Page 27 of Outbreak Protocol

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

FELIX

The morning air feels electric with urgency as I zip up my field jacket. Four search teams already deploy across Hamburg's eastern districts, but Erik and I focus on coordinating from the makeshift command post in the medical centre's parking lot.

"Team Two reports negative in Eimsbüttel," Erik says, marking another red X on our city map. "No unusual avian activity."

I rub my tired eyes. Three days of searching has yielded nothing but false alarms and dead ends. The parrot—our one hope for developing a treatment—remains frustratingly elusive. Meanwhile, the death toll climbs hourly.

"What about the pet shops?" I ask.

"Santos has military units checking every registered exotic pet dealer and bird sanctuary within the containment zone." Erik taps his tablet. "Nothing yet."

Emma sits nearby on a folding chair, colouring in a book Santos provided. We couldn't bear to leave her in the military childcare facility—not with whispers of evacuation growing louder each day. She looks up and catches me watching.

"Are you going to find the magic bird today?" she asks.

I squat beside her. "We're certainly trying."

"If I was a parrot, I'd go where there are trees and other birds," she says matter-of-factly. "Like the park where Mama takes me."

Erik and I exchange glances. We've prioritized residential areas and animal facilities, but perhaps we're overlooking the obvious.

"Out of the mouths of babes," Erik murmurs.

Sarah approaches, removing her mask as she enters our clean zone. "The latest samples show even more accelerated mutation. Whatever time we thought we had? Cut it in half."

Before I can respond, Erik's phone buzzes. He answers, his face growing increasingly animated.

"Yes... describe it again... grey with a red tail? Where exactly?"

My pulse quickens as he ends the call. "What is it?"

"Anonymous tip through the civilian hotline. Someone spotted an unusual bird in Planten un Blomen—matches our African Grey description."

"The botanical garden?" I glance at the map. "That's central, easily accessible from Klaus Richter's apartment."

"And full of trees and other birds," Erik adds, nodding at Emma.

I turn to Sarah. "Can you—"

"I'll watch Emma," she interrupts. "Go."

Within twenty minutes, we're suited up in full hazmat gear, our transport pulling up to the southern entrance of Planten un Blomen. The once-bustling park stands eerily empty, its carefully manicured gardens and pathways abandoned in the quarantine.

"Coordinates place the sighting near the Japanese Garden," Erik says through his comm system. "Approximately 300 meters northeast. "

We move cautiously through the silent park, our suits rustling with each step. Despite the apocalyptic circumstances, the gardens remain vibrant with early spring growth—a strange contrast to the dying city around us.

"Felix," Erik's voice crackles in my earpiece. "What if we find it? How do we capture a potentially infected, almost certainly terrified wild bird?"

"I'm a doctor, not a bird catcher," I admit. "But we brought nets, cages, and sedative darts. Between the two of us, we should manage."

"Between the epidemiologist and the emergency physician," he says with a hint of dark humor. "I'm sure wildlife specialists everywhere are thrilled."

We approach the Japanese Garden, with its ornamental bridge and carefully placed stones. A flash of movement catches my eye—something grey darting between bamboo stands.

"There," I whisper, pointing. "Ten o'clock."

Erik moves slowly, raising his binoculars. "Confirmed. African Grey. Distinctive red tail feathers."

My heart pounds against my ribs. After days of searching, it feels surreal to actually find our target. "How do we approach without spooking it?"

"Carefully," Erik says. "Let's circle around. You approach from the north, I'll come from the south. Keep the net ready."

We separate, moving with exaggerated slowness despite the urgency pulsing through my veins. Every second counts, but startling the bird would reset our search to zero.

Through gaps in the bamboo, I spot the parrot perched on a stone lantern. It appears remarkably healthy—no visible signs of illness despite potentially carrying a virus with a 70% human fatality rate.

"In position," Erik whispers through the comm.

"Ready on three," I respond. "One... two..."

Before I can say "three," a distant helicopter passes overhead. The parrot startles, wings flapping as it prepares to flee .

"Now!" I shout, lunging forward with the net extended.

The bird takes flight, but not before I manage to sweep the net upward, catching it mid-takeoff. Wings flap frantically against the mesh as I struggle to secure the opening.

"Got it!" I call out.

Erik rushes to my side, holding open the specially designed containment carrier. "Quick, before it damages the net!"

I maneuver the trapped bird toward the carrier opening, trying to control its frantic movements without hurting it. The parrot fights viciously, its sharp beak and talons slashing at the net.

"Easy," I murmur uselessly, knowing the bird can't understand. "We're trying to help."

With a final push, the parrot tumbles into the carrier, and Erik securely closes the door. We stare at each other through our face shields, momentary disbelief giving way to elation.

"We did it," I breathe. "We actually found it."

Erik nods, his eyes crinkling with a smile behind his protective gear. "Sarah needs to see this immediately. This could be the breakthrough we need."

I reach for my comm to report our success when a sharp pain lances through my left forearm. Glancing down, I notice something that turns my blood to ice—the sleeve of my hazmat suit has a small tear, and blood wells from a scratch beneath it.

"Erik," I say, my voice unnaturally calm. "We have a problem."

He follows my gaze, and his face transforms from triumph to horror in an instant.

"When did that happen?" he asks, his voice tight.

"Must have been during the capture. Its talons must have caught the material."

Erik immediately activates his emergency comm. "This is Dr. Lindqvist. We've secured the target specimen but have a potential exposure event. Dr. Müller's suit has been compromised. Requesting immediate extraction and isolation protocols. "

The reality hasn't fully registered yet.

I stare at the small tear, the blood slowly seeping through, feeling strangely detached from the situation.

Part of me—the doctor part—clinically tallies what this means: exposure to a pathogen with a 71% fatality rate, symptoms beginning within 48 hours, severe neurological manifestations by day four, hemorrhagic complications by day six, death likely by day eight.

"Felix," Erik's voice breaks through my clinical detachment. "Felix, look at me."

I raise my eyes to his. Behind his face shield, his expression holds a desperate intensity I've never seen before.

"This doesn't mean anything yet," he says fiercely. "The bird might not be actively shedding virus. Even if it is, we don't know if this exposure is sufficient for transmission. And even if it is—we have the bird now. We can develop treatments."

But we both know the timeline. Even with the parrot, developing and testing treatments will take weeks, maybe months. I have days.

Military vehicles screech to a halt at the park entrance, and personnel in even heavier containment gear than ours approach rapidly.

"Dr. Müller, please remain stationary," a voice commands through a speaker system. "We're implementing quarantine protocols."

Erik clutches the carrier containing our precious parrot. "I need to accompany the specimen to the laboratory immediately."

"Negative, Doctor. You've been in proximity to a potential exposure event. You'll both undergo decontamination before—"

"Listen carefully," Erik interrupts with cold authority.

"This specimen represents our only hope for developing a treatment.

Every minute it remains outside laboratory conditions compromises our research.

You will provide separate transport for this carrier to Dr. Brennan immediately, or I will personally ensure General Morrison understands why the death of five million people is on your hands. "

The military team hesitates, then the leader nods. "Separate transport for the specimen, but you're both coming with us for quarantine."

They approach with a containment stretcher—the kind used for confirmed infections. I want to protest that I can walk, that I'm not symptomatic, that this level of precaution seems premature. But the rational part of my brain knows they're right.

As they prepare to load me onto the stretcher, Erik steps closer, ignoring the warnings from the military team.

"Felix," he says, his voice breaking slightly. "I'll be right behind you. We'll figure this out."

"Take care of Emma," I reply, the first tendrils of fear finally penetrating my professional detachment. "Promise me."

"Don't talk like that. This isn't—"

"Promise me, Erik."

His eyes lock with mine through our visors. "I promise. But it won't come to that."

As they wheel me toward the waiting vehicle, I catch a final glimpse of Erik standing alone in the garden, the carrier containing our captured parrot already being whisked away by another team. His tall figure seems suddenly vulnerable in the vast emptiness of the abandoned park.

The vehicle doors close, and I'm sealed inside a mobile isolation unit, surrounded by personnel I can barely distinguish through their identical protective gear. The stretcher locks into place as we begin moving.

"Where are we going?" I ask the nearest figure.

"Military containment facility," comes the impersonal reply. "Full quarantine protocols."

I close my eyes, trying to process how quickly everything has changed. An hour ago, I was coordinating search teams, holding onto hope. Now I'm potentially infected, separated from Erik and Emma, headed for isolation where I've watched so many patients die.

The scratch on my arm seems insignificant—a tiny tear in the fabric, a small line of blood already clotting. Such a small thing to potentially end a life. My life.

Images flash through my mind: Emma asking me to read her another story, Anna's smile when I brought her coffee during long shifts, my mother's garden in Munich that I promised to visit this summer, Erik's face as he slept beside me just this morning.

I think of all the patients I've treated during this outbreak, how I held their hands as they struggled to breathe, how I promised them we were doing everything possible. I wonder who will hold my hand if—when—the symptoms begin.

The vehicle stops, and I'm wheeled through a series of airlocks and decontamination chambers. Finally, we arrive at a stark white room with a hospital bed, monitoring equipment, and reinforced glass walls. A containment room—I've seen them before, but never from this perspective.

"Dr. Müller, please transfer to the bed," instructs a voice through the intercom. "We'll begin baseline assessments immediately."

As I comply, I notice another containment room across the corridor through the glass. Empty, presumably waiting for Erik. The military team exits through an airlock, leaving me alone in the sealed environment.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the small scratch on my arm that may have just sealed my fate. The silence presses in, broken only by the soft hum of air filtration systems.

A lifetime of training has taught me to remain calm in emergencies, to focus on what can be done rather than what might happen. But now, alone in this sterile room, I find myself unable to maintain that professional distance. A tremor runs through my hands as I cover my face.

"Please," I whisper to the empty room, unsure who or what I'm addressing. "Please, not now. Not when I've just found them. Not when they need me."

Through the glass, I see Erik being led to the adjacent containment room. Our eyes meet across the space between us, and I press my palm against the glass. He mirrors the gesture, his expression fierce with determination.

Even through two layers of reinforced glass, I can read his lips clearly:

"I'm not giving up."

With those four words, I feel something inside me straighten and strengthen. If there's anyone in the world who can defy statistical probability and find a solution in an impossible situation, it's Erik Lindqvist.

And if there's anything I've learned as a doctor, it's that hope, however fragile, is sometimes the most powerful medicine we have.

I straighten my shoulders and prepare to face whatever comes next—not just as a patient, but as a doctor who might still have something to contribute to finding a cure. For Emma. For Hamburg. For every patient I couldn't save before.

For the chance to wake up beside Erik again.