Page 53 of Outbreak Protocol
"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 ensureGeneral 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 Erikand 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.