In the last hours, we could see them gathering from where we hid, tucked away in the valley, preparing to scratch out some sort of shelter from basements and the remnants of war-time bomb shelters.

They were gathering at the top of the small town’s highest peak, as though they meant to personally great Armageddon with chanting and upturned faces. It was eerie, watching them, before we battoned down our own hatches. It was as though they had given up all hope for survival, and that fact alone made me feel as though the world had already been lost.

As we closed the doors to the rest of the word, I could, if I strained my ears to hear it, faintly make out the sound of music floating down the hill, coating the land with the despair and solitude that gripped, I’m sure, all of our hearts.

Even from underground, the sound of the impact was tremendous. The pressure and noise and shaking that followed made our ears pop and our noses bleed.

After it was over, I opened my eyes and wondered if I was dead.