Page 33 of Outbreak Protocol

CHAPTER NINETEEN

FELIX

My body feels like a stranger. Heavy limbs, clouded thoughts, words that catch in my throat before they form. The virus has left its mark on me, even as Erik's treatment saved my life.

I watch the ceiling, tracking the movement of shadows. Berlin Military Hospital. Day three of consciousness, I think. Maybe four. Time blurs.

"Felix?" Emma's voice, bright against the sterile backdrop. "I brought you something."

She holds up a drawing—stick figures holding hands. Three of them.

"That's you," she points. "And that's Erik. And that's me."

I try to smile, but my face feels wooden. "Beautiful," I manage.

Erik appears in the doorway, his tall frame casting a long shadow. Dark circles under his eyes betray his exhaustion. He's been working non-stop on refining the treatment while caring for Emma and visiting me .

"How are you feeling today?" he asks, approaching the bed.

I want to say I'm fine, ready to help, ready to work. What comes out is: "Fog. Still fog."

He nods, understanding what I cannot properly articulate. The cognitive effects—confusion, word-finding difficulties, memory lapses—are common in survivors. No one knows if they're permanent.

"Sarah's modified the antibody structure," he tells me, sitting beside Emma. "Fewer complications in the newest batch."

I try to follow, to ask intelligent questions, but my brain feels wrapped in cotton. Frustration burns behind my eyes.

"Rest," he says, seeing my struggle. "Your brain needs time."

But time is the one thing we don't have.

Day 54

Day seven. I can sit up now, feed myself. The neurologist shows me pictures, asks me to name them. Clock. Pencil. House. Each correct answer feels like climbing a mountain.

"Remarkable improvement," she tells Erik when she thinks I can't hear. "But the language processing centres show significant damage. We can't be certain of full recovery."

I was a doctor. Now I'm a case study.

Emma visits after her lessons with the military school psychologist. She's adapting better than anyone expected, this resilient child who's lost everything. She crawls onto my bed, shows me the book she's reading.

"Can I read to you?" she asks. "Like you used to read to me?"

I nod, throat tight with emotion I can't express.

She reads slowly, carefully sounding out the bigger words. I follow along, sometimes supplying a word when she struggles. These moments of clarity feel like windows opening in a dark room.

Later, Erik brings reports, data, images of the treatment being manufactured. He doesn't talk down to me, doesn't simplify. He speaks normally, letting me process at my own pace, waiting patiently when I struggle to respond.

"Hamburg wasn't the end," he tells me quietly. "Bremen fell yesterday. Military containment failed."

I close my eyes. More deaths. More destruction.

"We need you, Felix," he says, taking my hand. "Not just for the science. For your humanity."

I squeeze his hand. It's all I can manage.

Two weeks after waking. Standing is possible now, though my balance remains uncertain. My sentences grow longer, if halting. The fog lifts in patches, revealing glimpses of my former self.

I'm in a wheelchair, being taken to the research lab for the first time. Erik pushes me, explaining the latest developments. The military has commandeered pharmaceutical facilities across Europe to mass-produce the treatment.

"It's working in sixty-eight percent of cases now," he says. "Still too many adverse reactions, but we're refining it."

The lab bustles with activity. Sarah notices me first, her face lighting up.

"Felix!" She hurries over, bending to embrace me. "God, it's good to see you upright."

Yuki and Aleksandr join us, their relief palpable. I've become something of a mascot—their success story in human form.

"Show him," Erik urges.

Sarah leads us to her workstation, pulls up microscopy images. "We've isolated the problematic epitopes causing the autoimmune reactions," she explains. "This new version should have fewer side effects."

I study the images, forcing my brain to focus. "The binding site," I say slowly, finding the words. "Different configuration?"

Sarah's eyes widen. "Yes! Exactly. We modified the— "

"—antibody's Fc region," I finish, the technical language suddenly accessible again. "Reducing inflammatory cascade."

Erik's hand squeezes my shoulder. Pride radiates from him.

For twenty minutes, I'm almost myself again, offering suggestions, identifying patterns. Then exhaustion crashes over me, words slipping away like water through fingers.

"Enough for today," Erik says, noticing immediately. "But you're coming back tomorrow."

Not a patient anymore. A colleague. I could weep with gratitude.

Day 77

One month after waking. We're being relocated to Munich. Berlin is compromised—the virus spreading despite strict quarantine measures. Emma sits beside me on the military transport plane, clutching her backpack of precious things.

"Will there be other children in Munich?" she asks.

"I think so," I tell her, my speech now mostly fluid though still occasionally hesitant. "Other scientists have families too."

Erik sits across from us, reviewing data on his tablet. He looks up, gives us a tired smile. He hasn't properly slept in weeks.

"The Munich facility is underground," he says. "More labs, better equipment, fully secured and contained. We'll be safe there."

What he doesn't say: Better protected against military strikes if containment fails again.

I watch Germany pass beneath us—checkpoints, barricades, military convoys. My homeland transformed into a war zone against an invisible enemy.

In Munich, we're assigned family quarters—two bedrooms, a small living area. Emma runs through the space, claiming her room with the solemnity of a child who understands this is not a game.

"Home?" she asks, uncertain.

"For now," I tell her, unpacking her few possessions. The drawing of our makeshift family goes on the wall first.

That night, after Emma sleeps, Erik and I sit at the small table, our knees touching beneath it.

"Hannover fell today," he says quietly. "Cologne is reporting first cases."

I process this. "All of Germany?"

"They're talking about full country containment. Evacuating essential personnel, then..." He doesn't finish.

"No," I say, the word sharp and clear. "We can't let them."

"The treatment isn't working fast enough. Too many adverse reactions, too much virus evolution." He runs a hand through his hair. "Felix, I don't know if we can stop this."

I reach for his hand. "We have to try. Emma's Germany. Anna was Germany." My voice breaks. "I'm Germany."

He looks at me, blue eyes fierce in his exhausted face. "Then we work harder."

Day 107

Two months since infection. My cognitive function improves daily, though I still struggle with complex calculations and occasionally lose words mid-sentence. I've graduated from consultant to active researcher, working alongside Erik and Sarah on treatment refinement.

Emma attends the facility's makeshift school with twelve other children—all families of essential personnel. She's made friends, adapted to our underground existence with remarkable resilience.

I'm in the lab when the news comes. Frankfurt has fallen. The German government has relocated to Brussels. Chancellor Meier announces the "National Sacrifice Protocol" on all channels, even as she herself is sick with the virus.

We gather around screens, watching as she explains the unthinkable. Germany will be sealed. No one in. No one out. Strategic elimination of all major population centres to contain the virus.

"Those who remain within German borders," she says, her voice steady though her eyes glisten with the telltale signs of the fever burning through her, "make the ultimate sacrifice for Europe and humanity."

The lab falls silent. We are Germans working to save Germany from outside Germany, now told our homeland is being sacrificed.

"They've given up," Sarah whispers.

Erik's hand finds mine, squeezes hard. "We haven't."

That night, Emma senses the shift in mood, though we've shielded her from the news.

"Are we going home soon?" she asks as I tuck her in.

"Not to Hamburg," I tell her gently. "But someday, we'll find a new home."

"With Erik too?"

"Yes," I promise. "With Erik too."

Later, I find Erik staring at satellite images of Germany, watching as dark zones spread across the map.

"They're starting with the border towns," he says without looking up. "Working inward."

I sit beside him. "The recovered patients. The ones without complications. They're showing immunity."

He nods. "Complete resistance to reinfection, even with newer strains."

"So we use their antibodies instead of the parrot's," I suggest. "Human-derived treatment."

He turns to me, a spark igniting in his tired eyes. "Humanized antibodies would reduce rejection rates."

For the first time in weeks, hope flickers.