Page 72 of Outbreak Protocol

"All of them?"

"They don't know which ones," he says softly. "So they have to be very, very careful."

She absorbs this with the terrible acceptance of children in a world of catastrophe. "Will there be animals where we're going?"

"Yes," I promise, the word tasting like a lie in my mouth. "Safe ones."

We reach the German-Swiss border, a scar of concrete and steel across the landscape. Military personnel swarm each vehicle, the hiss of disinfectant spray filling the air. We are processed through a series of medical screenings, our value reduced to our body temperature and our absence of symptoms. We are no longer people; we are cargo. Precious, fragile cargo.

As we wait for our vehicle to be cleared, a young soldier approaches. He can’t be more than twenty, his face gaunt beneath his helmet, a nervous tremor in his hand.

"You're the doctors?" he asks through his mask, his eyes finding the ECDC insignia on our jackets. "The ones working on the cure?"

Erik nods. "We're trying."

The soldier glances over his shoulder at his unit, then leans closer, his voice cracking. "My family's in Münster. They couldn't get out… they thought it was just a bad flu. Is there… is there any chance?"

I meet his desperate, pleading eyes. In them, I see every family member I failed to save, every patient I lost. This time, I have something more than condolences to offer. "We're working on a new treatment," I tell him, the words feeling solid, real. "It uses antibodies from survivors."

"Survivors," the soldier repeats, the word hanging in the air like a prayer. "So there are survivors."

"Yes," Erik confirms, his voice firm. "A small percentage. They're immune afterward."

The soldier straightens. The tremor in his hand stills, and something like purpose returns to his posture, chasing thedespair from his eyes. "Then what you're carrying matters," he says. "We'll get you through."

He gives a sharp nod and walks away, his back a little straighter than it was before. As we feel the lurch of the vehicle moving forward, crossing the border into Switzerland, Emma turns to me.

"Did we help him?"

I look at her, this small child who has lost everything but still sees the good. "We gave him hope," I say. "Sometimes that's all we can do."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Day 167

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 learnvite.”

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.