The Last Hour — Tara Brown

From the trees, I can smell them -- smell their fear. They're scared as they scurry like animals. They look different now. Clothes are ripped. Hair is dirty. It's not them I'm watching for. They don't know it, but I'm watching over them. They move silently, not making noise. It's a different world. Everything is quiet. The prey moves differently here. The others listen -- always listening. Silence was survival. But what are we all surviving for?