We went to meet some Parisians at a bar, Le Kitch, which is a block away from the Bataclan Concert Hall, where the band Eagles of Death Metal were performing.

We had been in Paris for a couple weeks, Benjamin Verdoes and I. Our band, Iska Dhaaf, is here to play shows and write music. On the weekends, we get out and try to meet the locals. We were teaching our new friends American slang in exchange for more conversational French phrases. We had just gotten our second round at Le Kitch when suddenly about 20 people started cramming into the small bar. A man at the back of the group was pushing everyone further in. Benjamin thought it was a surprise party.

The man lit a cigarette inside and his hands were shaking. He was looking out through the glass door and windows. "I didn't know you could smoke in here," I said to the Parisians. "You can't," they said. The man then bolted the door, walked to the wall next to me and flipped the breakers. The bar was now dark except for the yellow light pouring in from the streetlamps. Everyone hushed, and the man with the cigarette announced something in French. I didn't understand what he was saying. A Parisian translated: "There has been gunfire on the corner, seven people shot. We need to stay here until things clear."

"Welcome to Paris!" someone said, smiling a bit, trying to laugh it off.

At this point, most people thought it was a random shooting and we would be let out soon. Then the news started to trickle in. The Parisians read to us: "Seven shot and killed, 18 shot and killed, 30 shot and killed. It's a terrorist attack. They are still shooting." At that point, people began breathing more heavily. One man was looking for an inhaler. Some people were filming through the window, some talking on their phones and crying. Others (like myself) ordered another round and tried to calm down. We began to see police officers rush by with large machine guns and handguns drawn. Many wore helmets and carried shields. They raced past the door in rows. Their presence brought a small relief, but soon they were out of view. It came in lulls—small talk would begin to develop and then a report would surface or a new group of police officers would run by.

Benjamin went to the restroom, and I stayed by the window with the Parisians. Suddenly, a black vehicle drove in reverse past the bar. It looked like a move from Grand Theft Auto. It peeled off and was gone. "Holy fuck. Did you see that?" I didn't know if it was the assailants, a civilian, or law enforcement, but it was jolting. I'd never seen anyone drive like that before. Then more cops fled by. Ambulances started to arrive. Now there were at least five ambulances parked in front of the bar. Everything was red or blue from their lights. More cops with machine guns. "Everything's okay. It's going to be fine," we kept saying to our friends. Then a stretcher was carried past. A man's body lying on it. His shirt off. "He'll be okay. He's injured, but they'll help him," I said, trying to be reassuring. Then the authorities quickly covered the man's body with a shiny bag.

More crying, more drinking, more cigarettes lit. Another lull.

People began to step outside. Benjamin went out on the sidewalk for fresh air. It had been about two hours since Le Kitch first locked the doors. A policeman entered the bar quickly. He was standing in the doorway with a machine gun and spoke urgently, almost yelling. Everyone started moving quickly, grabbing their stuff. The Parisians translated: "Evacuate. Everyone has to leave right now. Evacuate quickly. Go! Go!" Everyone rushed out the door.

Outside looked like a war zone. There was glass shattered all across the sidewalk. Cops led us two blocks down the street. Once we reached the corner, the street was completely filled with police, their guns drawn and pointed. We ran past the scene. One of our Parisian friends was hyperventilating, and we helped her stabilize her breathing. At that point, we didn't know where to go or what we were supposed to do. We couldn't take the train back because the trains were closed. There were no cabs. We began walking. We didn't have Wi-Fi, so Google Maps was out. Some people asked if we were okay through a window. We said yes and asked which way to the river. They pointed and we started walking.

Everyone on the streets looked rattled. We walked for a while down some small narrow roads. There was an eerie feeling and uncertainty in the air. Every 20 seconds a new ambulance or police vehicle would speed by. We came across a bar near the water. It looked pretty hidden. We stayed in there until we felt things had cleared. We found out there had been an attack near our apartment. Eventually we walked again and we finally caught a cab back to where we were staying in the Seventh Arrondissement. Only then were we able to read the news. I couldn't believe how many people had been killed. My e-mail was flooded. We made some essential phone calls. It wasn't until I heard the fear in our loved ones' voices, followed by watching the footage of what had happened, that it began to sink in. But even still, it feels like a movie.

Nathan Quiroga is a musician and writer from the Pacific Northwest now residing in Brooklyn, New York. He is in the band Iska Dhaaf.