Inspired by an anon reviewer on my other look at zombies and the cast of Sherlock. I sat down and wrote these chapters over the course of a night in my good old notebook. So many thanks Gottle O' Gear, Bottle O' Beer.
Disclaimer for everything: I own no one and nothing presented. I don't even own Iris Shores, the loan companies do.
We don't know why, but the majority of London succumbed to the infection. To zombism.
One day, the dead were dead. The next day, I was using the crowbar in my trunk on every patient- and my coworkers. Working Pediatrics like I did, it damn near broke my heart. (Until I started in on the snooty residents- that was more satisfying than sad.)
I've always been healthy. We all were always healthy. That's why we're here, sitting in the 221B Baker St. As survivors. Not that there are many of us.
My goal is to leave a trace of our struggle. The struggle of some extraordinary people. If nothing else, when this is all over (God can't let this go on forever, can He?) remember the Baker St. Irregulars.
-Iris Shores, RN BSN.