Fordstown, IL --- Three men in their mid-twenties coordinated a deadly attack this Wednesday at Fordstown Mall in Fordstown, Illinois. Sixteen passersby were shot and seven confirmed dead, including our fellow editor at the Scope, Abraham Handsen.
“Abe Handsen, that’s Handsen: H-A-N-D-S-E-N.”
“Dad, could we check out the comics.”
Abe swatted away his son, treating him more like a housefly than a nine-year-old boy. Then shielding the receiver, he whispered with an aggressive, almost belligerent tone, “Shush, I need to finish this call. Just sit down and… Oh no, I’m still here. Do you need my account number? Alright, give me a second. Hello? Did I lose you? Damnit! This phone will be the death of me!” He snapped the phone shut with an exasperated sigh. He checked the time on his phone and then his watch: both 3:46 pm.
Abe stood up and took a panoramic view of the mall from the rocky sediment of a bench that surrounded the same fountain in every one-story mall of suburbia. He looked over every passerby, seeming uninterested in their youthfulness and lack of well-ironed suit jackets. With an unaffectionate pat on the back, he motioned for his son to get up. “Come on, Junior. We’re here to get you shoes.”
Abe gripped his son’s right shoulder tightly, guiding him through the crowds of gothic juveniles and manicured mobs of teenage girls like a prisoner to death row. Unrelenting, he knocked into stranger after stranger, while only Junior showed signs of apology in staring at the floor.
Fordstown Mall was had an estimated 2,300 customers that day and still no suspicious activity was noted until the time of the shooting. Witnesses to the shooting claimed they saw men wearing black jackets and chains on their pants but did not consider reporting it to the authorities.
“Dude, watch where you’re going!” It was a black-clothed tattoo aficionado in his mid-twenties. He seemed to be carrying more metal in his face than the long camouflage duffel bag he lugged around, but Abe carried too little to give him a second glance.
The gothic stranger proceeded to the restroom area where he met up with an older thinner reflection of himself. As his comrade slapped his tightly bound duffel bag he smirked, speaking through his ill-kept teeth, “You ready? The hour strikes, and we must save these wretched scumbags from a darker fate.”
Although his fellow’s attempt at archaic prose failed to impress him, the pierced stranger agreed. Hoping to mask his apprehension, he managed to speak without looking into his clan brother’s eyes, “I’m all ready.” The menacing grin, however, was not returned.
“See you on the other side.”
The shooters were all members of a doomsday cult, “Apocalypse Resurrected.” They were spotted by several witnesses carrying large camouflage duffel bags, which held Model 99 Barrett rifles.
“We are saviors: saving these people from the damnation that will rise on December 21. The apocalypse, it’s coming!” said Timothy Darval, one of the two shooters captured by Fordstown police.
Abe continued his unyielding trek to the department store, son in hand, when he noticed a quiet cell phone shop. He stopped with such force, Junior nearly lost his balance grabbing hold of his father’s blazer. Abe removed his phone from his pocket, first checked the time and then shook his head as if he were condemning a dog who he caught wetting the carpet.
Meanwhile, Junior took the time to scan the nearby shops. He spotted the comic book store. It was small but it held so much depth and wonder. Walls lined with DC heroes each more animate than the one before, Star Wars figurines encased with glass preserving every speck of paint and detail, classic comics were adorning the entrance with glossy pages that shined 30 years younger than the pages they contained. For the first time since he arrived at the mall, Junior cracked a smile. His eyes shone with boyhood wonder. Then a hand grabbed him from behind and thrust him into a highly air-conditioned chamber of cheap electronics and overly friendly salesmen.
“Hey sir, can I help with anything today,” said the nearest smiley salesperson.
“Yea, I got this piece of shit,” Abe didn’t try to reciprocate the enthusiasm, “and I need something that works.” He threw the cell phone on one of the many curved countertops, just hard enough to break the gaze of his son whose eyes were fixed to the comic book store.
“Sir, I may know your problem. Many people have been having issues with…” His pause was proof of his inexperience. “Let me get the technician in the back.” The clerk may have expected a response, but Abe simply stared, lips pursed, then turned around looking over his son's head towards the selection of overpriced mobile phones.
“Dad, when you’re done could we check out that comic store.” Abe ignored him, but the son refused to take the subtle hint. “Just for a second. I just wanna see one thing for a second.”
His dad sighed and then turned to him. He took a deep breath, glanced down at his shoes, then raised his head, ready to respond when…
A woman screamed. Three thunderous gunshots followed. Then silence.
The silence lasted a fraction of a second, but it was enough time to raise the hair on every arm in the mall. Thoughts rushed through everyone’s head at warp speed. In that infinitesimally short span every heartbeat was halted, every breath stilled.
What followed was an unintelligible crescendo of breathless murmuring, rapid footsteps, and babies weeping uncontrollably. Then again, were the sounds of gunshots like a horrifying symphony of firecrackers. The security officers shouting to the civilians, but their voices failed to carry past the crowd.
“I saw one of the guys in black with a big black gun. He was just shooting into crowds, screaming at everyone. With the people freaking out and the gunshots, I couldn’t hear him,” said Megan Reeve, a witness to the shooting.
Abe ran to the back door, where the salesman went to retrieve the technician. As hard as he twisted the knob, the door refused to budge. The two men had locked the door and escaped through the back exit.
Abe looked frantically about the small room and found a spot behind one of the rounded countertops. He motioned to his son who stood immobilized, the fear coursing through his veins like a prickly swab being pulled through the pipe of a rusted clarinet. “Junior, get down here,” he whispered tugging on his left arm. He hunched over his son, wrapping one arm around the boy’s sunken torso and using the other to keep his head low to the ground.
They waited in the cacophony of alarm for three minutes, until the phone rang.
Abe gasped, inhaling all the air in the room. He crept to the phone on the opposite side of the small shop. As he silenced the device, he saw the stunned face of the pierced stranger and a large black rifle both staring back from the entrance.
“I didn’t mean to…” Abe made the mistake of saying one word too many, and the shooter put two bullets into his upper abdomen. Abe held his position, gripping his stomach, then as he lowered himself to the ground, his son ran from behind the counter and threw his arms around his bleeding chest.
The shooter mouthed his apologies and walked away in stunned silence staring into the ceiling as tears ran down the sides of his face leaving a short trail to the nearest restroom.
One of the attackers was Evan Trammel, 24, was found dead in a bathroom stall. He had used the rifle and shot himself in the forehead, and was discovered by police only one hour following the incident.
Junior whimpered over his wounded father.
“Junior,” he managed. “I’m sorry, I was- I was an awful father. I was an awful person.”
Junior shook his head uncontrollably, refusing to agree.
“I was going to take you to that comic store, I swear it. God just has a funny way of timing these shit things.”
Junior squeezed his eyes shut, his chest recoiling with every winded sob. He watched as his dad raised an open palm, where he held his phone. With what little might he could muster, his father tossed it aside and took one last look at his son.
The Scope expresses its deepest sympathy to the friends and family of all those victims. We also want to commemorate the work of Abraham Handsen, who spent 16 years as News Editor for the Scope, but who will be remember most as a faithful husband and devoted father.
