Rescue (Aftermath Book 3)

1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The Incident

Jon

T he office is a broom cupboard with aspirations. A desk crammed in one corner, shelves that threaten to topple under the weight of disorganised files, and a single, flickering overhead light. It’s barely big enough to stretch my legs under the desk, but I’ve spent enough time in it over the past few weeks that it almost feels like mine. Almost.

The sounds of the office drift in through the door—a phone ringing somewhere, muffled voices speaking in Russian or Tajik. Outside, the ever-present hum of Khorog’s dusty streets filters in through the cracked window. A rickety fan wobbles on the shelf above me, doing its best to stir the stale air, but failing miserably.

I lean back in the creaky chair, staring at the wall. Two more weeks. That’s all that’s left of my secondment here with GHHI, and then it’s back to London. Back to what? My job at the hospital, of course, but what else?

I run my hand through my hair, the questions nagging at the edges of my mind. It’s not like there’s anyone waiting for me at home. My ex-wife moved on years ago, and the flat I go back to feels more like a stopover than a home. My parents and siblings are up north, always happy to see me when I visit, but their lives are full, busy. There’s no space for me to slot into their world, not without feeling like a guest.

Work has been my anchor for so long that I’m not even sure how to let go of it. It’s predictable, steady. I’m good at it. But lately, even that feels hollow. I used to think that volunteering for projects like this, stepping out of my comfort zone, would reignite something—a sense of purpose, maybe. And it has, to an extent. The work we’ve been doing here is important. I know that. But once it’s over, I’ll go back to the same routine, the same lonely cycle.

I glance at the photo pinned to the bulletin board above the desk. It’s of the GHHI team during an outreach visit to a nearby village. Everyone is smiling, holding up peace signs or waving at the camera. I’m in the back, half-hidden behind Mel, looking more serious than the others. I remember that day. The long drive, the dust, the heat—and then the gratitude in the villagers’ eyes when we arrived. It was one of the good days.

My phone buzzes on the desk, snapping me out of my thoughts. A message from the logistics manager, asking me to review some supplies before our next trip. I rub my eyes, already feeling the weight of the day ahead.

Two more weeks. I keep repeating it to myself, like a mantra. Two more weeks, and then I’ll be back to the life I’ve been avoiding thinking about. But what kind of life is it?

I step out of the cramped office, stretching my arms as much as the narrow corridor allows. The smell of hot tea and fried dough wafts through the air from the break room.

Just ahead, the door to Fatima’s office is ajar. She’s perched at her desk, one hand holding her phone to her ear while the other scribbles furiously on a notepad. Her sharp eyes flick up as I pass, and she gestures for me to wait.

“Jon,” she says, holding up a finger to pause me as she speaks into the phone. Her voice is calm but firm, her words in Tajik too quick for me to follow. I find it easy to pick up languages and I have learned a few bits of Tajik from the local staff over the last few weeks. After a moment, she places her hand over the receiver and looks up at me.

“It’s a nurse from Pastkhuf,” she explains, her tone clipped. “A little girl fell. She’s injured—unconscious, I think. They’re asking for guidance.”

Immediately, my chest tightens. “Unconscious?” I step into the room, my earlier thoughts of mundane logistics forgotten.

Fatima nods, holding out the phone. “You need to speak to her directly. Find out what’s happening, what they need.”

I take the phone from Fatima, offering her a quick nod before bringing it to my ear. “Hello, this is Dr Jon Peterson. I understand you’re with an injured child?”

The voice on the other end is calm but tinged with urgency. “Yes, doctor. I am Laila, nurse in Pastkhuf. The girl fell—two floors, from… roof. She is... not waking.”

My grip on the phone tightens. Two floors. That’s significant. “Thank you, Laila. How old is she?”

“Five or six years old,” she replies, her English halting but clear enough to convey the gravity of the situation .

“And she’s been unconscious since the fall?”

“Yes. Since this morning. About... four hours now.”

Four hours. A chill runs down my spine, though I keep my voice steady. “Alright. Can you tell me about her breathing? Is it steady, or does it seem slow or laboured?”

“She is breathing, but slow,” Laila stresses.

“Okay,” I say, already piecing together a picture in my mind. “What about her pulse?”

“It is fast. But regular.”

That’s a concerning combination—slow breathing and a fast pulse could indicate raised intracranial pressure or shock. I glance at Fatima, who’s still watching me closely, pen poised above her notepad.

“Does she have any visible injuries, Laila? Especially to her head or neck?”

“Yes. Back of her head has a small cut. We have cleaned it. There is no heavy bleeding.”

I nod to myself. “Good work,” I say relieved. A clean wound reduces the risk of infection, though it doesn’t rule out internal trauma. “What about her pupils—are they the same size, or is one larger than the other?”

There’s a pause, then a muffled sound as if she’s speaking to someone else nearby. When she returns, her voice is firmer. “They are not same. One is larger.”

Unequal pupils. That clinches it—a sign of significant head injury, likely intracranial bleeding or swelling.

“Thank you, Laila. You’ve done well to stabilise her so far. I know the roads to Pastkhuf can be difficult. Is there a way to transport her to a larger facility?”

“We have a car,” she says, her voice dipping slightly, “but the roads are very bad. The rain makes it dangerous. ”

I take a deep breath, my mind racing. The combination of her condition and the logistical challenges makes this a nightmare scenario. “You’ve done everything right so far, Laila. Keep her as still as possible—especially her neck—and continue monitoring her breathing. I’ll speak to my team here, and we’ll figure out the next steps.”

“Thank you, doctor. Please... come quickly,” she says, her voice soft but steady, before the line disconnects.

I lower the phone and hand it back to Fatima, my thoughts already spinning through possibilities.

“She’s in trouble,” I say, cutting straight to the point. “Head trauma, probably intracranial bleeding. They’ve stabilised her as much as they can, but they can’t get her out of there safely in this weather.”

Fatima nods, her expression grim. “We’ll speak with logistics. Maybe there’s a way to arrange transport, but with the rain...” She trails off, her words hanging heavy in the air.

I rub the back of my neck, tension settling in. “She’s been unconscious for hours. Time isn’t on our side.”

Fatima’s sharp eyes narrow as she considers the situation. “I’ll call the army,” she says, already picking up her phone. “If they’re willing to assist, they might send a helicopter for medevac. But in this weather, it’s a long shot.”

I nod, though a knot tightens in my stomach. A helicopter would be the fastest and safest option, but nothing here is ever straightforward. The combination of weather, logistics, and costs often turns even the simplest plans into impossible puzzles.

As Fatima dials, I take a step back, letting my thoughts drift. I’ve been here long enough to know how precarious things are in these remote areas. In London, everything runs like clockwork—or at least it’s supposed to. Out here, it’s a different story. Supplies are limited, roads are dangerous, and every decision feels like a gamble, with lives hanging in the balance.

Fatima speaks in Tajik, her voice sharp and direct as she negotiates. I only catch the occasional word, but her tone is all I need to hear. This isn’t going to be easy. I shift my weight, trying to ignore the gnawing unease in my chest. Time is slipping away, and that little girl doesn’t have the luxury of waiting for bureaucracy to work itself out.

When Fatima finally hangs up, her expression is grim. “The army says they’ll send a helicopter,” she explains concerned, “but only if we can assure them the girl has a real chance of survival. They want a medical opinion before they take the risk in this weather.”

“So they’ll let her die unless we jump through hoops,” I mutter, frustration creeping into my voice.

Fatima shakes her head, not rising to the bait. “It’s not just about costs, Jon. This rain makes the flight dangerous. They won’t risk their crew unless they’re sure it’s worth it.”

I bite back another comment, knowing she’s right. It’s not just about bureaucracy or stinginess—it’s about survival, and they’re trying to mitigate risks on their end. Still, the weight of the situation feels suffocating.

Fatima exhales, her fingers tapping against the desk. “We need someone to go to the settlement and assess the girl. That way, if you decide she can be saved with immediate care, we’ll have the justification to call the helicopter.”

I nod slowly, already anticipating where this is going .

“I’m sending Mel with you,” she continues. “I’ll brief her on the situation. The two of you can make the trip, assess the girl, and let me know.”

The thought of Mel joining me is a relief. Relief, because I trust her judgment and experience.

I glance toward the rain pelting against the window. The roads will be treacherous, every turn a gamble. “You’re sure about the roads?” I ask.

Fatima nods but doesn’t sugarcoat it. “I’ll check with logistics and Will, but I think it will be possible. If the rain keeps up, it could get worse, so the sooner you leave, the better.”

I run a hand through my hair, tension settling in my shoulders. The responsibility feels immense—a child’s life hanging in the balance, and every second ticking by.

“I’ll get my kit together,” I say finally, my voice firm despite the storm brewing inside me. “If we’re doing this, we need to move quickly.”

“Thank you, Jon.” Fatima sounds relieved. “I’ll keep everything ready on this end. Call me as soon as you’ve made the assessment.”

As I leave her office, the unease lingers. This is what I signed up for, isn’t it? To go where I’m needed most, to take on these challenges. But that doesn’t make the weight of it any easier to carry.

The rain’s assault is relentless, a constant hammering that drowns out everything but the screech of tyres and the groaning of the Hilux. Arif’s hands clutch the wheel, his knuckles stark white, his concentration unflinching as he battles to keep the truck on the muddy track.

My breath is shallow, my heart pounding in sync with the storm. The narrow road hugs the edge of a ridge, the drop below obscured by the blur of rain and darkness. Every jolt of the truck slams my medical bag into my thigh, a reminder of the fragile life we’re racing to save.

A sharp bend in the road looms ahead, and my stomach tightens. The track is barely more than a slurry of mud and rock now, the rain reducing it to something more river than road.

And then I hear it—a deep, guttural roar, low and ominous, rising above the noise of the storm.

“Landslide!” Will’s voice cuts through the chaos.

Everything happens at once.

The side of the mountain collapses in a torrent of mud and rock, slamming into the Hilux with the force of an avalanche. The truck spins, the world tilts, and I’m thrown against the door as the vehicle skids off the road.

Noise engulfs me—metal crunching, glass shattering, the relentless roar of the landslide. The Hilux jolts to a halt, wedged against something solid.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the ringing in my ears and the pounding of rain.

“Mel?” I croak, my voice weak.

“I’m okay,” she replies, her voice shaking but strong.

I twist in my seat, wincing as pain shoots through my shoulder. Mel has already freed herself and has scrambled from the car.

“Jon, help me,” she shouts as she tries to free Will .

He groans, his eyes fluttering open briefly before closing again.

Together, we wrestle with the seatbelt until we can free him, the slick mud making every movement harder.

“Careful,” I mutter as we pull him free, my training reminding me to stabilise his spine as best we can. We lower him onto the muddy ground, his body limp and heavy.

“Stay with me, Will,” I murmur, pressing my fingers to his neck. His pulse is faint but there, and relief floods through me.

But the moment is fleeting.

“Arif,” Mel shouts in a panic.

My head snaps toward the driver’s seat. Arif is slumped over the wheel, his body motionless.

“I’ll check him,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

The rain hammers down as I scramble to the driver’s side, slipping on the mud-slick ground. Arif’s face is pale, his chest still. I press my fingers to his carotid artery, holding my breath as I search for a pulse.

It’s there. Weak, irregular, but there.

I focus on Arif, my training taking over. I tilt his head back to open his airway, but there’s no change in his condition.

“Arif, can you hear me?” I say, my voice firm.

No response.

“He is not responding,” I call over my shoulder.

The mud shifts beneath my feet as Mel moves to help me. Together, we drag Arif from the truck, lowering him to the ground beside Will. I check both their pulses again and they are there. Faint but still providing a life sign. The rain pours over us, soaking through my clothes and chilling me to the bone .

And then Arif’s chest jerks.

“Jon!” Mel shouts, panic lacing her voice.

I freeze, my fingers hovering over his neck. His pulse is gone.

“Shit,” I mutter, adrenaline surging through me.

I start compressions, pressing into his chest in a steady rhythm. “One, two, three,” I count under my breath, my voice drowned out by the storm.

“Come on, Arif,” I mutter, my voice raw. “Don’t you dare give up on me.”

But his chest doesn’t rise. His pulse doesn’t return.

“Breathe for him,” I bark, and Mel follows my orders. I keep pounding his chest and checking his pulse. But there is nothing.

My stomach sinks, the weight of failure pressing down on me. I glance at Mel; her eyes are wide with desperation, her hands moving frantically against Arif’s sternum.

“It’s no use,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

Mel freezes, hovering her hands over his chest. Her breath catches, and she sinks back onto her heels, as tears stream down her face.

She cradles Arif’s head in her lap. Her sobs are barely audible over the storm.

I sit back; my hands tremble as the rain mixes with the mud and sweat on my skin. The world blurs around me, but I force myself to focus.

Will.

I crawl to his side, my heart pounding as I check his pulse again. Still faint, still steady.

“Hang on, Will,” I murmur, brushing the mud from his face .

I press my hands to his abdomen, feeling for rigidity. It’s taut—a clear sign of internal bleeding. His legs are twisted, likely indicating a fracture. He’s pale and clammy, classic signs of hypovolemic shock.

My mind races through the possibilities, cataloguing what needs to be done: stabilise, prevent further injury, and prepare for transport. But out here, with nothing but a medical bag and the storm raging around us, the options feel crushingly limited.

The people who scrambled down from the road above are gathering now, their voices muffled by the rain. Someone brings a tarp, holding it over us to shield Will from the worst of the downpour.

I glance at Mel. She’s still cradling Arif, her face pale and streaked with mud.

“Mel,” I say firmly. “I need you.”

She looks up, her eyes red and swollen. She nods, setting Arif down gently before crawling to Will’s side.

Together, we work to stabilise him, every movement a fight against the elements and our own exhaustion.

The rain doesn’t let up. It pounds against the ground, the wreckage, and us, as if the storm itself is mourning. And as I work, the weight of Arif’s death presses down on me, a cruel reminder of the limits of what I can do.

The rain continues its merciless assault, turning everything into a swamp of mud and misery. My hands work on autopilot, checking Will’s vitals, adjusting his position, and stabilising him as best as I can. The faint, erratic pulse under my fingers is the only thing anchoring me. Every moment feels like a lifetime.

Mel hovers nearby, her eyes darting between Will and Arif’s lifeless body. She looks like she is still in shock, her hands tremble when they’re not busy helping me. Neither of us says much.

I glance at the broken HF radio still strapped inside the truck’s shattered cabin. It’s useless. My phone is equally hopeless, a black mirror mocking me with its lack of signal. We’re on our own, cut off from the outside world, and the storm shows no sign of relenting.

Will groans softly, his head lolling to the side.

“Will,” I murmur, leaning closer. “Stay with me, mate. Just hang on a little longer.”

His eyes flutter open briefly, glazed and unfocused, before shutting again.

“Jon,” Mel calls, her voice sharp but low.

I look up to see a figure approaching through the rain—a man, waving his arms as he navigates the treacherous slope. My body tenses, unsure if this is friend or foe, but when he gets closer, I spot the logo of another NGO on his jacket.

He shouts something in Tajik, his voice barely carrying over the storm. When he reaches us, his face is etched with concern as he takes in the wreckage and the bodies on the ground.

“I saw... landslide,” he says in halting English, gesturing toward the mountain above. His clothes are soaked, and he clutches a small radio in his hand.

“GHHI,” he continues, pointing to the logo on the Hilux. “I call office. Helicopter... coming.”

My chest tightens, relief flooding me for the first time since the landslide hit. “A helicopter? It’s on its way?”

“Yes,” he confirms with a nod, holding up his radio. “My office call. Maybe one hour.”

An hour. It feels like forever, but it’s something .

“Thank you,” I say, my voice thick with gratitude.

The man kneels beside me, his eyes scanning Will’s broken form. “What can I do?”

“Help Mel,” I say, nodding toward her as she kneels by the tarp shielding Will from the rain. “We need to keep him as stable as possible until the helicopter arrives.”

He nods and moves to assist Mel, who gives him a shaky but grateful smile.

I turn my focus back to Will. His breathing is shallow, and his pulse is barely there. I dig through my medical bag, pulling out anything that might help: gauze to staunch what external bleeding I can, a splint to immobilise his legs, and the limited pain relief I have with me.

“Will, hang on,” I whisper again, more to myself than to him. “Help’s coming.”

The next hour stretches endlessly. Every tick of my watch feels slower than the last. Mel and the Tajik worker hold the tarp steady over Will, shielding him from the worst of the storm, while I continue monitoring his vitals.

I glance at Mel occasionally, catching the flicker of her grief as she looks toward Arif’s body. I feel it too, the ache of losing someone in the line of duty. But there’s no time to dwell on it now.

Finally, the sound of rotor blades cuts through the rain. The thumping grows louder, stronger, until the helicopter emerges from the storm, its lights piercing through the grey.

“They’re here!” Mel shouts, her voice rising above the noise.

The helicopter descends carefully, its rotors kicking up a whirlwind of mud and rain. Medics in bright jackets leap out, their movements swift and purposeful .

“This one first,” I say, gesturing to Will.

The medics nod and spring into action, transferring Will onto a stretcher with practiced efficiency. I step back, my body sagging with exhaustion as they secure him for transport.

Mel moves to my side, brushing her hand against my arm. “We did it,” she says with a trembling voice.

I nod, unable to find the words. The relief is overwhelming, but the grief and exhaustion are still there, a weight I know I’ll carry long after the storm has passed.

As the helicopter lifts off, carrying Will toward the care he desperately needs, I turn back to Mel and the Tajik NGO employee.

“You... need ride?” he asks, gesturing toward the ridge above where a few people have gathered.

I glance at Mel, then back at the worker. “What about him?” I nod toward Arif’s still form.

“We carry,” he says simply, his tone resolute.

Together with the other locals who scrambled down the slope, we form a plan. Arif’s body is carefully wrapped in one of the tarps, shielding him from the unrelenting rain. The men hoist him onto their shoulders, their steps steady but laboured as they begin the climb back up to the road.

Mel walks beside them, gently resting her hand on the tarp as if to offer comfort, though the man it covers is beyond feeling.

I follow, my legs heavy and my heart heavier. Each step feels like a struggle, the mud sucking at my boots, the storm fighting against us. But the determination of the locals is unwavering, their solidarity a reminder of the strength found in community, even amidst tragedy .

When we reach the road, the Tajik worker gestures toward his truck. “We take him back to Khorog,” he says. “Someone come for car later.”

I nod, my gratitude too immense for words.

As we load Arif’s body into the truck and climb into the cab, I catch Mel’s eye. Pain is written all over her face, but there’s also a quiet resolve in her expression.

We’re not just leaving the mountain. We’re carrying its weight with us.