Across the river, almost hidden among the myriad stadium sounds, the buzz of talk, the music and the occasional roar of anticipation, there was a “Crack!” Not an explosion so much as a very loud noise quite recognizably not part of this baseball afternoon. “Crack.”

Mel looked around as the buzz in the stadium changed. He could see that those in the upper rows to his right were looking back beyond the stadium. Then, almost immediately, he heard police sirens in the distance. The tale spread quickly because those in the right field grandstand could see across the river. There had been an explosion and the Monterey Bay Fish restaurant, one of those expensive restaurants on the heights across the river, had exploded into flames. It looked like a firework celebration. Police cars and ambulances were chasing along the river and sirens were screaming every which way. It was crazy.

The stadium was almost silent as everyone tried to make sense of what was happening. Mel thought, It will be a gas boiler explosion in the restaurant. They never maintain these things, so they deserve everything they get.

Then, as these words were filtering through his brain, another sound broke. This time a deeper throated “boom” so close that it took place within his head. He was thrown into the air over the chairs below him and his head struck the concrete of the exit ramp wall. He was just one of a host of people who remembered nothing more.

A fan across the stadium in the left hand grandstand remembered afterwards seeing the tiers of seats across the field rising and rippling like a wave from left to right before crashing downwards amidst terrifying screams. Then just as the shock wave hit him and he was forced back into his seat he saw the upper club tier of the grandstand opposite slowly topple forward, throwing bodies on to the field, as it crashed down on the devastation below,

Beneath the stands Rashid, who had gone a little closer at the last moment to ensure that his wireless phone was within range of the triggers, was unlucky. A stray piece of concrete seem to fly directly like an avenging angel. It hit Rashid on the side of the head and he knew nothing more. No heaven, no band of virgins, no martyr’s dais … nothing.

In the ensuing chaos the police and emergency services didn’t know which way to turn. Only slowly did the realization slowly dawn that there had been two explosions and the first might have been diversionary. Leaving a small group of rescuers at the restaurant the forces converged on the stadium.

It was worse than anyone had imagined. An entire side of the stadium almost entirely full of fans had collapsed … essential services were disrupted and immediate access was impossible. The air was full of screams and cries. Bodies lay everywhere, some lying ominously still and others sitting dazed and bloody. Fans staggering out of the undamaged sections, wandered in a daze in the car park. Others tried to help, sitting with the injured or lifting rubble to free someone.

The security man, Stan, who had joked at Marge’s sandwiches, was among the first to enter. He looked at the pile of collapsed concrete sprouting columns of gaily-colored seats, and thought, God! How could this happen? How could you let this happen? And he jumped the wall onto the field and came first across a body, lying still, face down, and then a boy staring down at where his arm would have been. The blood was pouring out of a stump.

Stan tore off his jacket and tried to stem the flow of blood, lifting the boy in his arms and looking around for real help. He carried the boy towards the end of the field where he knew emergency medical people assembled in their emergency practices, but before he got there he realized that the boy had died … the shock, the loss of blood, whatever. He laid the boy down and went back to see if he could help somebody living and he realized that he was crying. Copious tears were running down his face, God, how could you let this happen?

Now the police had arrived and were attempting to establish some sort of order while medical personnel had set up a triage in the center of the field. Stan could see heavy equipment arriving and he ran to help their access to the field. Then he returned to the pile of rubble lifting aside seats and pieces of wood but quite unable to cope with the large pieces of concrete.

The work went on all day and into the night as the injured were airlifted to all the city hospitals, and the dead were laid behind the undamaged stands. There were so many of them. Survivors were still being found under the rubble under emergency lighting that night and into the early hours.

The media arrived like locusts and wanted instant answers: “Who did this? Was this an Al Qaida attack? Did anyone see anyone? How many have died?”

One newspaperman who tried to get the answers from Stan got very short shrift indeed. “What the hell!” he shouted. “Get out of here or do something useful. We are trying to rescue the wounded. You can count your bloody corpses for the newspaper later.” God, how could you let this happen?

“Winter Park … a novel," John Graham,To be published.

Contact John Graham fior pre-publication information and samples.