Page 66 of Outbreak Protocol
"No. Not nearly enough."
At 1830, I step outside the medical building. The evening sky is clear and cool, with stars beginning to appear in the east. To the northwest, Hamburg lies just beyond the horizon, still unaware of its fate.
My phone rings. Marie again.
"They've started evacuating government personnel," she tells me. "The public announcement will come five minutes before the first strike, enough time to let them know what is happening but not so much as to let them escape their fates."
"The treatment works, Marie. Not perfectly, not for everyone, but it works. There's still time to change this!"
"I know, Erik. I believe you. But the decision has been made."
After she hangs up, I remain outside, watching the northwestern sky. Felix is improving hour by hour. By tomorrow, he might wake up. By next week, he might fully recover. Given enough time, we could refine the treatment, develop screening protocols, save millions.
But we've run out of time.
At 1855, my phone alerts with a message from Marie: "It's starting."
Five minutes later, the first flash appears on the horizon—a brief, silent flare of light. Then another. And another. Tactical nuclear weapons designed for "minimal" fallout, targeting the heart of Hamburg and its surrounding areas.
The sound reaches us ninety seconds later—distant, rolling thunder that seems to go on and on. Then the mushroom clouds begin to rise, three of them, expanding into the evening sky with terrible majesty.
I stand frozen, watching the destruction of a city where, just days ago, Felix and I walked the streets, ate dinner, made plansfor a future. Where Anna lived and died. Where Emma went to school.
Sarah joins me outside, then Yuki and Aleksandr. We stand in silence as the clouds continue to rise, spreading and merging in the upper atmosphere.
"We were so close," Sarah whispers, tears streaming down her face.
"How many people?" Yuki asks, voice barely audible.
"At least 5.1 million," Aleksandr answers. "Probably more with the refugees from other areas."
I can't speak. Can't move. Can barely breathe. The scale of the loss is beyond comprehension. Beyond grief. Beyond rage.
My phone vibrates again. Marie.
"Secondary strikes commencing. Berlin is confirmed secure. You'll remain in lockdown for at least seventy-two hours."
I end the call without responding and continue to watch the distant apocalypse.
Eventually, I return inside to Felix and Emma. She's fallen asleep beside his bed, exhausted by fear and grief she doesn't yet fully understand. Felix's monitors show continued improvement. His brain activity indicates he's closer to consciousness.
I sit beside them both, take Felix's hand in mine, and finally allow myself to weep—for Hamburg, for its people, for the time we didn't have, for the lives we couldn't save.
Hours later, as the facility settles into uneasy silence, Felix's fingers twitch in mine. His eyelids flutter, then open. Confused, disoriented, but alive.
"Erik?" he whispers hoarsely around his breathing tube.
"I'm here," I tell him, squeezing his hand. "I'm right here."
His eyes search mine, seeing the grief written there. He can't speak with the tube, but his question is clear.
"Hamburg is gone," I tell him quietly. "We ran out of time."
His eyes close, tears spilling down his cheeks. I hold his hand tightly, our shared grief a bridge between us.
Emma stirs beside him, waking to see Felix conscious.
"Felix!" she cries, scrambling up to see him better. "You're awake!"