Mindblown: A Novel About Mind Control in America

By Sue Tatem

Three mind controllers abduct Mary Byram. They show her the
government’s secret mind control center in Virginia, explain to her that she’s been a subject in their mind control program her whole life, and reveal that even her husband was one of them. The mountains and an island paradise set the scenes for this novel about a girl on the run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781493183999

Sue Tatem

The Toet (H. Randolph Tatem III, MD) wrote about Varmint, our beloved cat. Varmint was an odd-eyed white long haired cat. Sue Binkley Tatem, Ph.D. wrote about the colors and illustrated both stories. Sue also illustrated other childrens’ books: The Reluctant Racehorse by Kyra Knoll, and A Thousand Eyes by Paddy Fleming (a dog story set in Africa).

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Copyright © 2011 by Sue Tatem.

ISBN:      Softcover      978-1-4653-4084-9

                eBook            978-1-4931-8399-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 08/22/2019

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CONTENTS

Acknowledgement

Preamble

Kidnapped

1

2

Interrogation

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

The Tour

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

Ward

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

41

42

Escape

43

44

45

46

47

48

49

50

51

52

53

54

55

56

57

58

59

60

61

62

Island

63

64

65

66

67

68

69

70

71

72

73

74

75

76

77

78

79

80

81

82

83

84

85

86

Back East

87

88

89

90

91

92

93

94

95

96

97

98

99

100

101

102

103

104

Notes

Endnotes

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

I thank my readers Randy Tatem, Beverly Spicer, Richard Bachman, Tom Lichty, Dick Glover, Dick Boera, Richard Bachman, Steve Elman, and Steve Ward. Thank you also to Bonnie Hill, Al Wicks, Harvey Salwen, and Dr. Jean Salwen for showing me Smith Mountain Lake. This is a work of fiction. Only the cat bears any resemblance to a real person. Varmint lies between me and the keys and he occasionally makes his own inserts. All the errors are his. I asked what if mind control was real? ESP is represented in italics. James Michener, John Irving, Stephen King and Tabitha King held me captive with their many books.

TORNADO

1980s

it

began

as a susurrus

that developed

into a zephyr

that lifted a feather

and blew into a breeze

that rustled tree leaves

and swirled in a hollow raising a dust devil

that spiraled into a whirlwind that

scoured sand from the earth to darken

into a tornado

that roared

into a

hur

ry

cane

PREAMBLE

SMITH MOUNTAIN LAKE

It was only later that I learned the underwater location of the secret government facility. And it was years after the events told here that I went to Smith Mountain Lake in Western Virginia. The lake is artificial and is 40 miles long. It was created by a dam that is 816 feet wide and 227 feet tall. After the dam was built, beginning in 1960, the water flowing in flooded the valleys. So the lake, as I saw it from the air flying in, has an irregular shape with fingers of water reaching into the former valleys. Large homes were developed around the lake. You may have seen Smith Mountain Lake because it was the setting for the 1992 movie, What About Bob, with Bill Murray and Richard Dreyfuss. The movie was a comedy. The lake doesn’t seem funny to me.

I flew to Dulles airport and rented a car to drive to the lake that is located in western Virginia. I picked up groceries at a supermarket in Roanoke and rented a condo beside a marina on Smith Mountain Lake.

I paid a boat owner to take me out in his speedboat. It was a bass fishing boat that had a fisherman’s seat built on the bow. It also had a fish finder. I had him troll the lake with the finder on, especially in the area near the dam.

It was spring and there were no crowds. It turned out there were no bass either. On the screen of the fish-finder, I could see not only shadows that represented fish in the fresh water below, but also a profile of the bottom of the lake. It was eerie because the bottom was covered with the waterlogged skeletons of dead trees. The secret facility was built in what would be the deepest area of the lake, just behind the future dam, before the lake was flooded. The appearance of the secret underwater buildings on fish finders had been disguised with a roof of trees so that, to fisherman using finders, it looked much like other areas of the lake.

KIDNAPPED

1

MAY 1, THURSDAY

I was reading my e-mail, early in the morning, before returning to working on a paper, Is psychotherapy an invasion of privacy? I was uncomfortable with the topic. Psychotherapy was nosy and judgmental. What god was to dictate what was normal human behavior? Is it okay for an old man to pull his own plug, but psychotic for a young girl to slice her wrists? Is it nuts to believe in UFO’s, but okay to believe in an invisible God and winged angels? I was more comfortable with other aspects of psychology, studies of learning, and how drugs work. But, I had accepted the editor’s invitation for the paper, and now I had to sit and deliver. Squirming in my ergonomically correct desk chair at just the right height for my computer keyboard, I squinted at the fine print of chapter three—Ethical and Professional Issues—of the 600 page book on my left—Counseling Psychology,¹ that was held open by a copy of Orwell’s 1984.

My mind wandered to my e-mail. In the e-mail, questions asked of one person were, curiously, answered by another. Was some Big Brother reading my e-mail? I knew they had programs that followed every keystroke. Wow, I was getting paranoid. I’d spent too much time alone. Get a life, Mary, I told myself.

And, if you’re unhappy, get a divorce. On what grounds? Some annoying little habit, like counting the pieces of chicken and pizza in his share of a meal? Allset’s accumulated piles in his home office? His secrecy? His dark horror novels? His ugly collection of gargoyles, scorpions, and rattlesnake tails embedded in plastic? His Easter Island concrete figure of a frowning man at the bottom of the driveway? His insistence that she always wear all the jewelry he gave her? His elephant ears? It didn’t seem like enough, and yet . . .

And don’t talk to yourself, I ordered. Next thing you know, you’ll be hearing voices. The screen flickered. I thought I saw a watery image of, of what? Was it a mouse with big ears? Were there were subliminal messages in the static? My imagination was obviously running away with me.

There was a glass of water. I noticed its surface begin to shimmer. A vibration?

Then I heard the first squeal.

Squeal.

It wasn’t a pig squeal. It was the annoying shrill shriek of the driveway alert. A metal detector in the driveway, part of the security system, let me know a vehicle had approached, sort of like a doorbell.

Squeal.

I went to front door.

Squeal.

There were three police cars to match the three squeals. No lights, no sirens.

The three men who got out of their cars were dressed as policemen in black uniforms with insignia and wearing thick belts with holsters for their guns and Walky-talkies. The three men wore the local uniforms and drove the local cruisers.

But, these guys were not the local police. I knew the local police personally.

I opened the door.

Hello, officers. My security alarm didn’t go off. The usual reason the police arrived was that our security system had called them.

Mrs. Byram, may we come in?

I’d like to see some identification. I don’t know you.

The trio pushed their way in.

Hey, I didn’t say you could come in!

You’re alone. It was a statement, not a question. I was alone. And frightened.

Well . . . I began.

Stephen, no one else should be here, but better go through the house anyway.

I think you should show me some identification. And a warrant. You have no right to barge in here. I have rights.

Jim, get her coat, said Stephen.

Jim was very old to be a police officer. He seemed to know his way around my house. He marched straight to the coat closet and returned with a fur coat, an heirloom from my mother, and a pair of fur boots.

2

You’re going with us.

They gave no reason.

Everything happened so fast.

I argued. I was a fiftyish woman, nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary.

I’m a law abiding citizen. What do you want with me? There must be some mistake.

They ignored my protests.

I was outnumbered. I was terrified. What could I do?

Show me a warrant, I demanded, again.

They ignored my request.

This is America, I have rights.

Unless you have a shotgun handy, three big men can walk into your house and do what they damned well please.

Babbling, I refused to wear the fur coat. I insisted on a down jacket and sneakers.

At least get my glasses. These are my computer glasses. They only focus to three feet. I use them to see my computer screen.

I waited for handcuffs.

A point for me on the coat. A point for them on the glasses.

I felt only fear. I was gripped by my own terror.

The two younger ones dragged me out of my house by my upper arms. I struggled to get away.

I screamed. I knew no one would hear me, but I screamed anyway. The house was in the woods. The neighboring houses were only visible in winter, when the leaves were down. No one could hear my screams.

Shut up. We’ll tell the General! We’ll put you in cuffs.

General Who?

I looked back at the house as they shoved me into the back seat of the cruiser. I loved my house. It was a gray, contemporary. It had clean lines and peaked roofs. It was set in beds of pachysandra and daffodils, and it was framed by the woods. It was nice, a doctor’s house, but not a mansion. Would I ever see it again?

They drove a mile, made a few turns on gravel country roads, parked in the woods, and quickly transferred to an unmarked black van with Virginia license plates. They handcuffed me. They put me in the back. Well, that was something. At least they hadn’t smothered me with chloroform. I was alive. Still, I had been collected.

There were no windows. I judged the uncomfortable ride in the van to have been about four hours. That would take us from Solebury, PA, west to Pittsburgh, east to the New Jersey shore and beyond, south to Washington D.C., or north to New York. The first part of the ride seemed to be high speed, probably freeways, I thought. Then, the tempo changed. There were stops and starts, smells of gasoline, and sounds of car brakes and acceleration. I had to be in a city. I figured the city was Washington guessing from the sway around some traffic circles, though there are traffic circles in New Jersey. Occasionally I heard the murmur of the men’s voices, but I couldn’t make out the words. The van must have entered a building through some kind of a tunnel, so I didn’t see the outside.

I wondered if I would ever see the outside again.

Still, I reminded myself, I was alive. The thing to do was stay cool, be detached, think. How long did I have to live? Was the clock ticking?

The next thing I saw after the van was the garishly fluorescent-lit interior of a concrete parking garage with a lot of Virginia license plates. They did not seem particularly concerned that I might figure out where I was, but on the other hand, they didn’t bother to tell me. I felt a ride in an elevator.

There was a logo on the elevator doors. It was sort of a bumpy globe.

We set off on a winding walk through long corridors with more of the raspberry-like logos.

From the moment their cars set off my magnetic driveway alert and the men appeared on my doorstep, there was no chance for escape.

The trio pushed me into a room.

Your bedroom in the Holy Day Inn, said White, closing the door.

The room looked like every motel room you’ve ever seen. Well almost. There was a king size bed. A blue and white printed kimono, the kind they give you to use in Japanese hotels, was spread out on the bed. There was a bathroom with a Corian sink top and a separate room with a tub and shower. What was missing from my motel room was the television set, the telephone, and the artwork. There were no pictures on the walls. The walls were beige painted cinder block. There was no window. The gray door was locked. There were TV cameras in the bedroom, sink room, and bathroom.

You’re going to watch me shit!

It’s funny how fast fear can turn into rage.

The trio looked embarrassed, but made no reply.

By that time I was so thoroughly pissed off, I didn’t mind if they watched me.

Watching me defecate was the least of what the assholes did to me.

The assholes had been watching me shit for a long time.

Don’t bother with a tip, White sneered.

The three men exited, closing the door, leaving me alone in my . . . cell.

INTERROGATION

3

After they left, I threw myself against the door. Locked. I looked in every nook and cranny for a way to escape. The ventilation grate was fastened tight. I looked over the room again, hunting for bugs, not that they’d be needed with those video cameras. The cameras were bolted tightly. In the bathroom was a thin plastic pan. It held some toothpaste, a cheap toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a comb. I took the toothpaste. Teetering on the sink, I smeared toothpaste on the lens of the video camera. I couldn’t find a way to get high enough to paste the camera in the bedroom.

I charged the door intending to try to break free. The lock clicked. I attacked the door. I was Cassius Clay pummeling with my fists.

I was furious. I was mad as hell. I did the only thing I could do. I was destructive. I yanked the mirror off the bathroom cabinet. I smeared the generic toothpaste over the walls. I stuffed the roll of toilet tissue into the john. I hurled the ceramic toilet tank top against the wall. It broke in two. I pulled the bedding off the bed and tried ripped the sheets to shreds.

I had never done anything destructive before in my life. I had always taken good care of my things. I was surprised how satisfying a tantrum could be.

Of course, I knew they were watching everything, or at least taping it.

I was trying to figure out how to tear apart the mattress—it was on the floor by then—when the door opened.

A tray slid in on the floor. The door clicked shut. I couldn’t see who delivered the meal.

My immediate impulse was to throw the tray of food against the wall. But first, I should see if there was anything useful on it.

Was there anything that could be used as a weapon?

There was a napkin wrapped around plastic knife, fork, and spoon. Not as good as metal, but the fork was sharp enough to damage an eyeball and the knife would hurt if I jammed it into an ear. Turning away from the camera, I pocketed the plastic in the kimono. I kept the salt and pepper packets too, hoping to rub them into bureaucratic eyes.

The cup with the paper lid held coffee. It didn’t even smell good. There was spaghetti slop and overcooked spinach pulp under a quarter inch thick beige plastic cover. Under a smaller matching cover, there was gray dishwater that was supposed to be lentil soup. Dessert was a pie that looked like congealed blood. Strawberry pie? I noticed white flecks that on closer inspection looked like tiny rice grains. Were they maggots? I looked at them closely. They were not moving. They were not maggots. Worse. The food was drugged. I dumped all the food onto one plate, stirred it to a brown mix with dark green shreds of spinach and whitish pieces of pasta. I took the paste and dumped it in a pile right by the door. The thought crossed my mind that to take a dump would be even better.

I was still feeling defiant when the door opened again. I had the coffee cup in my hand.

The short one—I soon learned his name was John—was the first to walk in. Though he was the shortest, he was the boss of the Stephen Kingston Trio. Much to my delight, he put his new chartreuse sneaker right into the mush.

Squish.

What a mess! You’re a naughty girl, he said. We have ways of punishing naughty girls.

I threw the coffee in his face.

Go ahead, kill me, I said, I don’t give a damn. I’m not eating your drugged food. What did you put in it? Lot 6? Lot 6 was LSD given to student subjects in a movie I’d seen. It was a dumb thing to say. It was all I could think of saying.

We could force-feed you, John said, wiping his face with his hand. I remembered a picture I had seen of some fowl being force fed with a tube down its throat. It was an ugly picture. And then oddly, I had the mental image of my husband, Dr. Allset Byram, standing very straight, saying something harshly, spitting words I couldn’t understand.

We’d like to have your cooperation, John said.

Cooperation! They hauled me out of my own home. Still, they wanted something from me. They seemed like petty bureaucrats, little government peons, just doing their job. But there was something, or someone, they feared. I was in a position to bargain.

Start with the food. I want unmixed, raw salad vegetables, steak, chicken, and no sauces. No drugs, I demanded. Bring me the raw material and a microwave. I’ll cook my own. I knew they could drug me anytime they wanted. They need not bother to poison the food. They knew that too.

Okay, said John, much to my surprise. Can I borrow your napkin?

Oh, sure, I said, puzzled.

The other two walked in. Unfortunately, John steered them around the goosh and I was out of coffee.

You’re a mess, John, said Mr. Brown.

I grinned.

Later, I came to call the three men the Three Kings, the Three Wise Men, the Three Wise Guys, or the Three Blind Mice. They were not wise, kings, mobsters, nor mice. But they were rodents.

Stephen Black was enormous, six-foot-four, overweight, with crooked teeth, eyeglass lenses thick as cliché coke bottle bottoms, stringy black hair, a surprisingly tenor voice for such a large man, and small simian lips. When he was not masquerading as something else, like my local police, he wore colored tee shirts, jackets with patched elbows, motorcycle boots, and jeans.

James Brown was old. He was bald, sere, gaunt, about six-foot one. Like Black, he peered through thick glasses that, oddly, were identical to the glasses worn by Black. He wore a paisley jacket and soft blue pants. Sometimes Black and White referred to him as the Old Man. Old Man is a phrase that connotes more than age, it means commander of a US Naval vessel. I didn’t know if the relic was an old sailor when I first met him.

John White, he of the chartreuse sneaker, was short, maybe five foot eight, tanned, wiry, a wrestler, a terrier, with a full head of gray hair. Of the three he dressed best, even dapper, wearing dark turtleneck shirts and a silver medallion of the moon. He wore the kind of sunglasses that darken in response to light.

They told me their names were White, Black, and Brown. Introducing themselves, they all avoided eye contact with me.

White, Black, and Brown were not their real names. All three wore wedding rings. Were there wives? Wives that maybe wrote books or did research?

John set about cleaning the brown purple glop off his lime-colored shoe with my napkin.

4

INTERROGATION ROOM

When he was finished, the trio marched