Hands frozen in mid-air, my head swings around to locate the source of the noise. I scan the street bordering the far end of the square and feel the whole world slide into slow motion as a large box truck comes into view, careening around a corner at full speed.
My first thought is that someone must’ve lost control of the wheel. Surely, this is a terrible accident. But when the truck jolts up onto the sidewalk and barrels straight at the police barricade surrounding the gathered crowd, I feel the blood turn to ice inside my veins.
This is no accident.
“Look out!” I cry, but the sound goes nowhere without the microphone to amplify it. My useless warning reaches only those on the stage, who are standing beside me in the same shellshocked horror, eyes locked on the incoming disaster.
There’s a thunderous boom as the truck smashes into the metal crowd partitions. They fly into the air like they’re made of aluminum foil, doing nothing to slow the vehicle. Several policemen run toward it, guns drawn, shouting for the driver to stop. I hear the whiz of bullets from the snipers on the roof — ricocheting off the grill, fracturing the windshield into a spiderweb.
Still, the truck keeps coming.
Too fast to stop.
Too late to run.
Straight into the square.
Straight toward the crowd.
The firefighters are leaping off the platform now, running headlong into danger in a desperate attempt to protect their families. People are finally catching on that something is wrong. Panic washes over the crowd like a tsunami, swallowing everything.
I watch them searching for an exit in the barricaded square, but there’s nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. The very partitions meant to keep us safe have sealed our fate. We are animals in a cage, penned in before the slaughter.
Wake up, Emilia.
Wake up, wake up, wake up.
This must be another nightmare.
Someone is tugging at my arm, trying to pull me off the stage, but I shrug off their grip. I’m rooted to the spot. I cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot help the people below. I can only watch, helpless to stop it, as the truck plows onward into the crowd. As it carves a path of carnage through the gathering of men, women, and children who, mere seconds ago, were cheering in celebration.
Now, they are screaming in pain and terror.
This cannot be real.
This cannot be happening.
Any moment now, I will wake and find myself safe and sound in my bed, and this will all just be a bad dream.
I blink my eyes, but I do not wake.
The screams crescendo. People are climbing over barriers, ducking beneath the platform. I spring into motion, bending to pull people up onto the stage with me — one after another, as many as I can manage. Galizia and Riggs are on either side of me, doing the same.
It’s not enough.
Not by far.
There’s utter pandemonium on the ground. The truck has slowed, but it’s weaving now — as though to claim as many lives as possible. There’s a glimmer of relief as the firefighters finally break through one of the barricades. People begin funneling out into the street, out of the truck’s path. Tears stream down their faces as they sprint for safety, their children clutched tight to their chests. I try not to look at the ones who do not run. The ones lying too-still on the ground. Left behind in the wake of tires and terror.
Dead.
They’re dead.
“Princess,” Galizia’s pleading, but her voice sounds distant. “We have to go now.”
“Not yet.”
“Princess—” It’s Riggs, this time.