I laid in my bed restlessly, trying to dispel the images in my head. My makeshift bedding held no comfort, and I tossed and turned as I relived bygone battles.

When the Farseers attacked three years ago, they vaporised our cities from orbit, committing genocide on an scale not seen since Hitler. Billions died. The military was disorganised, communications lost to the aliens. We were unprepared for the second wave, as thousands of dropships deployed soldiers across the continent. The Farseers were superior in every way to our dysfunctional military, wiping out pockets of resistance and survivors alike.

For the last three years, me and my squad have been sweeping the countryside for any survivors and making hit-and-run raids on the Farseers. I’ve seen a lot of atrocities and horrors in that time, and as time goes on, the number of people we find diminishes, as does the number of soldiers in my squad. But there is still hope, for we’re still alive. I just don’t know for how long though.