Page 5 of Rescue

“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.

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