Page 64 of Outbreak Protocol

She's right. Morrison will seize on this single failure to justify his timeline.

At 1100 hours, Patient 23, Johann Weber, develops acute renal failure. Unlike Maria, he doesn't have the HLA variant we identified. Something else is happening.

By noon, three more patients show serious adverse reactions: one with rapidly progressing pneumonitis, one with encephalitis, and another with acute heart failure. All were improving before suddenly deteriorating.

"It's not a single mechanism," Sarah explains as we review the data. "The antibody appears to be triggering different autoimmune responses in different patients. We're identifying genetic markers that might predict risk, but it's complex."

"Percentage of patients affected?"

"Currently 11.9% showing serious adverse reactions. Another 14.3% showing mild to moderate reactions that we're managing."

"And the others?"

"Still improving. Viral loads down by 70-90% in most cases."

I rub my eyes. The treatment works—brilliantly—for most patients. But not all. And the failures are catastrophic when they occur.

My phone rings. Commissioner Voss himself.

"Dr. Lindqvist, I've reviewed your data and spoken with General Morrison."

"And?"

"I'm afraid the timeline stands. We've received confirmed reports of cases in Bremen, Hannover, and now Kiel in addition to the previous contained cases in Amsterdam and Paris. The containment strategy is failing, they must act."

"But our treatment—"

"Shows promise but also significant risks. The reported adverse reactions confirm Morrison's assessment that we cannot rely on this as our primary containment strategy."

"Give us more time. We can refine the treatment, develop screening protocols—"

"I'm sorry, Dr. Lindqvist. The evacuation proceeds as scheduled. You and your team will be extracted at 1600 hours today. The containment operation will commence at 1900 hours."

After he hangs up, I stand motionless, phone still in my hand. Seven hours until Hamburg is destroyed. Four hours until we're evacuated.

I return to Felix's room. His breathing is stronger now, less mechanical. His eyelids flutter occasionally, almost waking.

"Felix," I whisper, squeezing his hand. "We're out of time."

Emma stirs in her chair. "Is Felix waking up?"

"Soon," I tell her, forcing a smile. "But we need to get ready for a trip. Can you pack your backpack with your favourite things? Just what fits inside."

She looks between Felix and me, sensing something wrong. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere safe. Felix will come with us."

"But he's still sick."

"The doctors will help him travel. He's getting better, just needs more rest."

As she reluctantly goes to gather her things, I call Sarah.

"Prepare Felix for transport. We're being evacuated at 1600."

"All of us?"

"Essential personnel only. You, me, Yuki, Aleksandr, and our patients from the demonstration zone as the clinical sample. Everyone else..."