Screaming. Something's wrong. Something's so deeply wrong you wouldn't really believe me if I told you. Well, fuck it, I'm going to tell you anyway. I'm sorry for the hasty writing, but I don't have much time and I could be taken at any moment. Well, it's not going well, so I'm sure I won't live long enough to tell these stories, and I'm very sorry dear. Wish it didn't have to be this way. Right now I hear gunshots and screaming and shouting, and I fell a little guilty for just sitting still and doing nothing, but I need to write to you in case I die out there in a bit.
Well, the thing that's wrong is the fact that no matter how many people we shoot, they never really seem to get harmed. They don't lose men, but we sure do. We're already more than half down, and I am afraid of being next, because I would rather overcome the threat than to die because of it. It's wrong and I want you to find out why, even though I will never hear the reason.
Oh God, they're coming closer, they're in the house, I love you my love, don't you forget it.