Somehow, we keep surviving. Survivor's guilt is the worst kind of guilt.
Molly and I spend our days caring for injuries. John would help us, but he's still the best fighter.
Mrs. Hudson, Sally, and Mrs. Holmes cook and clean, surprisingly. Mrs. Hudson is becoming our housekeeper. Then men, and Anthea, spend their days either learning new weapons, practicing, or foraging.
To keep our spirits up, they made a special raid one day. My cat, Molly's dog, Sally's ferret, and Mrs. Homles' dogs were all rescued. They made an effort to secure our flats and homes as well. Now I know once this all ends, we can go home again.
Thank God (should I be thanking Him?) it doesn't spread by bites. The zombism. And they have no interest in animals. After the initial pandemic, it just stopped. Anyone who dies still rises again, and they must be flooding England. There's no shortage. If anything, there's more.
We unanimously agreed not to look in on our families. None of us could bear any more heartbreak. For now, hope is enough.
The other survivors are nearby. We hardly see them, but we know they're alive. We've formed our own little family here in 221 Baker St. No matter what, we'll always have each other.
Whoever finds this record, I hope all is well in your time if we aren't alive to see it. Who knows, maybe one day this will all suddenly reverse, the way it suddenly started.
Signing off,
IS, RN, BSN