, didn't he? You can eat as much as you want."

Even though there were seventeen kids, there were eighteen asiertas on the tables. Eighteen glass bowls filled with delicious contents. So tempting. But instead of pudding, one contained a special mixture of glue and a very strong epoxy resin binder. With added flavors and fragrances. I wonder which lucky person will get this portion. It's possible none of them will, but even if everyone took the real pudding, someone would surely ask for seconds. Either way, they had a chance.

Only Piotrek and Krzysiek knew about the surprise dessert, but Dawid got his share from Krzysiek, so he definitely won't be reaching for the bomb pudding.

As the children left the table, Piotrek looked carefully at what was left on it. There was one bowl half-filled with... ordinary pudding.

"Look now..." Piotrek whispered in Dawid's ear.

A sound like the wailing of mouths unable to open rang out. A group of children stood, surrounding the source of the commotion. Piotrek ordered them to make room. When they moved aside, they revealed one of the children standing against the wall. He was shaking, his eyes were tearful and red, his hands were flailing involuntarily. He squealed, moaned, and it sounded different. He couldn't utter a word because his mouth was filled with thick glue (and his stomach was probably full too). Through a small crack between his lips, he spat out some substance—most likely pudding with toppings. His eyes kept bulging, as if he wanted to vomit, but the poor boy couldn't. One can imagine what was happening inside the boy's body if the excreted contents of his stomach were returning to him.

The children reacted in various ways: from panic to laughter. Dawid, however, watched, speechless. He didn't even know what was happening. After a long moment, he asked Piotrek,

"What's wrong with him?"

He didn't answer, just stared at the injured man. It was one of the two brothers, the older one. He didn't recognize him immediately because the little one had lost his glasses.

"He didn't like our cooking," Piotrek said.

"What did you give him?"

Krzysiek joined the conversation. It was clear he was enjoying this game. He was almost laughing.

"He ate a lot of glue. Can't you see he can't open his mouth?

" "Oh shit." Dawid stood and watched the six-year-old suffocate before his eyes. "What are we going to tell his parents? That he mistook jelly for butane?

" "We won't say anything.

" Young Klaryczek writhed on the ground. All three knew he couldn't be saved. Piotrek watched the child's death impassively. He remembered seeing it before, through different eyes. That's why the idea came to him. Then, while he was holding the bowl, his friend snatched it from him. He was bigger and stronger, so all he could do was cry. While he cried, the other man ate his pudding. Then he started acting funny, running around like a madman and spitting. Little Piotrek didn't yet fully understand what death was, but the sight still shocked him. He remembered it to this day. The tremors of a body clogged from within. Eyes popping out of its sockets. Over the years, the memories had long since cooled, but they still existed. They no longer made such an impression, yet they constantly left their mark. Perhaps that was why he wanted to relive them.

Krzysiek approached the corpse lying on the ground, grabbed it by the legs, and dragged it to a small room. He closed the door and returned to the main hall. The children stood there, silent.

Piotrek looked at the children.

"A few more need to be thrown out. Not all of them are suitable for further selection."

Yes, he described what was happening very well. A selection. This wasn't an exercise, just a classification, a reduction. He intended to systematically weed out the weaker kids and keep the stronger ones: physically and mentally.

"Krzysiek, which ones do you think we should eliminate?

" "I'm wondering myself. Definitely the smartass who did the fewest push-ups. Then that glutton.

" "Dawid, what about you?"

Dawid seemed surprised by the question. After a long moment of thought, he replied,

"The one with the earring, or the other Klaryczek.

" The selected boys looked confused; they had no idea what "being eliminated" meant. Piotrek explained it to them shortly after. They put all four of them in a second room in the back and gave them the following instructions:

"Guys, inside there's one knife, a wrench, and some old boxes. You can use whatever you want. One of them is supposed to leave in three hours. Which items you use and how you use them is up to you." However, if after that time more than one of you is conscious, we'll throw you off the balcony. I think the rules are simple.

The four "gladiators" stood in the doorway, looking dazed. I guess they didn't understand everything.

"Have fun," Piotrek said, and closed the door behind them.

He glanced through the small window in the door: not much could be seen through the frosted glass, but at least there wasn't a fierce fight going on. He turned on his heel and tossed the keys to Dawid. He didn't like carrying anything jingling in his pockets. Except money.

"As long as they don't burst into tears and stay there all the time," Krzysiek nodded. "

Or pee all over the room. Anything can happen in those three hours," Dawid added.

Piotrek just laughed. "We'll see. They'll understand the rules of this game faster than you think."

They went to the main hall.

"What are we going to do now?" a shrill voice said from the back of the room.

The three boys looked at the children. Piotrek shouted,

"Who's so curious?"

A girl with a pig-like face stood in the front row.

"I said so. Uncle, what are we going to do now?

" Dawid laughed.

"What would you like, little girl? "

The girl frowned.

"We can shoot, commandos have to know how to shoot.

" Not a bad idea, Piotrek thought. "Yes, we'll shoot." He turned to Dawid,

"Do you still have that old air rifle from your brother?

" "Yes, what?

" "Come on, let's go get it.

" Piotrek and Krzysiek were walking to the building where the party was taking place. While they searched for the air rifle, Dawid was supposed to take care of the children. They were curious how many of them would be alive when they returned.

It didn't take them long to find the weapons. They grabbed two boxes of broccoli and rushed to the outbuilding. They met Uncle Heniek on the stairs. He was already a bit tipsy and was staring intently at the air rifle. The cousins ​​watched with amusement as his eyes tried to focus on one point.

"Boys... are you going to shoot birds?" he drawled.

"No, aliens," Piotrek replied, waving Krzysiek off, telling him not to waste time on that jerk.

"Aha... good..." Uncle Heniek muttered, and turned his dancing gait toward the guest room. The mumble had almost the same acoustic format as two brisk farts in farewell.

Krzysiek, who had secondary musical education, easily recognized the key.

"C" and "E," a major third.

When they reached the outbuilding's door, he pulled out a key and tried to open it. Piotrek, however, put his ear to the frosted glass and listened.

"It's kind of quiet. What's he doing in there?" he laughed. "Just so we have something to shoot at.

" "Don't worry, he certainly didn't do much harm to anyone without us. Let me finally open it."

When Piotrek opened the door, he saw a sight almost identical to the one they'd seen on their way out. A group of kids were standing, no one doing anything in particular, all with vague expressions. Piotrek looked for Dawid. He was also standing, his expression unclear.

"Dawid, what's wrong?" Krzysiek asked.

"Oh shit..." Piotrek had already noticed what had happened. A body lay against the wall, covered in blood.

"What's going on?"

Dawid began to explain slowly.

"It's Uncle August, Maciek's father. He came out of the bathroom while I was having a swearing contest. The bastard got drunk and, for some reason, fell asleep in the shower. It was a huge mistake that we hadn't noticed him sooner.

"Did you have to do this to him right away?" Krzysiek turned the man around to get a better look at the injuries. The uncle had a broken nose and a cut eyebrow. He probably also shattered a few bones, because something cracked in his limbs when he rolled over. The wounds themselves weren't too serious, but the unchecked blood stained almost all his clothes. "

I thought I'd explain everything to him, but one kid started babbling right away, and what's worse, the old man wouldn't listen at all. He wasn't completely sober yet and wanted to fight me. So I knocked him off the chair, and a couple of the kids finished him off.

" "Not bad," Krzysiek nodded. "What do we do now?"

The boys bent over the problem, thinking. They didn't have much choice.

"Let's hit him over the head again and put him in the shower," Piotrek suggested. "If he wakes up in the morning, he'll realize he dreamed it all."

-If he wakes up at all - added Krzysiek - he's already been hit pretty hard.

They did as they said. Admittedly, getting him into the shower was a bit of a problem, but they didn't worry about his broken bones for long. To them, the guy was and remained a piece of shit.

Piotrek finally grabbed his air rifle and began lubricating the slide with a special lubricant.

"You, don't you remember which one of them started telling this guy?" he asked Dawid.

"Probably the little guy who started crying at the beginning."

Piotrek walked up to the boy and pulled him away from the group. With a sharp yank, he steered him toward the opposite wall. The kid didn't even have time to realize when Piotrek instantly loaded and fired. At this distance, the bullet pierced his head completely. Blood and pieces of his eye organs flowed from his punctured eye socket. The boy was still on his feet for a moment, but then he collapsed onto the wooden floor. Absolute silence fell on the room...

It was broken by a clapping of hands.

"Great shot, Piotrek." "See, this is how you're supposed to shoot," Krzysiek announced. Dawid swallowed hard, unable to get past the throat. "Cadets" stood speechless.

"Now you'll learn to shoot!" Piotrek roared. "Until everyone's as good at it as I am."

As the children expressed their approval with a resounding "Hurray!" (they had already forgotten the incident), Dawid lugged the body to the small room where the "pudding creature"—as Krzysiek called the deceased—was already lying.

The little boy picked up a heavy air rifle, knelt down, and aimed at the can. The shot shook him slightly, and the can fell off the chair. This time, he did well. He sat down on the table and looked at his friend, who was about to take a shot. The last one of his life, because when he missed, someone ran up to him and uttered a litany of contempt for him. If Piotrek remembered correctly, this was already the fifth series. And those who missed three times in a row stood next to the cans themselves. They were much easier to aim at, but after a few shots, they were dead. Sometimes even after just one...

The image was black and white and seen as if through a fog, but it still radiated realism. Sometimes, Piotrek, remembering his "exercises"—those he'd experienced long ago—felt like he was still that six-year-old kid trying to survive the party organized by his older cousins. Sometimes he still shuddered at the thought of certain situations.

"Faster, Jasio, faster. We don't have all night just for you," Dawid urged the little boy.

Karolinka stood with her rifle aimed at the wall. Janek Fasol would soon run through, and she would either shoot him or replace him. Piotrek had refined this shooting competition a bit. There was no more pointless hitting cans. Here, you shot at a friend, or rather, at the "enemy." One person shot, the other ran from one room to the other. Both were on separate teams. The goal was to score as many points as possible. They took turns shooting, and of course, those with the worst aim ran. Yes, this refined version of the shooting game was much more interesting.

The first group, the Red Berets, consisted of five people: Karolinka, three "pawns"—four-year-olds whom their older cousins ​​didn't even know, and Tomek. The second group, with the idiotic name of Sokoły, included Janek Fasol, Marcinek Topek—Krzysiek's cousin, Damian Bruckeller—a stupid surname, so he came up with the name for his team, the second Damian—this time Kopeć, and a certain Kamil, a close relative of Dawid. Krzysiek and Dawid were betting on the second group to win, while Piotrek on the first. All three were waiting for the first shot.

Something peeked out from behind the wall. Karolinka pulled the trigger, but the bullet lodged in the plaster. Janek was able to safely run to the other side. Everyone exhaled in disappointment.

"Child, you have to shoot only when you see him against the wall," Piotrek snatched the air rifle from the girl. "And you, Grochol, could have already run those two meters instead of sneaking around like nobody knows who. We cover the distance in one leap, quickly and decisively. Otherwise, I'll start shooting at you.

" "Okay, change," Dawid informed both teams.

Karolinka stood behind the wall. Marcinek took the air rifle. He accidentally pulled the trigger, but the bullet flew a centimeter above the girl's head. Krzysiek jumped.

"She would have been finished already. Not bad, little one. "

Piotrek nodded to the next shooter.

It was a four-year-old from the first group. He couldn't even raise the barrel.

"Oh my..." whined Piotrek. "Just don't shoot one of your own."

Indeed, the little one wasn't very good with the gun. Marcinek had already run his distance, and he was just trying to see the front sight through the rear sight.

Krzysiek and Dawid couldn't stop laughing.

"It's better to shoot this one from a meter away right away." Next pair.

It was Kamil's turn. He was a bit more built and aimed with better skill. The four-year-old running past took a hit in the shoulder. He fell to the ground and cried. Dawid approached him and pushed him aside. The little one lay on the ground, screaming as the man tried to stop the bleeding.

"Someone else will run now; he'll wait for the next round.

" The next Red Beret shooter was just as skilled as the last. Piotrek just wanted to get rid of his "pawns" so he could see a more even fight.

"If only one of them had gotten a blow to the head, it would have gone faster," he whispered in Dawid's ear.

One of the Damians grabbed his air rifle. A four-year-old ran across the stage. He was hit squarely in the stomach. He writhed on the floor like a madman, bleeding profusely. Piotrek took the air rifle and finished him off. He simply shot him in the head.

"Damn it, can't you just settle this like this? You're playing with them like..."

Dawid walked up to him and grabbed his arm.

"Piotrek, aren't you overreacting? What are you doing?" He looked him straight in the eyes, trying to find a hint of resentment. Instead, they reeked of indifference. "Stop it. You're throwing them around like cards." His voice trembled involuntarily. "

You're just scared," Piotrek said. He loaded the air rifle for another shot.

Krzysiek approached them.

"Piotrek, let's stop this. This is pointless... this shooting." They'll be exhausted too quickly, and that's that. There won't be a single kid left by midnight.

Everyone stood in silence for a moment, looking around the room. They felt the cooling body of a dead four-year-old beneath their feet.

Dawid mentally considered everything they'd done so far. Glue instead of pudding. Four gladiators in solitary confinement. A broken man lying in a shower stall. Shooting people.

The sharp rhythms of Metallica's "Disposable Heroes" flowed from the tower. He realized that's what they were—them and these kids: throwaway heroes.

"Okay, fine," Piotrek said. "In a way, you're right. The skills aren't evenly matched for it to be anything interesting.

" "So we have to come up with something else," Krzysiek suggested.

"So we won't shoot anymore?" something muttered behind him.

When they turned around, they saw one of those "pawns" they didn't even know well.

"No, but maybe you could tell us now what else you'd like to do?" Piotrek asked with anger in his voice.

"I'd like to go home.

" "Not today," came the curt reply.

They sat down in the kitchen. They left the cadets in the largest room, with instructions not to touch anything under penalty of death. Before leaving, Krzysiek, who had always had limited trust in children, pointed to the dead four-year-old and said as matter-of-factly as he could: "You see, this is death, so I don't want anyone to be surprised later. If anyone touches my rook, death will be the best thing that could happen to them." After making sure everyone understood, he also took his air rifle, closed all the doors in the building, and went into the kitchen for a meeting.

They placed a few beers on the table, which they had luckily found in the bathroom cabinet.

They opened one bottle and poured themselves glasses, putting the other two in the fridge.

They sat and said nothing. They were just sipping lukewarm beer, which somehow tasted particularly bad. It was probably because they hadn't chilled it.

"What time is it?" Dawid asked, wanting to start a conversation. He had a watch on his wrist, but he couldn't take his eyes off the mouse that had just begun to crawl out from behind the junk piled in the corner of the room.

"Eleven-ten," Krzysiek informed him. "No... eleven.

" Without moving his head, he glanced at Piotrek. He waited to see what he would say next. The three of them knew each other perfectly, but this was one of those rare moments when they weren't sure what he wanted to do.

Piotrek finished his beer in one gulp. He stood up and started to reach into the fridge for another, but Dawid grabbed his arm and roughly yanked him back into his chair. At first, Dawid wanted to hit him again, but he sat down calmly.

Dawid rested his hands on the table and looked at Piotrek with bloodshot eyes.

"What do you want to do next?" Come on, tell me, because you came up with this whole show! What do you want to do now?

The man was clearly unmoved by this reaction. He didn't even raise his head, just smiled faintly. He mocked Dawid's reproaches and laughed silently at his almost panicky behavior.

Dawid was about to repeat the question when Piotrek finally spoke up:

"Krzysiek, remember when we organized exercises for those ragtag guys from the housing projects, three years ago?"

Dawid looked at Krzysiek questioningly. He didn't think this was the first time something like this had happened. He didn't ask what was going on, though, just waited for an answer.

"No," Krzysiek grumbled.

"You don't want to remember because you ran away. You don't know what happened next. "

Krzysiek's hand twitched involuntarily, almost knocking the glass to the floor.

"What do you mean? Nothing happened. It was over."

It seemed to Dawid and Krzysiek that Piotrek was about to burst into a mocking, derisive, and humiliating laugh, making them both want to sink into the ground. It took them a few seconds to realize he'd merely nodded slightly and licked his lips in a faint smile. He frowned and, in a low voice, began practically reciting the words, which hurt both Krzysiek and Dawid's stomachs. "

We were in the ruins of the old school then. Of the fourteen ten-year-olds, six remained," Piotrek took a sip of his beer, "and the boys were much stronger than the ones we're training today. Now I even feel sorry for them… although…"

Krzysiek and Dawid listened, speechless. If Piotrek had told them this in another place and time, they probably wouldn't have cared at all, perhaps they would have taken it as a joke, but now they wanted him to finish as quickly as possible.

"...I wanted to save the best for last. But I was so tired by then... Instead of a second floor in the old school, all that remained were walls and scraps of floor right next to the walls. We moved a few boards across the gap, and the real battle for the professionals began. Six boys stood on three boards and threw themselves down until only one remained. Unfortunately, the crossbars weren't very wide, and the chasm beneath them ended on the ground floor or in the basement... Unfortunately... None of them returned home under their own power.

A theatrical sigh escaped his lips, which turned into a muffled, yet loud and clear belch.

Krzysiek's eyes were closed, his right hand clenched around the bottle. If he had squeezed it into a fist, his nails would probably have drawn blood. Dawid assiduously concealed his anger, so as not to give Piotrek any satisfaction (though he knew in his heart that Piotrek was perfectly aware of it). He took a deep breath and said calmly,

"You're lying."

But his voice trembled. You know damn well it's true. Krzysiek, what do you think?

He took his hand off the bottle and placed it on his thigh. He closed his eyes. When he opened them, they were only narrow slits, his pupils bulging.

"So what do you want to do now? Finish them off like the others?"

Piotrek stood up and pulled a new bottle of beer from the fridge and poured it into the glasses. This time Dawid didn't interrupt him.

"Relax. We'll figure something out."

After a long conversation, all three agreed that the "training" had to end as soon as possible. Dawid and Krzysiek were surprised that Piotrek agreed with them so quickly. "Unfortunately, you're right about that," he said. "The terrain is more uncertain than it seemed. One poor guy in the shower is enough for us." The cousins ​​very effectively conveyed to him the dangers of continuing the fun, while avoiding any grounds for accusations of cowardice. The three of them walked around the building, checked the locks on the doors, and peeked into the house, where the birthday party was still going strong. "It's taking too long," Piotrek groaned. "Too long. Why aren't they all still asleep?" So they sat in the kitchen. They drank two cases of beer and kept trying to reach an understanding. Just to be safe, Dawid occasionally went out to check on their younger relatives.

It was thirty minutes after midnight when they entered the main room and woke the sleeping "cadets."

Piotrek agreed to end the "training" early; he seemed to have weakened his earlier belief that "the young ones haven't learned anything in those four hours." He began to agree with his cousins ​​at almost every suggestion. Dawid and Krzysiek also began to agree, which they took as a sign that they were finally beginning to understand each other. And like children, they were convinced that the only way out of the situation—a decent and attractive one—would be some kind of final showdown. A showdown that would determine the best.

"Get up, you lazybones!" Krzysiek yelled, opening the door.

The children jumped. Almost all of them were just beginning to wake up from their brief slumber. Only in the corner of the room sat two small figures, huddled together, chatting quietly. It was Karolinka and Tomek, who, out of nowhere, had conjured up a messy piece of cake and was licking the melting jelly.

Krzysiek briefly turned the tower on full blast to help the little ones recover.

It wasn't long before the entire eight-person crew stood at attention, lined up in a row. Each one was carefully observed by the three oldest boys.

Piotrek began speaking in a decisive, almost menacing tone. "

Listen. We've noticed—myself, Uncles Dawid and Krzysiek, that you've been through a lot and learned a lot. I could easily congratulate many of you on your skills. Before that happens, however, we need to analyze one last time whether you'll truly prove yourself as true commandos—which you certainly consider yourselves to be. Right?

" Concentrated heads nodded slightly in agreement.

"Who considers themselves a commando?"

All the children raised their hands. Some were quicker, others later, but all volunteered.

"Well... we'll see." Piotrek chuckled. He signaled for Dawid to brief them on the next exercises.

He marched imperiously down the line and looked at the tired but focused faces. He liked this discipline. The contrast between the children standing before him and the rabble they'd been dealing with in Grandma's living room—just the night before—was striking. He pursed his lips slightly in satisfaction, feeling a sense of pride in what the three of them had accomplished, even if he regretted it a bit.

"Time to wring your pants out of your pants and blow your noses, little ones." He paused to spit on the floor. "A crucial test of courage, action, and ruthlessness awaits you, so concentrate with all your might. In a moment, you'll be divided into two groups. Half of you will stay here… and you'll see what happens next. The rest will exit the door and flee as fast as you can. Understood?"

The children seemed to be having a hard time deciding which group they wanted to be in. Krzysiek didn't give them much time to think. He decided to organize the groups himself.

He walked among the children, pushing the chosen ones toward the door, and grouped them. He didn't hesitate; it was immediately obvious that he had previously discussed this with Piotrek. Not everyone was happy with this. Before he could herd one group of five out the door, he had to listen to a lot of complaining and crying. Only

Janek Fasol, Marcinek, two four-year-olds, and Tomek remained in the room.

Piotrek stepped out the door to the group of escaping students. They stood in the hallway, looking around, but they were waiting for him, having warned them not to leave until he gave them the signal.

"Listen," he exhaled cigarette smoke. It was only his second cigarette since he arrived. He surprised himself at how relaxed he was. "I know you're tired, but I advise you: run away, as fast as you can. And hide as deep as you can, even if you have to kick each other's asses. It's best if you split up; it's easier to hide on your own, and there's a better chance of escape." The seriousness of the words was as palpable as tobacco in the rising gray mist. "Try not to leave any traces. And remember: you can't get caught before morning. Do you have any questions?"

"What if someone catches me?" came the question, but Piotrek didn't notice who asked it.

"What?... Oh, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes then."

All faces fell silent for a moment.

"Okay," he glanced at his watch, "you can run. "

Little Damian turned around.

"Can we escape outside?"

Piotrek replied without hesitation:

"Sure..."

Although he knew perfectly well that every exit door in this building was locked.

The room fell into complete darkness. The terrifying darkness that descended suddenly, like the end of the world, was undoubtedly just as cruel. Black dots circled before his eyes like a swarm. The door opened for a moment, admitting a narrow sliver of light, but this did nothing to improve his vision. Footsteps echoed, signaling that someone else had entered the room, then stopped and slammed the door. Silence fell again, thick as fog. Pounding and defiant.

The boy was so frightened and disoriented that he stood still like a marble statuette, not daring to move. Something told him he couldn't give away his position, that he couldn't let himself be found. His heart was pounding wildly, his breathing was too loud and rapid, but he tried to control it. He was almost certain that his uncles, who were trying to keep them all, would surely hear. But for now, nothing happened.

He stood there for a long time. After a while, he was no longer sure where he was.

Was this a dream, or was he lying in his own bed? He'd once dreamed something similar. Somehow, he found himself in the dungeons of a great castle, in long, winding, dark corridors. And he knew that somewhere there lurked a giant wolf—a monster that devoured men. How terrified he had been then! The wolf sometimes passed by him, sniffed him, snarled, but they couldn't see each other, and the wolf couldn't recognize him. Now he felt the same way. But this time, opening his eyes wasn't enough to dispel the terror.

A knock.

Something moved in the distance. A strangled scream escaped someone, then a sob. He was caught and dragged somewhere. The door opened, but this time it didn't let in any light.

There wasn't even a sigh.

Only his own breathing, audible all too clearly, shallow and trembling.

The peace couldn't last. A few moments later, a glass bowl fell from the table and clattered, rolling across the floor. It didn't break, but almost simultaneously, someone thudded onto the floor next to it, shattering the vessel with their head.

A soft footstep rustled. It wasn't possible to hear much, even if you strained your ears. Inhale, exhale, steam from your mouth. It drowned out everything.

The boy seemed to regain control of his neck (for now, only that) and shook his head. He couldn't hear anything, but against the window he saw moving figures, silently exchanging words. They shook their heads, clapped their hands to their mouths, clearly laughing.

Something slapped against the surface of his shoe. He felt it was a piece of the cookie he was holding. One of the figures stopped and began listening. And also slowly approaching him.

Inhale, exhale, steam from his mouth. His heart pounded in his chest like a threatening, angry fist.

He had to run. If he wanted to survive, he had to hide somewhere, and ideally get out of this room.

If it weren't for fear. He thought he'd burst into tears, lie on the ground, and cry. Then he'd wake up, his mother would pat his head, "It was just a bad dream, don't be afraid..."

A mocking chuckle echoed through the room, gradually growing louder and louder into laughter. It was incredibly pure, biting, echoing off the walls and making the frightened children tremble. Tomek knew immediately that it was the laugh of the same man who had given him the cookie last night. It was the worst, the malicious, mocking one... but perhaps he liked it best. Sometimes it was funny. Before, he'd been almost completely unafraid of him—others had been afraid because he was mean, but he'd done nothing to Tom.

Until that moment. Tomek couldn't see him, but he could clearly feel his presence. He was so close. He could hear him laughing, and the laughter turned into a wheeze, the ominous growl of a monster wolf.

"Eeee..." squeaked one of the cousins. Probably Janek.

"Why don't you run away, brother?" Piotrek growled, slapping the little one with his open hand. "I thought you were tougher. Now you don't stand a chance." He pinned his younger relative to the ground with one hand, laughing, teasing him with his pseudo-aggressive behavior.

"You can't be afraid!" Krzysiek said, hidden in the corner of the room. "What kind of soldiers are you?

" "Go!" Piotrek roared directly into the poor guy's ear. If he had been visible, his eyes would surely have been bloodshot and shooting lightning in all directions. He growled like a wild animal and snorted.

The entire scene unfolded in absolute darkness, each of the "cadets" experiencing it differently. Janek was experiencing the horror of an encounter with the apparitions he had feared for as long as he could remember; he had completely forgotten about his uncles and his training, and was now struggling with his young, broken psyche. For some, it was a jungle, full of biting snakes and swarming with armed guards. Or perhaps a wolf's den.

Tomek hid under the table, taking advantage of his tormentors' distraction. He pulled himself together, trying to take advantage of being a child, small, agile, with a chance to escape from the worst nightmare. He didn't stop being afraid; on the contrary, fear fueled his determination, the desire to take action, but there was very little time for it. He was a child, and he would escape, just as he had escaped his parents' room when they put him to bed after dinner.

He sat under the table, praying that someone would leave the room before they found him.

Piotrek, Krzysiek, and Dawid approached a small couch placed in the corner. They were in the darkest corner of the room. The pale moonlight faintly illuminated the entire dance floor, so they could see almost everything without being noticed themselves. They scanned the room but paid little attention—they were confident; children were terrified of the dark. They noticed that this type of anxiety was a rather serious condition in this group (Piotrek had discovered this suspicion during a conversation in the back room; he had previously carefully observed the children's reactions—when they covered the windows, dimmed the lights, or briefly turned them off; of course, he decided to take advantage of this).

"What wimps," whispered Krzysiek. "I didn't think it would be so pathetic.

" "Don't worry about them," said Dawid. "The ones in the hallways are the most important. It was obvious from the start that those five would end up in the basement.

" Piotrek didn't say anything. He just watched.

"When are we going to turn on the lights?

" "Are you bored yet?" Piotrek asked. "If you want, we can turn on the lights in a moment. But what's the point?"

Krzysiek sat down on the couch and scratched his beard.

"I don't know, we'll lug them downstairs, then run after the other group. It'll be much more interesting. I don't know these corridors below us very well myself, but it will be interesting. Go open the window," he said to Dawid, "we need to air it out. It's stuffy in here, like a football locker room."

Piotrek turned to him.

"I don't want anyone jumping out of that window. That would look stupid from the outside.

" "Damn, I can turn on the ventilation," Krzysiek smiled. "We haven't used it in a while because no one's used the annex since the renovation. I'll be back in a moment."

He went out into the corridor; when he returned five minutes later, the fan in the wall was already spinning.

Piotrek and Dawid began to wander around the room, peering into various corners. There weren't many places to hide, so it didn't take long.

"Damn..." Piotrek muttered. He ran around the room again, peering into every corner, and into the back room where they'd lugged some of the "cadets." He ran to the other one and yanked the door open.

"What's going on?" Krzysiek asked.

"Piotrek, that door is..." Dawid stammered. He put his hand to his mouth, remembering something. But then he finished what he'd started. "...Locked. What are you looking for?"

"One of them ran away. The one with the cookie," he said through gritted teeth.

"Tomek?"

Piotrek nodded.

"That's the one." His eyes widened and sparkled. His gaze was directed toward the exit. "Krzysiek, you idiot, what have you done?"

Krzysiek, however, understood nothing of this. But he understood when Piotrek pointed to the door to the corridor, which was standing open.

"You left it open!" A piercing shriek tickled his eardrums. "What now?"

Before he could say anything in his defense, Piotrek ran out of the room.

"Krzysiek, come here..." Dawid was just unlocking one of the small rooms in the back. The one whose handle Piotrek had just been jiggling.

He flicked on the light inside. The hinges creaked, and the door slowly opened.

As they reached the threshold, both of them simultaneously began searching for a way to stop the vomit that had lodged in their throats. They were looking into the interior of the arena-like room, where five hours ago they had left the four boys chosen as gladiators to their own devices. Their reaction was entirely justified, as the sight was indeed unsatisfactory.

After vomiting into the kitchen sink, he rinsed everything off and put the faucet in his mouth. He didn't care that he was drinking unchlorinated water; he simply wanted to get the sour taste off his tongue and palate as quickly as possible. After guzzling almost a liter, he stood up and wiped his face with his shirtsleeve. He thought for a moment, then stuck his whole head under the tap. Maybe it would refresh him a bit.

"Are you finished yet?" came a voice from the bathroom. "Dawid, get out, I'm not going to wash myself in the toilet!"

A gurgling sound answered him. A moment later, spitting and grunting.

"Who would have thought those little guys would cut themselves into so many pieces?" Krzysiek opened the bathroom door. He rubbed his hands over his eyes, which seemed to belong to a sleep-deprived vampire, and tossed his wet hair back. He'd clearly gotten his head wet from the toilet flush. Maybe he'd even brushed his teeth with a rice brush.

Dawid also emerged from the stove and checked his watch.

"Piotrek ran out quite a while ago. Maybe we should join him too? There won't be anything to clean up after him soon.

" "Give me two more minutes."

Krzysiek stretched as hard as he could, his spine cracking like a semi-automatic rifle. He did a few bends, but his head began to spin and he sat down in a chair.

"The basement will be damned dark and damned cold." There's no heating there; even the stove is outside, behind the house, so I advise you to get some exercise before you go down there. Otherwise, you'll immediately go numb. I wonder if any of the youngsters have ventured down there.

"I think they're hiding somewhere on the ground floor," Dawid said, his lips twisting as he still felt a stinging sensation in his throat.

"Are you kidding? They don't stand a chance there..." he thought of Piotrek, who had been rummaging through the place for ten minutes. "They didn't stand a chance.

Indeed, almost every corridor, every room on the ground floor, every wardrobe alcove had already been thoroughly searched. Piotrek could sneak up silently and quickly, attack like an animal, paralyze them with fear. He surprised each of his younger cousins, wherever they hid. He played hide-and-seek with them; he searched, and they were tasked with hiding. He didn't bother with everyone else, just to leave something for Dawid and Krzysiek to do. The children's only hope was to escape from the outbuilding, and unfortunately, they couldn't do that.

But there was another option, one that Piotrek was aware of—truthfully, he was counting on it, though he doubted the little ones were brave and cunning enough. They could band together, or split up—it didn't matter…and attack. Try to overpower their pursuers. That was what he'd trained them for; if they'd observed him closely, they would have caught his rhythm long ago. They had to catch his rhythm to meet his expectations. He wanted to give them a chance; he could have crushed them like bugs right then and there, but he was determined to destroy these little monsters in battle.

He hated them, hated their parents, the cursed, false, shitty world they lived in. He hated them because he came from a family like that. He didn't know his parents. He was raised by nursery, teachers, and then the environment he lived in. Once, he met a man who showed him how to live, but—worst of all—he didn't take him in or change him, only put him to a severe test. (…Behind the bed, behind a pile of waste paper. Then up the stairs, straight up. Where is that trapdoor? I have to escape somehow, he'll catch up with me, he'll catch up with me soon. The little boy from the memory nervously looked around the attic. There was a lot of junk lying around here, he'd hide somewhere among it and they wouldn't find him. No, they definitely would. He had to find a way to the roof. He had to escape from the attic, from the grasping hands, from the dead bodies…) He had sentenced him to murderous exercises to eliminate wimps. But he had given him a chance and shown him a way. I'm sorry, little ones, I'm so anxious to see the looks on your parents' faces when they find your dead bodies. I don't think I'll pass up on this.

But I gave you a chance.

Water sloshed under his feet.

He had to curse under his breath. He was wearing black leather moccasins and he wasn't planning on taking them off tonight. He rolled up his pants, now trying to avoid puddles.

He crept down a dark, cold corridor, wondering if it might also be empty. He knew this was the only place where someone with common sense could hide. Almost every youngster had hidden in some corner of the warm ground-floor room, or climbed behind the trash can in the kitchen. Venturing here took courage, but it was the only thing that offered any hope of survival.

A pale light fell on the floor beneath his feet. To his right, a branch opened into the corridor, leading to small storage rooms. At its end was a small mesh window, which, when open, let in the moonlight. It allowed him to see the wet footprints leading straight ahead. Small feet had been walking this way not long ago.

"Who could that be?" he asked himself with a smile. "I'll cut off the little finger on my right hand if it's not little Tomuś!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. The echo echoed through the basement, along every corridor.

He stood there, waiting to hear the small footsteps of a frightened child in the distance. But no, the little one wasn't that stupid, Piotrek knew he wasn't. He wasn't as scared as the others, otherwise he wouldn't have escaped from the upstairs room. But at least it would be more interesting.

They were sitting in the downstairs bathroom. There were three of them: Damian Bruckeller, Karolinka, and Kamil. The other, Damian, was standing watch at the end of the hallway. Their plan was very well organized, a perfect refutation of Piotrek's thesis (that they had learned nothing) and at the same time fulfilling his great desire. Young Kopeć had come up with the idea, and he was the one who volunteered to be the alarm watchman. Everyone sat hunched over, scared, but determined. It was like playing cops and robbers in the backyard. Only more serious. For now, they were happy that they had half the job done – namely, they were holding an air rifle. Damian had found it when he tried to hide in the upstairs kitchenette. He couldn't find the ammunition can, so they only had one gun left in the magazine. He was lucky to join his friends in the bathroom, because his namesake was a better shot, and besides, he wouldn't have been able to handle it alone. Now he kept peeking out from behind the wall and nervously watching the stairs leading to the second floor. One of the pursuers must have descended down them.

"Already?" he heard a whisper from behind him. It was Kamil.

"No. If anyone comes, I'll run to you. Go hide, you'll ruin everything. And have someone watch the basement entrance.

" "Okay." The kid ran back to the bathroom.

Why isn't anyone coming? Maybe risk the stairs? We'll have a better view there.

He took a step, but then hid behind the doorframe. Something was moving there. He clutched his stomach to stop the uncomfortable knot in his stomach.

Kamil, panting, returned to the others. Damian Bruckeller held an air rifle in his hand, Karolinka a bucket filled with water.

"We have to prepare," he said. He tried to keep his voice serious. "An attack could come any minute."

He sat on a small stool and peered through the open door at the entrance to the corridor.

"Are you sure you'll hit?" Karolinka whispered to the shooter.

"Sure." He swallowed eloquently. "I've fired this gun hundreds of times."

Kamil held his hand over his mouth to keep from bursting into loud, childish laughter.

They waited.

When they heard Damian running, their hearts began to beat faster. He burst around the bend in the corridor and ran straight to the bathroom. His eyes were red, he was almost crying.

"They're coming, they're coming," he whined. "There are two of them! Uncle Dawid and Krzysiek.

" "What?" Kamil almost shouted.

"You have to pull one of them away," Karolinka said. "Otherwise they'll catch us."

Damian pondered for a moment.

"But where?

" "Turn off the light!" Kamil said. "Maybe they won't see us."

Damian turned on his heel and trotted toward the switch, which was located just at the entrance to the corridor.

The children let out a strangled squeal.

"Not there! Not there!"

But he was already at the stairs, reaching for the button.

…And he collided with Krzysiek, who was coming downstairs.

Krzysiek grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and lifted him.

“Ah, I got you!”

At that moment, the bathroom light went out.

“What now, yokel?” He turned to Dawid. “Look, those people are flying around like crazy in the hallway, and Piotrek didn’t notice him. What were you planning to do with that light? Turn it off? We’ll go to the dark room and leave you there.”

The boy struggled and struggled, but his older cousin was much stronger. He grabbed him roughly around the waist, squeezed his ribs with his arm, and steered him toward the lurking crew with the air rifle. Dawid followed him. He looked around, holding a kitchen knife in his hand.

“Now! Shoot!” the girl muttered to Bruckeller, who was trying to get a good aim.

They were so close now, but he still might have missed. The barrel was short, the weapon heavy. His hands were shaking terribly.

"Hey!" The uncle, with a knife like a slingshot, shot at them. He noticed them.

"Now, now!" Karolinka whimpered.

The six-year-old squeezed the trigger. The magazine popped, the bullet piercing Dawid's carotid artery and lodged in his spine. Blood sprayed the wall in a hot stream.

Krzysiek stood as if spellbound. He couldn't believe his eyes. When he felt a splash of cold water and a directed blow of soap to his chin, he realized it was an attack by young "commandos." He threw Damian against the wall and yanked at the barrel protruding from behind the sink. He was furious as a mad murderer.

Children ran around him, trying to fight him. They clung to him like a carousel, and he rolled into the dark bathroom, slamming them against the walls. The door closed; in the darkness, no one knew exactly what was happening. Krzysiek felt someone bite his leg, someone kick his ankle. He twisted his arm to throw the attacker off his back, but he hit a lamp and shattered the lampshade with his head. A shard of glass embedded itself in his temple.

"Get off, you damn monkeys! I'll kill you all." He panted heavily, hoarsely.

Every now and then, his knee would hit the edge of the shower stall or some protruding part painfully. But he knew the kids would take a much harder beating from his fists.

He stepped on a puddle of spilled water and slipped. He was left lying there with Damian clinging to his neck, the others kicking him as hard as they could in the body

. "You've become so aggressive!" he hissed. "You little bastards, I'll give you that."

He crawled, just to get out of the bathroom. He elbowed the little attacker away. When he put his hand on the floor, he felt Dawid's kitchen knife.

"You got it, you got it!" the children shouted. Karolinka furiously tore his hair, Kamil scratched and bit his back.

Krzysiek looked at the large, gleaming blade.

"Well, that's it for you... cadets..."

The wet footprints stretched for almost ten meters further down the corridor. There weren't as many puddles left, so they disappeared. Piotrek continued walking. If he remembered correctly, there was only a dead end at the end. A terrible darkness enveloped him, but he didn't turn on the light. He would do so at the last moment. He listened carefully—the basement was perfectly silent. Tomek had likely realized he was trapped and remained motionless. He clearly hoped his attacker would bypass him, unnoticed in the darkness.

Piotrek had already approached the last corner.

Splash, splash. Something moved very quietly. I've got you, Piotrek thought. He turned on the light and entered the potato shed that closed off the corridor.

There was no one there. Just a single rat, secretly munching on some filth.

Piotrek stopped dead in his tracks.

"How?" he asked himself aloud. "Again..."

He turned and ran back. He ran at top speed, unconcerned about the puddles.

He stopped at a fork in the road and looked at the tracks. The floor was concrete, so they lingered on the rough surface for a long time. The moon had clouded over a bit, and the puddle reflected less light. He looked at the branch…

The window. The wire mesh was slightly open. As if someone had been leaving and hadn't closed it. Why hadn't he noticed it before? He had, but the tracks had deceived him. The little trickster had come back here and… "

Ran away." He shook his head, signaling that he couldn't allow that to occur to him. "Through the window."

He clenched his fists.

There's always… there's always one left, he told himself. He remembered how he had once been the only one who had managed to escape from a similar exercise (…There is, there is an exit. A hatch onto the roof. With his small hands, he had to lift the heavy hatch. He pulled a chair over himself and pressed his whole body against it, then slightly opened it. He propped the hatch on a wooden block and squeezed through. He was small, so he squeezed through. He tore his entire left hip in the process, but he freed himself. He spent the entire next day on the roof, terrified. When everyone had left, he revealed himself and was brought down. He had survived so that someday he could organize the same thing he had to go through…).

"So that was him."

He laughed almost hysterically and headed for the exit. Despite all the doubts, flaws in the methods, and unfavorable fate, the classification had been carried out correctly. Of course, taking into account that Dawid and Krzysiek had dealt with the few survivors who remained on the ground floor.

"And what do you think, dear parents? Did I entertain your children well?" You miserable pigs!" he shouted, climbing the stairs to the ground floor. "Now all we have to do is find a few bottles of Absolwent and celebrate. Krzysiek, Dawid! Where are you?"

"Here," a voice answered him from down the hall. It seemed to be coming from the bathroom. Krzysiek was sitting on the ground, wrapping a towel around his arm. He was holding a roll of bandages to his head. As Piotrek approached, he noticed five bodies lying on the ground. Among them was Dawid's.

"There's a lot of blood here..." he observed. His gaze seemed indifferent, but his eyes were moist. "What happened?" He cleared his throat. He spat on the floor.

Krzysiek rolled down his shirt sleeves—his bandaged arm didn't look so bad.

"There was nothing I could do.

" "I know. Come on, we have to get going."

He got up from the ground. He grabbed his jacket from the upstairs room, and the two of them left the building.

They crossed the square and stopped at the staircase. It was so quiet. Only the occasional faint hum of a passing car drifted from the street. The glow of the starry sky reflected in the gleaming bodies of the cars parked in front of the house. A lantern illuminated the rocky bottom of a small, ornamental pool. Piotrek pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. Krzysiek wanted to refuse, but the smell of tobacco was too strong. They stared at the sky for a few minutes, exhaling puffs of smoke. After discarding the cigarette butts, they decided to go inside.

They encountered no one in the hallway. They explored the guest room, finding only partially cleared tables and Uncle Heniek lying under one of them. Loud snoring echoed from every other room.

They wandered through the house, and an atmosphere of blissful oblivion pervaded the house, accentuated by gasps and sighs. Upstairs, they came upon one of the aunts, rushing to the bathroom in plush slippers. She paid them no mind; she looked like a sleepwalker. They exchanged knowing glances, but held back their laughter.

They found a bottle of wine on the kitchen sideboard. They were very thirsty, so they downed it in several long gulps. Just as they were about to leave, Grandma appeared.

"Boys, what are you still doing here?

" "We're going to bed now. We just wanted some milk before bed; we're terribly parched," Krzysiek replied.

They got up and headed for the tiny bedroom they were supposed to occupy. They heard Grandma's voice:

"Have you seen little Marcinek or Damian by any chance? Their parents asked if they had a place to sleep. I told them they were with you.

" "You did the right thing, Grandma," Piotrek exclaimed.

The room, surprisingly, was unoccupied. Krzysiek locked it, but in this house, that wasn't a guarantee.

In their clothes, they lay down on the same bed; it wasn't very comfortable; they both fell off it in their sleep anyway. They didn't care what would happen tomorrow. Because what else was there to do? Piotrek would go home with his parents; Krzysiek would stay here, waiting for the next opportunity when they could meet again. They would get through this. They're definitely doing fine.

END