Page 46 of Outbreak Protocol

"Isolation room three. We moved her when the seizures started."

I rush down the corridor, donning fresh protective gear outside the isolation room. Through the glass, I can see Anna's form on the bed, restraints on her limbs. A monitor shows erratic vital signs—elevated heart rate, fluctuating blood pressure, decreased oxygen saturation.

Inside, I approach the bed carefully. "Anna?"

Her eyes open, but the person looking back at me isn't the sharp, competent nurse I've worked with for years. Her gaze is unfocused, pupils dilated unevenly. Blood vessels have burst in both sclera, giving her a demonic appearance.

"Felix?" Her voice is slurred, barely recognizable. "Where's Emma? I need to find Emma."

"Emma's safe," I assure her, checking the IV line delivering fluids and anticonvulsants. "She's with Mia today, remember?"

Anna's expression contorts in sudden rage. "You're lying! They took her! The birds took her!"

She thrashes against the restraints with unexpected strength, foam flecked with blood appearing at the corners of her mouth. I administer a sedative, watching in horror as her body arches in another seizure despite the anticonvulsants already in her system.

When the seizure subsides, she slumps back, unconscious. I check her lab results on the bedside terminal—liver enzymes catastrophically elevated, kidney function declining, platelets dangerously low. The disease is thoroughly destroying her body from the inside out.

I work mechanically, adjusting medications, checking other patients, issuing orders to the overwhelmed staff. But inside, I'm screaming. This is Anna—who taught me how to talk to frightened patients, who brings me coffee during night shifts, whosedaughter calls me Uncle Felix. The disease has transformed her into something unrecognizable, her brilliant mind clouded by viral destruction.

Hours pass in a blur of critical interventions. A middle-aged woman hemorrhages from her eyes as I'm examining her. A teenager's abdomen distends with internal bleeding while his mother sobs behind glass. A pregnant woman delivers stillborn twins, her uterus unable to contract properly due to the virus's effect on smooth muscle tissue.

Nothing works. Not the antivirals, not the plasma exchange, not the experimental immunomodulators rushed in from research facilities. We're reduced to treating symptoms while watching patients die despite our best efforts.

Erik finds me in a supply closet, staring blankly at shelves of gauze and IV tubing. I don't realize I'm crying until he wipes tears from my cheeks.

"Felix," he says softly, pulling me against his chest. "You need to rest."

I shake my head. "Anna had another seizure. Her brain activity is declining. The encephalitis is—" My voice breaks.

His arms tighten around me. "I know. I saw the charts."

"I can't save her." The admission tears from me like physical pain. "I can't save any of them."

"You're keeping them comfortable. That matters." His voice is gentle but firm. "The African Grey samples show promising antibody responses. Sarah thinks we might have something to work with there."

I cling to him, drawing strength from his solid presence. "How bad are the projections?"

He hesitates. "Bad. If the virus reaches the wider European population with current virulence..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

We stand together in the cramped closet, finding momentary refuge in each other's arms. His lips press against my temple, not sexual but comforting, grounding.

"We should get back," I finally say, reluctantly pulling away.

He nods, but catches my hand before I can open the door. "Whatever happens, Felix—I'm grateful I found you."

The simple declaration nearly undoes me again. I squeeze his hand. "Me too."

Back on the ward, chaos reigns. Anna's monitor alarms blare as we approach her room. Her body convulses in status epilepticus, unresponsive to medication. Blood streams from her nose, her ears, her catheter bag filling with dark red instead of yellow.

I work frantically, trying everything in my medical arsenal, but her vital signs continue to deteriorate. Erik stands beside me, handing me supplies, his presence a silent support.

At 4:37 PM, Anna Richter dies, her systems overwhelmed by the virus's assault. I stand motionless beside her bed, staring at the flatline on the monitor. All I can think is: how will I tell Emma?

Erik's hand finds mine, our fingers interlacing. "I'm sorry, Felix."

Outside Anna's room, the hospital continues its desperate battle against an enemy we barely understand. Somewhere, Emma waits for news about her mother. In labs across the city, scientists search for answers. But in this moment, Erik's hand in mine is the only thing keeping me from collapse.

"What are we going to do?" I whisper.