Escape (Aftermath #2)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Incident

Mel

T he office is quiet except for the faint hum of the generator outside. I should be paying attention to the email in front of me—something about a budget review—but my mind’s already drifted to the one from Owen that popped up earlier.

I can’t help but grin as I open again the attached image. Owen, with that ridiculous grin of his, wearing what can only be described as a monstrosity of a hat. It’s a patchwork mess of clashing colours, like someone raided a fancy dress shop blindfolded. His message reads, “Mel, this is the new me. Thoughts?”

I laugh out loud, shaking my head. Typical Owen. Even with the thousands of miles between us, he’s still managing to make me laugh at just the right moment.

I hover over the reply button, trying to think of something witty to send back, but then I change my mind and pick up my phone instead.

The phone rings once before Owen answers.

"Hope you’re calling to tell me how hot I look wearing that hat."

"You look like the dork you are," I giggle. Just hearing his voice makes me happy.

"Hang on, Mel—" I hear muffled voices and then a door closing. "Sorry, told my secretary to hold all my calls because I’m in an important meeting with my contacts in Tajikistan," he chuckles.

"Mr Big Shot! Trying to go global already," I laugh.

Owen set up a small start-up company. He worked bloody hard to get there, investing most of his own savings, but it seems to be paying off. I love that his company isn’t just about profit—their mission is to help communities set up and manage local renewable energy projects. I keep teasing him by calling him the entrepreneur that cares .

"Nah, plenty to do here in England. So, are you going to comment on my hat?"

"It’s… fetching," I reply, leaning back in my chair. I picture him in his office chair—in jeans and T-Shirt because he doesn’t believe in suits—looking like the cheeky chap he is. I wish I were with him right now. How he is still single, beats me.

"Trying to pull in the ladies?" I joke, but as always, the thought doesn’t sit well with me. I’m a terrible best friend. I want him all to myself, and the idea of some girlfriend coming along and breaking up what we have? I hate it.

I know that makes me a bitch, and I’d never tell him this, but it is what it is.

"Fat chance. Women don’t like nerds, with or without a hat!" he laughs . I need to get that man a mirror.

"Maybe you’re right." For once, I don’t have a witty retort.

"Everything okay, Mel? You sound… not like you."

That right there is why I called him. Nobody knows me as well as he does.

"I’m a tad homesick. I don’t know… I’m not feeling it this time. I’m… tired," I confess, admitting to him what I haven’t even admitted to myself.

"It’s just two more weeks. After that, maybe talk to your boss and take a longer break. You’ve got loads of annual leave saved up. Let me take you somewhere."

"You don’t need to take me anywhere. I can pay for myself," I protest with a laugh, "but you can join me—if your company can spare you."

"Hey, I’ve got a brilliant team, and I’m only ever a call away. Where do you want to go?"

"Don’t know, maybe back to that cabin on the Norfolk coast?"

After Owen’s mum died six years ago, I took him there for a break, and it’s become our refuge when life gets too much.

"I’ll check if it’s free when—"

There’s a knock, and my door creaks open.

"Owen, hang on a second," I say, placing a hand over my phone.

Fatima sticks her head in, her expression serious.

"Mel, got a minute?"

"Sure, just one sec." I wave her in before putting the phone back to my ear.

"Owen, I need to go. I’ll call you later?"

"Sure. Call me any time," he says before hanging up.

I drop my phone on the desk and study Fatima. "What’s up?"

She steps closer, crossing her arms. “We’ve had a call from the health post in Pastkhuf.”

My stomach tightens at the name. Pastkhuf is the kind of place you don’t go to unless you absolutely have to. It’s remote, perched high in the mountains, right on the Afghan border.

“What’s happened?”

“A young girl fell,” Fatima says. Her voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of worry in her eyes. “She’s unconscious. The local nurse suspects internal injuries. Jon has already spoken with them to get more details, but we’ll need someone to go out there.”

“You want me to go.”

“You’re the best person for it,” she replies. “Jon’s there for medical support, but we need someone to represent GHHI. If decisions need to be made, it should be you.”

“What about EVAC by the army?”

“No chance, at least not until Jon can confirm she is stable enough to fly.”

“Surprise, surprise,” I sigh. I have dealt with my share of government bureaucrats over the years and when it comes to helping international NGOs, money is usually the only thing that can secure their help.

I’ve been programme manager for GHHI for five years now. But I am not a usual programme manager. I am employed by the head office in London and get shipped out to country offices when they are short staffed or have a gap between their programme manager leaving and the new one starting. I drop in, fill the role for a few weeks or months and then leave again. In-between, the rare times when there isn’t a need for me to be anywhere, I work from our London office carrying out internal audits. It is interesting and fulfilling, but can also be tiring.

“Right,” I say, grabbing my notebook. “When do we leave?”

She glances out the window. The sky is a dull grey, the wind rattling the shutters. “The weather’s not ideal, but the nurse says it’s urgent. I’ll leave the call to you.”

I don’t hesitate. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Fatima nods, her expression softening. “I thought you’d say that.”

Downstairs, I find Farid at his desk, scribbling something on a clipboard next to a crackling radio.

“Farid,” I say, and he looks up, already sharp and alert.

“This about Pastkhuf?” he asks.

I nod. “Jon and I are heading out. But we’ll need Will with us. It’s too close to the border to go without security.”

“Will’s out with Arif, test driving the Hilux,” Farid says, reaching for his radio. “I’ll let him know.”

“Thanks. Also, make sure the truck’s stocked. Med supplies, water, everything Jon might need.”

Farid nods, already issuing instructions into the radio as I turn to leave. His efficiency is a steadying presence, but the knot of tension in my chest doesn’t loosen.

Upstairs, Jon is leaning over the desk, his pen moving in sharp, precise strokes. He doesn’t look up when I enter, but I can see the set of his jaw.

“Ready?” I ask.

He straightens, slipping his notebook into his bag. “How’s the weather forecast?”

“Rubbish,” I reply, pulling on my coat.

“Perfect,” he mutters, his tone dry but his face serious. Jon came out around the same time as me. He is only volunteering with GHHI. We always have doctors who give their time for free to do field work and help out, but they are not staff members and they are somehow treated a bit differently.

Still, we are colleagues, a diverse bunch of people thrown together in a remote location for a few weeks. It is a weird dynamic that develops. You are something that sometimes does feel like friendship, but then you are not. It is hard to describe.

Despite myself, I smile faintly. “Let’s save a life.”

Jon nods, pushing his glasses higher up on his nose. “Let’s go.”

The courtyard is alive with the rush of preparation. The Hilux is ready and waiting, its engine idling softly as Will stands beside it. The sky above is a swirling mess of grey, and the wind cuts sharp against my face, but there’s no room for second thoughts.

The rain lashes against the Hilux, relentless and deafening, like it’s determined to tear the world apart. The windscreen wipers fight a losing battle, each swipe revealing only another curtain of water and blurred outlines of the rugged road ahead.

Arif’s hands are clamped around the wheel, his knuckles pale, his focus unyielding as the truck lurches forward through the mud. I glance at him briefly, the tension in his shoulders enough to confirm what I already know—this road is a nightmare.

I shift in my seat, clutching my phone tighter. It’s a stupid habit, typing out an email to Owen even though I know I won’t be able to send it until we’re back in Khorog. Reception’s non-existent out here. Still, it’s something to focus on. Something that isn’t the gnawing doubt clawing at the back of my mind.

Sorry I had to cut our call short. We are on the road to some remote settlement and the weather is piss poor. Like as bad as the one time you dragged me camping in Scotland. Remember how wrinkly our fingers and toes were from being wet all day? Remind me again why I signed up for this job?

I stop typing, my thumb hovering over the screen. My Owen. Some of my friends back home tease me, joking that I’m not in a relationship because I secretly fancy him. And sometimes, I wonder if they might be right... Owen’s the kind of guy who fits the "tall, dark, and handsome" cliché, but he doesn’t know it. He’s a nerd at heart, more likely to be tinkering with his computer than hanging out at parties. His hair is always a bit of a mess, and lately, more and more laugh lines have started to appear around his eyes. Even Mr Hot Nerd can’t hide the fact that we’ve both crossed into our forties. But, somehow, age suits him. It gives him a ruggedness that makes him even more the kind of guy you'd want to snuggle up to. Add that to the fact that he’s the nicest person I know—caring, warm, goofy. He is definitely boyfriend material, yet we are just friends. I don’t know why but it just never seemed like the right moment to take that next step.

My stomach twists, and I shove the phone into my pocket, unwilling to finish the email.

In the driver’s seat, Arif swears under his breath, the truck skidding slightly as it fights for traction.

“Slow it down,” Will says, his voice calm but tense from the passenger seat.

“I know,” Arif snaps, his eyes glued to the road. “Rain is too heavy. Road is getting worse.”

He’s not wrong. The track is more mudslide than road now, snaking dangerously close to the edge of a ridge that drops into black nothingness. Every bump sends a fresh jolt through the truck, and I grip the door handle tighter, trying to stay steady.

Jon sits beside me, clutching his medical bag like it’s a lifeline. His face is set, focused, but there’s a tension in his jaw that matches the storm outside. Neither of us speaks. There’s nothing to say.

I glance out the window, the rain blurring everything into a murky swirl of grey and green. The mountains loom above us, jagged and unforgiving, their peaks lost in the storm. It’s beautiful in a way that makes your chest ache, but today, it just feels ominous.

My thoughts drift back to the girl. What can we really do for her, so far from proper medical facilities? Even with Jon’s skill, the odds aren’t great. But what choice do we have? Leaving her would mean giving up, and that’s not who we are.

The road takes a sharp turn, the truck groaning as it hugs the ridge. My grip tightens as I peer into the rain, scanning the blurred landscape for any sign of danger.

Then I hear it.

A deep, guttural roar, louder than the rain, rumbling through the air like a warning.

“Landslide!” Will shouts, but the word barely registers before the world erupts.

The side of the mountain collapses, a violent surge of mud and rock exploding onto the road. It slams into the Hilux with the force of a freight train, and everything goes sideways.

The truck spins, the tyres skidding helplessly. My shoulder slams into the door, the impact rattling through me as the Hilux tumbles off the track. The world becomes a blur of noise—metal crunching, glass shattering, mud roaring all around us.

When we finally stop, wedged against something solid, my ears ring with the deafening silence that follows.

“Mel!” Jon’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and panicked.

“I’m okay,” I manage, though my voice is shaky. My hands fumble for the door handle, but it’s jammed. I glance around, my breath catching as I take in the state of the truck. The roof’s dented, the windscreen shattered, and everything is slick with mud and rain.

“Arif?” I call, my voice rising.

He’s slumped over the wheel, not moving. My stomach drops, panic surging as I reach for him, but Will’s groan pulls my attention.

“Will!” I shout, twisting in my seat.

He’s pinned awkwardly, his face pale and twisted with pain. “Stay... stay put,” he mutters, his voice barely audible.

“Like hell I will,” I snap, unbuckling my seatbelt. The movement sends a jolt through my side, but I grit my teeth and push forward.

I manage to push my door open and I clamper out, immediately sinking into the mud up to my ankle.

“Jon, help me!” I shout as I pull open the front passenger door. My hands fumble with Will’s seatbelt and it seems to take forever until I can free him.

Jon’s immediately by my side, his own injuries forgotten. Together, we pull at the straps, the cold seeping into my fingers.

Will’s eyes flutter shut, his head lolling to the side.

“Will, stay with me!” I yell, panic clawing at my chest.

But he doesn’t answer. His breathing slows, his body going limp as the storm rages on.

The rain hasn’t let up—it’s relentless, a deafening wall of water that turns the ground into thick, clinging mud. Every breath feels heavy, the air dense with moisture and the acrid stench of oil and earth. My fingers dig into the doorframe of the Hilux, slick with mud and rain, as Jon and I fight to pull Will free.

“On three,” Jon shouts over the roar of the storm. “One, two—pull!”

We heave together, and Will’s body slides out of the mangled truck, limp and heavy. His face is pale, almost grey, and his breaths come in shallow gasps. Blood streaks his temple, and the way his legs are twisted sends a spike of panic through me.

“Will,” I whisper, leaning close to him as we lower him to the ground. He doesn’t respond.

“Keep your fingers on his pulse and let me know if there is any change,” Jon barks, already moving to the driver’s side.

Arif.

I glance back at the wreckage. Arif is still slumped against the wheel, his body motionless, his face obscured by the rain streaking through the shattered windscreen. My stomach clenches as I realise he hasn’t made a sound.

Jon climbs over the crumpled doorframe, his hands reaching for Arif. “He’s not responding,” he says, his voice tight.

“Get him out!” I yell, scrambling to Will’s side to check his pulse. It’s there, faint but steady. My hands tremble as I brush the mud from his face and beard.

“Hold on, Will,” I murmur. “Just hold on.”

Jon grunts with the effort of pulling Arif free, his own injuries slowing him down. I rush to help, grabbing Arif’s shoulders and dragging him out with Jon. The mud pulls at my feet, sucking me down as we lower him next to Will.

“Arif?” I call, shaking his shoulder gently. His head lolls to the side, his eyes half-open but unfocused. “Arif, can you hear me?”

Jon kneels beside him, his fingers pressing against Arif’s neck. A flicker of relief crosses his face. “He’s got a pulse. Weak, but it’s there.”

People are scrambling down the embankment from the road above now, their shouts blending with the storm. A man in a heavy coat reaches us, his face etched with concern as he helps me prop Arif’s head up.

Jon moves between Will and Arif, checking vitals and issuing quick instructions to the bystanders; most of them don’t understand what he is saying and so he is resorting to a crude version of sign language. His focus is razor-sharp, but I can see the strain in his movements, the tension in his jaw as he assesses the impossible situation.

And then Arif’s body jerks.

“Jon!” I cry, panic surging through me as Arif’s chest stops rising. His face slackens, his head rolling back.

Jon rushes over, shoving me aside gently but firmly. He starts compressions, his hands moving in a steady, desperate rhythm. “One, two, three—come on, Arif, don’t you dare give up!”

I kneel beside him, my hands shaking as I try to help. The rain beats down on us, the mud soaking through my clothes.

“Breathe for him!” Jon orders, his voice strained.

I do as he says, tilting Arif’s head back and breathing into his mouth. His chest rises briefly, but there’s no response. Jon pounding against Arif’s sternum with relentless precision.

“Come on!” Jon shouts, his voice raw.

But it’s no use.

Arif’s body goes still, his face slack. The pulse that was once faint is gone.

“No,” I whisper, my voice trembling. I gather him into my arms, cradling his head in my lap as tears blur my vision. “No, no, no.”

Jon sits back on his heels, his hands trembling as he rubs them over his face. He is lost in thoughts for a moment before he turns back to Will, his focus shifting out of necessity.

“Will needs me,” he says, his voice tight with barely contained grief.

I nod, unable to speak, unable to do anything but hold Arif’s lifeless body. My tears fall freely now as I stroke his hair and whisper apologies he’ll never hear. This is all my fault. I was the one who made the call to go. Me. It’s my fault.

Above us, the storm rages on, uncaring and unyielding. The people who came to help move around me, their voices muffled. But I stay where I am, my arms wrapped around Arif, the weight of his loss pressing down on me like the mountain itself.

Jon’s voice sounds distant, calling out instructions, but I can barely register the words. All I can do is sit there, my heart breaking in the rain, wishing I were home with Owen.