Chapter 5: Ken, Middlebury Sanitarium, September 2nd, 1969
Ken parked his pickup in the lot right outside of the guardhouse in front of the Middlebury Sanitarium. Behind the small structure loomed the buildings of the facility. Birds sang in the branches, the air smelled of autumn, and screams cut through the early morning chill.
Ken stood by the truck and listened.
He had heard screams before. Plenty of them. But there was a difference between men who were in physical agony from gunshot wounds and artillery versus what Ken was hearing now.
These cries were full of horror. Terror. Rage.
The cacophony hurt his ears.
An older man in a pressed uniform stepped out of the guardhouse and walked to Ken.
“Son?” the man asked.
Ken blinked then he looked at the man. “I’m sorry, sir.”
The man smiled. “No worries, son. No worries. It takes most folks by surprise when they first hear the Factory.”
“The Factory?” Ken asked.
“Inside joke,” the man said with a tired smile. “You’re Ken Buckingham?”
“I am,” Ken said, offering his hand.
The man shook it. “Gus Delianos. You’re here for the third shift position.”
“I am.”
“Come on with me,” Gus said.
Ken followed him as Gus walked up to the guardhouse where another man around Gus’s age sat with a newspaper.
“Alex,” Gus said, “I’m taking Ken here on a quick tour.”
Alex looked up, nodded, and then he returned his attention to the paper.
Gus chuckled and stepped back onto the main road. As Ken walked beside the man, Gus asked, “So, how long were you in?”
“Four years,” Ken answered.
“Regular infantry?” Gus asked.
“Yes. You know,” Ken said, “you’re the only place to even give me an interview.”
“Not surprised,” Gus said. “When I got home from the Pacific in forty-seven, people wanted to just put the war behind them. And when they sent me off to Korea, hell, people didn’t even know we were there or what was going on after that one.”
“How long were you in for?” Ken asked.
“Two years in the Pacific,” Gus answered. “Then the Corps activated my reserve unit and sent me back for another year in Korea. So, three altogether.”
“Two wars.”
“One war and a police action, if you listened to Truman. Which I didn’t,” Gus chuckled. “Anyway, I want to let you know this place gets a little strange after dark.”
“How so?”
“Well, for starters, most of the poor folks in here get sedated for the night. Means it should be quiet, but it’s not.”
Gus came to a stop in front of the small house. The home was built of brick, and the curtains were drawn against the morning sun. The yard was well maintained, an apple tree neatly trimmed and heavy with fruit.
“This place,” Gus said, gesturing to the house, “hasn’t been occupied in years. Work here long enough and you’ll find out why. My point, though, Ken is you’ll see and hear things when you’re doing your rounds. This house, this is one of the worst. Lights, voices, yelling, fighting. All of it.”
Gus waved his hand around the campus. “You’ll see people who aren’t here. Might even talk to them. Might even be chased by them.”
Ken looked at the older man and tried to see if Gus thought Ken was a rube.
Gus didn’t.
The sincerity and concern in his eyes were shocking.
“I do all of the hiring when it comes to security, Ken,” Gus said, looking at him steadily. “There’s a reason why my boss tells me to choose combat vets. They’re steady. They don’t get the itch to bug-out. There’s something bad here, Ken. Something real bad. We protect the residents as best we can. Not their fault they’re loony. Hell, there are some boys here from the war, from Korea, and Vietnam, too. Even got a couple from the Great War. Uncle Sam may have shoved them in a corner, but we’re not going to let them be in the dark if we can help it.”
