Page 28 of Outbreak Protocol

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ERIK

I press my forehead against the observation window, my breath fogging the glass in rhythmic patches that appear and disappear like Felix's chances.

Behind me, our makeshift laboratory buzzes with activity—centrifuges whirring, computer screens displaying protein models, my team calling out results in clipped, urgent tones.

But I can't look away from Felix.

"Is he going to be okay?" Emma's small voice breaks through my thoughts. She stands beside me, her head barely reaching my elbow, fingers splayed against the glass.

I should lie to her. I should offer comforting platitudes about how doctors always get better, how Felix is strong, how everything will be fine. But looking into those eyes—Anna's eyes—I can't bring myself to do it.

"I don't know, Emma." I kneel down to her level. "But everyone in this building is working to make sure he does."

She nods solemnly, a child who's already seen too much death to believe in easy reassurances. "He promised he wouldn't leave me."

"Felix keeps his promises," I say, and that, at least, feels true.

Behind the glass, Felix lies motionless, intubated and sedated, his skin already showing the first mottled signs of hemorrhaging beneath the surface.

The virus works with horrifying efficiency—twelve hours after exposure, his fever spiked to 40.

2°C, followed by the seizure that prompted the medical team to induce the coma.

Now machines breathe for him while we race against cellular death.

"Dr. Lindqvist," Sarah's voice cuts through my thoughts. "We have preliminary results from the parrot's antibody profile."

I squeeze Emma's shoulder. "I need to help them now. Can you stay here with Lieutenant Hertz?” I gesture to the young soldier who's been assigned to watch over Emma.

Emma nods, her small face set with determination. "Help Felix."

I join Sarah at the analysis station, where Yuki and Aleksandr are already reviewing data sets. The parrot—sedated and housed in a specialized containment unit—has become our most valuable research subject.

"The bird's immune response is fascinating," Sarah says, pulling up electron microscope images. "Its T-cells produce a unique interferon that appears to bind directly to the virus's spike proteins."

"Can we synthesize it?" I ask, scanning the molecular structure displayed on screen.

Yuki shakes his head. "Not directly. The immune response is too complex and species-specific."

"But," Aleksandr interjects, "we might be able to create a modified version using human immunoglobulins as a base."

I lean closer to the screen. "How long?"

"To develop a proper treatment? Weeks, maybe months," Sarah says, then adds quickly when she sees my expression, "But a preliminary version? With the equipment here and if we work through the night... maybe 24 hours."

"Felix might not have 24 hours," I say, my voice sounding strange to my own ears.

"Erik," Sarah's voice softens. "His vitals are still stable under sedation. We have a window."

I nod mechanically, already moving to the next station. "Then we use every minute."

The hours blur together after that. Our team works in desperate, focused silence, breaking it only to share results or request materials.

Outside our lab, the military presence grows.

Through windows, I glimpse convoys withdrawing from the city's outer limits—a silent admission that containment is failing.

Colonel Santos visits at hour fourteen, her face grim as she watches our work.

"How much time do we have?" I ask without looking up from the centrifuge I'm loading.

"General Morrison has authorized final protocols if the situation doesn't improve within 72 hours," she says quietly.

My hands still momentarily. "Final protocols."

"Yes."

I resume my work, measuring precise amounts of serum. "That's a nice euphemism for bombing a major European city."

Santos moves closer, lowering her voice though we both know my team can still hear. "It's more targeted than that. But yes, the containment zone will be... sanitized... if we can't get this under control."

"Then I suggest you let us work," I say, meeting her eyes. "Because this is your only shot at control."

She nods once, sharply, and leaves.

At hour nineteen, I check on Emma, who has fallen asleep on a cot we set up near the observation window. She sleeps fitfully, her small face creased with worry even in unconsciousness. I adjust the blanket around her shoulders and return to the lab.

"Erik, look at this," Yuki calls, excitement edging his tired voice. "The modified antibodies are binding to the virus in the cultured samples."

We crowd around the microscope, watching as the treatment attacks viral particles in the petri dish.

"Is it working fast enough?" I ask.

"It's reducing viral load by approximately 68% in vitro," Sarah reports, checking readings. "Not a cure, but—"

"But enough to give his immune system a fighting chance," Aleksandr finishes.

For the first time in twenty hours, I feel a flutter of hope. "How soon can we produce enough for treatment?"

"Three hours for a full dose," Yuki says.

I glance through the window at Felix's monitors. His oxygen saturation has dropped another two points in the last hour. "Make it two."

My team nods, no one questioning whether it's possible. For Felix, we'll make it possible.

At hour twenty-two, I step away to call Dr. Helena Karlsson at ECDC headquarters.

"The military is preparing to sanitize Hamburg," I tell her without preamble.

"I know," she says, her voice heavy. "I've been fighting it at every level, but with the new transmission models—"

"We have a potential treatment," I interrupt. "Not a cure, but something that might help manage symptoms until we can develop one."

Silence stretches between us.

"How sure are you?" she finally asks.

"In vitro results are promising. We're about to try it on our first human subject."

"Felix," she says softly.

"Yes."

Another long pause. "I'll make calls, buy you more time. But Erik... you need to prepare yourself for—"

"Don't," I cut her off. "Just make the calls. "

When I return to the lab, the treatment is ready—a clear liquid in an IV bag that represents our best hope. Dr. Nguyen, the ICU specialist overseeing Felix's care, reviews our data and protocols.

"You understand this is experimental at best, there's a very high risk of this exacerbating the symptoms," she says, glancing between me and the treatment.

"I understand the risks," I say. "So would Felix."

She nods once. "I'll administer it myself."

Emma wakes as the medical team prepares to enter Felix's isolation room. She stands beside me at the window, her small hand finding mine.

"What are they doing?" she asks.

"They're giving Felix medicine that might help him get better," I explain, watching as Dr. Nguyen and two nurses don full protective gear. "Medicine we made from the parrot."

"Like in my science book," Emma says. "Antibodies."

I look down at her, surprised. "Yes, exactly like that."

"Felix read it to me a few days ago," she says simply.

Of course he did. Even amid a global crisis, he'd take time to read science books to a child. Something twists in my chest, sharp and painful.

We watch as the team enters Felix's room through the airlock. Dr. Nguyen checks his vitals while a nurse prepares the IV line. The second nurse adjusts his ventilator settings, responding to some change on the monitors.

"What's happening?" Emma asks, pressing closer to the glass.

"They're making sure everything is ready," I explain, though I can see from the nurse's movements that Felix's oxygen levels must have dropped again.

Dr. Nguyen hangs the IV bag and connects it to Felix's line. The clear liquid begins its journey into his bloodstream. Within moments, it will either help his body fight back against the virus—or do nothing at all.

There's a third possibility, one I refuse to voice: that the treatment could trigger an immune response so severe it overwhelms his already stressed system.

The risk exists with any experimental treatment, but we had no time to run proper safety trials.

No time for anything but this desperate gamble.

The medical team exits the isolation room, leaving Felix alone with the machines and our treatment flowing into his veins. Dr. Nguyen approaches us on our side of the glass.

"Now we wait," she says. "The first six hours are critical. If he responds, we should see improvements in his inflammatory markers and oxygen levels."

"And if he doesn't?" Emma asks, her voice small but steady.

Dr. Nguyen glances at me before answering. "Then we try something else."

It's a kind lie, one I don't contradict in Emma's presence. We have no "something else." This treatment represents our best and possibly only chance.

"Thank you," I tell Dr. Nguyen. She nods and moves to the monitoring station.

Emma and I remain at the window. The parrot's antibodies continue their slow drip into Felix's system. Each drop carries a fraction of hope.

"My mom died," Emma says suddenly, still looking at Felix. "Even though everyone tried to help her."

I swallow hard. "I know."

"Felix said sometimes people die even when doctors do everything right."

I kneel beside her again, turning her gently to face me. "That's true. But sometimes people live even when the odds say they shouldn't."

"Because of science?"

"Because of science," I agree, "and because of—" I pause, searching for words that don't sound like empty platitudes. "Because people can be remarkably stubborn about staying alive when they have something to live for. "

Emma studies my face, her expression unsettlingly adult. "He has us to live for."

"Yes," I whisper. "He does."

We turn back to the window. Felix lies motionless, unchanged, while monitors track his heartbeat, his oxygen levels, his brain activity. The numbers fluctuate in tiny increments—some worse, some marginally better.

I've spent my career analyzing data, finding patterns in numbers that tell stories of life and death across populations. But now, watching these particular numbers attached to this particular person, I find myself bargaining with probability in ways that defy statistical logic.

Just let him be in the percentage that survives. Just let him beat the odds. Just let him come back to us.

These aren't prayers—I abandoned those when Astrid died—but they're the closest I've come in eighteen years.

The first hour passes with no significant change. Then the second. Emma eventually falls asleep against my side on the chairs we've pulled up to the window. I don't move, even as my arm grows numb beneath her weight.

Sometime during the third hour, Felix's oxygen saturation increases by three points. It's within the range of normal fluctuation, Dr. Nguyen cautions when I point it out. Not necessarily a response.

But in the fourth hour, his inflammatory markers begin to decrease. Not dramatically, but consistently. The hemorrhaging beneath his skin doesn't worsen.

"It's working," Sarah whispers, appearing beside me with fresh data. "Slowly, but it's working."

I should feel triumph, relief, joy—any of the emotions that would make sense in this moment. Instead, I feel a strange, hollowing sensation as the adrenaline that's kept me functioning for the past twenty-six hours begins to ebb.

"We need to produce more," I say, studying the numbers. "And begin synthesizing a version that can be mass-produced. "

Sarah nods. "Yuki's already working on scaling up production."

"Good." I look back at Felix, still motionless but—perhaps—marginally less pale. "And contact Colonel Santos. Tell her we have preliminary results indicating treatment efficacy."

"Will do." She squeezes my shoulder before returning to the lab.

I gently shift Emma so her head rests on a pillow instead of my arm, then stand and stretch my cramped muscles. Through the window, Felix's monitors continue their cautious improvement. Not dramatic, not guaranteed, but something.

For the first time since watching him being wheeled away in that isolation transport, I allow myself to truly consider the possibility that he might survive. That we might have more mornings like the one just days ago, when I woke beside him and felt something I'd forgotten was possible.

Emma stirs slightly in her sleep, mumbling something that sounds like "pancakes." Even now, amid crisis, children dream of normal things. Felix would make her pancakes shaped like animals when this is over, I decide. I would learn how to help.

I press my palm against the glass once more.

"Keep fighting," I whisper to Felix. "We're waiting for you."

Behind me, the lab continues its urgent work, preparing to save not just one life but potentially millions. But for this moment, I allow myself to focus on the single life that has, against all my careful professional boundaries, become inextricably tangled with my own.

The monitors beep steadily, each sound a small victory in the battle we've only just begun.