I spent that morning at UVa PD filing the report on Cantwell. By the time we finished and headed to the parks, it felt like we were walking into a war zone.
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Engage only if attacked first with lethal force. Do not fire if your range isn't clear. Do not fire if you can't see your target. Get the camera rolling but don't show victims. Those were the rules I had for myself.
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You can't prepare for the pools of blood. The anguished faces contorted with pain. The feeling of relief of linking back with your partner after getting separated from them. The screams are silent. You can hear them but you can't remember them.
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Establish a perimeter. Form a medic wall. Open up lanes for first responders. Deconflict. Watch for secondary attacks against responders. Headcount your crew.
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By the time the attack happened, we had formed a group of about eight people, all locals, committed to getting each other home safe. The walk back was like nothing else. We had to go the long way. Back up to downtown. Around the pavilion. Over the Belmont Bridge.
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We walked in a formation, last person walking backwards to watch for another car attack.
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Tell me it wasn't war. Tell me it wasn't terrorism. I dare you.
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End of conversation
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