The invasion

We are the last that we know of. There may be others out there somewhere, but I doubt it. They were that ruthless. There are fewer than a hundred of us left now.

They turned on us in the night. We weren't prepared. We'd spent so long aiming at each other that we hadn't noticed who the real enemy was. They moved among us at first, mimicking us expertly. We didn't see the stripes on the tiger, nor the lure dangling before the ragged jaws of the angler fish.

We're underground now, forced down in some old bunker connected to a mine shaft. It seems secure, but we just don't know. We don't know how determined They are to wipe us out, whether They're content to just let us huddle down here out of their way. Our thirst is slaked by mildewed condensation, our hunger staved off by mushrooms and thin gruels. I don't know for how long we can survive like this. One of the women is pregnant - I confess that I don't know her name - no-one yet has had the heart to discuss with her the fact that her baby will probably not survive. But I will not waste any more of your time.

This is not a plea for help; it is our epitaph. I end by wishing you luck if you are one of us and damning you to Hell if you are one of Them, for if you are reading this then we are probably already dead.