The Unblemished- Subtle Invasion (Conrad Williams) ending

They might get home and drink a little more than usual, or make love to their partners with a touch, almost, of desperation. There was the nebulous sense of danger thwarted, violence dodged. But it was nothing unusual for someone living in the city. Living in London, you understood death's timetable intuitively. They knew what could happen and how nasty it could be. There was always the feeling that death was on another tube or bus or waiting im a park in the shadows. You got up each morning and kissed your loved ones good-bye and then you went out and gambled with death. Death was somewhere in the city, wearing one of its billion costumes. The game was avoiding death by going about your life as if nothing was going to happen. You get home and it was good to be alive.1

The first wave was frail. It was overwhelmed by the lights and sounds and pollution. It was shocked by the brashness of its foe, the way they drank and swore and fought and fucked and worked with a fervour that was like unfettered flame. The first dribs and drabs were like turtles just hatched, making an insane charge for the sanctity of the sea. There was too much here to pick them off. They succumbed easily to the capital's night breeds; its muggers and vandals, its sex offenders and violators. The dead were consumed by their own: easy pickings.2

But despite the woundings and the ugly surprises, they understood what it meant to hide. They knew how to bide their time and recognised that their time had come again. Half a millennium was not long to wait, really; a couple more weeks in the dark was nothing to them. So they waited, and watched, and learned, and grew stronger. They, more than most, understood that the city was up for grabs. Nobody truly owns the city. Nobody belongs. Everyone is in kind of transit or another. Know that and you have the upper hand on your enemy.