Page 25 of Outbreak Protocol
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
ERIK
A grey sky weeps over Hamburg's Ohlsdorf Cemetery, the rain as fine as mist. We stand—Felix, Emma, and I—beneath a black umbrella, watching Anna's simple coffin lower into the sodden earth.
There are no flowers, no elaborate casket, no funeral home director in formal attire.
Just a chaplain speaking hurried words, a grave digger waiting impatiently, and us—the makeshift family Anna left behind.
I hold Emma's small hand in mine. She hasn't cried today.
She exhausted her tears three days ago when Felix sat her down and told her that her mother was gone.
Now she stands between us, solemn in a navy blue dress that's slightly too large, her face a mask of preternatural composure that breaks my heart more than tears would.
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust," the chaplain intones, glancing nervously at his watch. He has seven more funerals today. Death has become an assembly line.
Felix's jaw tightens. I know he fought for this moment— argued with hospital administrators, pulled strings with old medical school contacts, even threatened to go to the press.
In a city where bodies are being mass-cremated, the fact that we're standing at an individual grave represents a minor miracle of his determination.
"Would anyone like to say a few words?" the chaplain asks, already closing his prayer book.
Felix steps forward. "Anna Richter saved lives every day.
Not just as a nurse, but as a mother, a friend, a colleague.
" His voice catches. "She showed me what it means to truly care for patients—not just treat them.
And she raised the most extraordinary daughter.
" He looks down at Emma, whose tiny fingers tighten around mine.
"I promise you, Anna, she will be loved.
She will be safe. She will know how amazing her mother was. "
The chaplain nods, mumbles a final blessing, and hurries off to his next service. The grave digger approaches with his shovel, barely waiting for us to step back before he begins filling in the grave.
"That's it?" Emma asks, her voice small but indignant. "We don't even get to throw dirt?"
The grave digger pauses, surprised. After a moment, he offers her the shovel.
Emma takes it—it's almost as tall as she is—and awkwardly scoops a bit of the wet earth, tipping it onto the coffin with a hollow thud. She hands the shovel to Felix, who does the same, then passes it to me.
The cold wooden handle feels substantial in my hands.
I haven't been to a funeral since Astrid's, and memories wash over me—my parents' rigid postures, the formal Swedish hymns, the endless receiving line of mourners offering condolences that felt like sandpaper against raw skin.
This hasty ceremony in the rain couldn't be more different, yet the weight of finality feels the same.
I drop my handful of earth and return the shovel to the grave digger, who continues his work without comment .
"Let's go home," Felix says softly.
Home. The word resonates strangely. Two weeks ago, "home" meant my sterile apartment in Stockholm with its minimalist furniture and wall of academic awards.
Now it means Felix's cluttered flat in Altona, with Emma's drawings magnetted to the refrigerator and three toothbrushes in a cup by the bathroom sink.
In the car, Emma sits quietly in the back seat, staring out at the empty streets.
Hamburg looks abandoned—shops shuttered, playgrounds deserted, balconies vacant of the usual smokers and sunbathers.
Only military vehicles move with purpose, armed soldiers in hazmat gear at checkpoints and intersections.
"The lawyer confirmed everything yesterday," Felix says quietly as he drives. "Anna's will was very clear. She wanted me to have full custody."
I nod. I'd been present when he'd conducted the video call with Anna's attorney, watching Felix sign the guardianship papers with a steady hand that belied the emotion in his eyes.
"You're officially a father," I say.
He glances in the rearview mirror at Emma. "I've been thinking of it more as becoming her family. She already had a father who abandoned her and a mother she lost. I don't want to replace either."
I understand what he means. Emma doesn't need a replacement parent; she needs people who will stay.
Something shifts in my chest as I realize I want to be one of those people.
I haven't signed any papers or made any legal commitments, but somehow, in the chaos of this pandemic, I've become part of this unlikely family unit.
"They're bringing in more troops," Felix observes as we pass a convoy of NATO vehicles. "It's starting to feel like occupation rather than assistance."
"The civilian infrastructure is collapsing," I say. "They're filling the void."
"That's what worries me. "
We pull into the underground parking garage of Felix's building.
As we ride the elevator up, Emma reaches for my hand again, a gesture that's become habitual over the past week.
Her small fingers curl into mine, and I marvel at how natural it feels now, this physical connection that would have made me profoundly uncomfortable just weeks ago.
The elevator doors open to reveal Colonel Santos waiting in the hallway outside Felix's apartment.
"Dr. Lindqvist, Dr. Müller," she says with a curt nod. "I apologize for intruding on your day of mourning, but General Morrison has called an emergency briefing. Your presence is requested immediately."
Felix's arm goes protectively around Emma's shoulders. "We've just come from a funeral. Surely this can wait a few hours."
Santos's expression softens slightly as she looks at Emma. "I'm very sorry for your loss, young lady." Then to Felix: "I wouldn't be here if it could wait. The situation has escalated significantly."
"I can't leave Emma alone," Felix insists.
"Bring her," Santos says. "We've set up a secure area for children of essential personnel."
Felix and I exchange a glance. The fact that they've established childcare facilities at military headquarters suggests they're planning for a long-term operation.
"Let me pack her a bag," Felix says.
Twenty minutes later, we're in a military vehicle heading toward the harbour, where NATO has commandeered the cruise terminal as their command centre.
Through the tinted windows, I watch the city pass by—a ghost town dotted with military checkpoints.
Occasionally we see civilians hurrying with suitcases or backpacks, desperate attempts at evacuation before the quarantine becomes absolute.
"Are those people trying to leave?" Emma asks, pointing at a family loading bags into a station wagon .
"Yes," Santos answers before either Felix or I can respond. "But they won't get far. All routes out of the metropolitan area are now controlled. No one enters or leaves without military clearance and full decontamination protocols."
"So we're trapped?" Emma's voice rises slightly.
Felix shoots Santos a reproachful look. "Not trapped, Emma. Protected. The soldiers are here to keep the virus from spreading to other cities."
Emma doesn't look convinced, and I don't blame her. The concrete barriers, razor wire, and armed personnel at each intersection don't project safety—they project containment.
At the terminal, Santos escorts us through layers of security. Military personnel in various uniforms hustle through the converted spaces, many wearing insignia I don't recognize—NATO special forces, biological threat response teams, communications units from a dozen different countries.
"The childcare area is here," Santos says, leading us to what was once a passenger lounge. It's been repurposed with toys, books, and small cots. Only three other children are present, supervised by two caregivers in military uniforms. "Emma will be safe here while we brief you."
Felix kneels to eye level with Emma. "We won't be long. These nice people will look after you, and then we'll go home and have pizza for dinner, okay?"
Emma hugs him tightly. "Promise you'll come back?"
The question hits like a physical blow. Of course she would ask that—everyone else in her life has disappeared.
"We will always come back to you," I say firmly, surprising myself with the conviction in my voice. "Always."
She nods solemnly and allows the caregiver to lead her toward a table where the other children are drawing.
Santos leads us deeper into the complex, to a conference room where General Morrison stands before a digital map display. Dr. Sarah Brennan sits at the table, her face drawn with exhaustion, along with several military officers I don't recognize .
"Gentlemen, thank you for joining us," Morrison says without preamble. "Dr. Brennan has completed her analysis of the latest viral samples. The news isn't good."
Sarah looks up at us, her normally vibrant presence diminished by fatigue. "The R-naught has increased to 10.2. We're seeing shorter incubation periods and even higher viral loads in recently infected patients. The virus is adapting faster than anything I've ever encountered."
"Translation for my non-scientific colleagues," Morrison interjects. "This thing is spreading faster and killing more efficiently with each generation at an unprecedented rate. Nothing has killed like it before in recorded human history."
"Current infection count?" I ask, already dreading the answer.
An officer taps his tablet, and figures appear on the wall display. "Confirmed cases in the Hamburg metropolitan area now exceed two million. Estimated actual infections are likely double that number, given limited testing capacity."
The numbers stagger me. Nearly one in two Hamburg residents infected in a matter of weeks. With a 71% mortality rate, we're looking at the death of a city.
"The African Grey connection?" Felix asks. "Any progress there?"