Page 35 of Outbreak Protocol

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

FELIX

Four months since the infection claimed Munich. One hundred and twenty-three days since I woke up broken in a field hospital. The math is simpler now, most days.

Our new world nestles against the Swiss Alps, a state-of-the-art research facility clinging to the side of a mountain like a hardy lichen.

It’s part bunker, part campus—a last bastion of hope partially tunnelled into the granite heart of the continent.

It’s larger, better equipped, and, most importantly, further from the spreading death than anywhere I’ve been since this began.

From the window of our chalet, the view is a brutal paradox.

Jagged, snow-dusted peaks cut a line of impossible beauty against a crystalline blue sky, indifferent to the fate of the species huddled at their base.

Below, the secure perimeter fence glints in the morning sun, a thin, sharp reminder of the fragile peace it contains.

“Uncle Felix, my bag is too heavy,” Emma protests, her small voice pulling me from my reverie .

I turn from the window. She stands by the door, her brow furrowed with the serious indignation only an eight-year-old can muster. “Too heavy? What have you got in there, rocks?”

She giggles. “ Non , just my books. Madame Dubois says I learn vite .”

The easy mix of German and French, picked up from the twenty other children who make up her new school, sends a pang of something warm and fierce through my chest. “Well, let’s get this scholar to her class.” I swing the backpack onto my own shoulder. It is, in fact, surprisingly heavy.

Erik is already at the table, a halo of morning light illuminating the data streaming across his tablet. He hasn't touched his coffee. He's plotting supply chain logistics for the new treatment, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Morning,” I say, moving toward him.

He looks up, his blue eyes taking a moment to focus on the world beyond the screen. He gets to his feet and closes the short distance between us, placing a hand on my arm and pressing a quick, firm kiss to my lips. It’s over in a second, but it’s enough. Behind me, Emma lets out a small giggle.

“The production yields from the Belgian lab are exceeding projections by seven percent,” Erik says, returning to his seat. It’s the closest thing to a romantic greeting I’ll get from him.

I smile. “That’s good news.” I ruffle Emma’s hair. “We’ll see you in the lab.”

He nods, his attention already returning to his tablet. His love language is data. His affection is a world saved, one percentage point at a time. I’m learning to be fluent.

The walk to the primary research wing takes me through the centre of the facility.

The air is clean, filled with the hum of advanced ventilation and the multicultural chatter of Europe’s top surviving scientists.

The main labs are carved directly from the mountain, cool stone walls meeting sterile white composites. My own station is in Lab Gamma-7.

My recovery has plateaued. The migraines still come, blinding me for hours.

Words still abandon me when I’m tired. And the numbers…

the numbers are the worst. I’m reviewing a sequencing report, cross-referencing antibody markers, when I see it.

I’ve labelled sample #1869 as #1896. My hand stills over the keypad.

Shaking my head, I carefully correct the entry.

A simple transposition. A minor error, easily fixed.

Before the virus, it was a mistake I never would have made.

It’s a quiet, constant reminder of the faulty wiring in my own head.

“Good results on the latest trial group, Müller.”

I look up to see Dr. Lafayette, a French immunologist with a perpetually optimistic smile, looking at my screen.

“Ninety-three percent efficacy,” I confirm, tapping the summary file. “Minimal adverse reactions.”

“It’s a miracle, non ? A real one.” She beams, her face radiating a pure, professional joy that is its own kind of treatment. “We’re going to win this.”

The hope is infectious, more potent than any virus. It’s the fuel we run on here. It’s what allows us to sit through the daily briefing at 1100 hours without losing our minds.

Today’s update is on Germany. The presenter, a crisp military attaché working for Colonel Santos, speaks in sterilized, passive terms. Strategic containment operations are ongoing.

Controlled elimination of infection vectors has been successful in the northern territories.

Necessary sacrifices are being made for continental security.

I stare at the map on the screen, a heat-map of red and black swallowing the country of my birth.

It feels abstract, like a problem in a textbook.

I feel a professional sorrow, a clinical ache for the lives represented by those dark colours, but the scale of it is too vast to process.

I compartmentalize. I have to. The hope feels more real than the horror.

I focus on the ninety-three percent. I focus on Emma learning French. I focus on the work.

I’m back in the chalet late that afternoon, the sanitized language from the briefing still echoing in my head, when the courier arrives.

He’s dressed in the severe grey uniform of the Pan-European Command, his face grim and tired.

He stands at our doorway, a man who has seen the world outside the fence, and he makes our fragile peace feel like a child’s fantasy.

He hands me a shielded case. “For Dr. Felix Müller,” he says, his voice a low rasp. “By special delivery from the German containment zone.”

My signature on his tablet feels like signing a confession. He nods and departs, leaving me alone in the sudden silence, holding a box that feels heavier than it should.

Inside, there is a neatly folded German flag, a formal letter, and a small metal box. The flag is the Bundesdienstflagge , the federal service flag with the eagle at its centre. Official. Final. My hands tremble as I open the letter. The letterhead is from Colonel Santos’s command.

Dr. Müller,

These belonged to Corporal Thomas Hartmann, who volunteered to stay behind in Munich to assist with evacuation operations. Before his death, he requested these items be sent to you, along with his thanks for giving him hope when it mattered most.

The name hits me, and the memory, sharp and sudden, cuts through the fog of the past months.

The German-Swiss border. The hiss of disinfectant spray and the low rumble of armoured vehicles.

A young soldier, his face gaunt beneath his helmet, a nervous tremor in his hand.

Thomas. He’d approached us, his desperate eyes finding the ECDC logos on our jackets.

“My family’s in Münster,” he’d said, his voice cracking.

“Is there… is there any chance?” I remember meeting his pleading gaze, this time having something more than condolences to offer.

“We’re working on a new treatment,” I’d told him.

“It uses antibodies from survivors.” I can still see the way Erik’s confirmation—that there were, in fact, survivors—had landed on him.

How the despair had receded from his eyes, replaced by a flicker of purpose.

He had straightened his shoulders, his tremor gone.

“Then what you’re carrying matters,” he’d said. “We’ll get you through.”

The memory fades. I read the rest of the letter.

He said to tell you his family in Münster received the treatment. They survived.

With respect,

Col. Maria Santos

A sob escapes my throat, thick and raw. I open the small metal box. His dog tags, a worn photograph of a smiling family, and a small USB drive. With unsteady hands, I plug the drive into my laptop. It contains only audio files, dated sequentially.

I click on the first one. The young soldier's voice—Thomas—is clear and determined, recording messages as Munich emptied around him. He talks about his unit, about getting civilians to the evac station. Then I listen to his final days. The sounds behind his voice change. The distant sirens fade, replaced by an unnerving silence broken only by the wind. His voice grows tired, laced with a profound exhaustion that has nothing to do with a lack of sleep. He knows he isn’t leaving.

I click on the final file.

"Dr. Müller, Dr. Lindqvist—if you're hearing this, I hope the treatment worked. I hope it was worth it. Don't let Germany be forgotten. Tell them we chose this. Tell them we did it for everyone else. Tell them we mattered."

The recording ends. I can’t breathe. The clinical detachment shatters, and the horror rushes in, vast and personal and suffocating.

The sanitized reports, the strategic operations—this is the reality.

A brave young man, dead in a ghost city, his last act a message of hope sent to the doctors who gave him a reason to keep fighting.

The weight of it crushes me. I curl over the laptop, my body shaking with silent, wracking sobs, tears streaming down my face.

Erik finds me like this. He doesn’t speak at first, just enters the room and stops, his stillness a question. "Felix?" he finally asks, his voice soft with a concern that cuts through my grief. He kneels beside me on the floor.

I can’t form words. I just turn the laptop, show him the letter, and play Thomas’s final message again.

He listens, his jaw tight, his own eyes glistening with an emotion he rarely shows. When it’s over, he gently reaches out and closes the laptop, silencing the ghosts. He looks from the screen to me, his gaze direct and full of a shared understanding that needs no further words.

“He's right,” Erik says, his voice quiet but absolute. “We won't let them be forgotten.”

That night, after Emma is asleep, we go into her room. We hang the handsome German flag on her wall, the black, red, and gold a stark slash of colour against the pale paint. It feels like an act of remembrance, a prayer.

The next morning, she sees it. “Why is that here?” she asks, pointing.

I kneel down to her level. "To remember," I tell her, my voice thick. "To remember where we came from. And to remember why we have to keep fighting."