Monday, December 27, 1886
7:00PM
Hill Valley, California
Ten miles away from downtown Hill Valley, California, the still of the night was shattered by three sonic booms. Marty McFly blasted into the night, the DeLorean hurtling towards the ground from one thousand feet up. He gasped at the sight of the ground growing closer through the front windshield. Marty yanked the steering wheel up, trying to pull the car out of the kamikaze nosedive. But despite his efforts, the car did not change course.
It's gonna crash! Marty realized, his eyes wide in horror. Time seemed to slow down as the car grew closer and closer to the earth. The ground rushed towards his face in a dark blur. Despite the fact the DeLorean wasn't responsive to Marty's efforts, he continued to grip the steering with white- knuckled hands, hugging the wheel to his chest in a last ditch effort to pull the car up. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the advice that if he was going to get in an accident, he could brace himself with the wheel.
But I'm not even wearing a seatbelt! he thought, panicking.
A moment after that flashed into his mind, the car hit the ground. It was not a smooth landing. The vehicle bounced once, then crashed to a stop. Marty was thrown forward with the first impact, his head striking the windshield hard. Bright bolts of pain exploded in his head. With the second blow, he was tossed halfway into the passenger seat. The time circuit control switch struck him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. The car stopped dead, the engine stalled. Silence surrounded him. Marty lay where he had fallen for a moment, eyes closed, stunned.
He groaned when he moved, sitting up. The pain in his head was incredible! If it was a color, Marty thought dreamily, it would be white-hot fire. He lifted a hand to his head, tentatively touching it. He almost passed out as his fingers brushed against the bump, but his hand came back unbloodied. Amazing.
Musta just bruised it, he thought vaguely. Marty reached for the latch and tried to open the door. He was relieved when it gave right away, that the crash hadn't jammed it shut. As he stood up, Marty was hit with a vertigo so powerful that he fell to his knees. Black spots danced before his eyes and Marty was sure he would pass out.
"No," he mumbled aloud. "Stop it!"
Marty's hand shot out and grabbed the edge of the DeLorean to steady himself. After a couple deep breaths of the crisp night air, the world steadied around him and he was able to climb back to his feet with minimal dizziness.
Marty turned around and looked at the DeLorean. The front end was smashed, two feet shorter then it had been when he had left. The headlights were shattered. The hood was bent up at an unflattering angle, nearly blocking his view of the cracked windshield. Marty slipped back in the car and tried to start it. The engine remained silent and dead.
"Oh shit!" he said, slamming a hand on the steering wheel. Doc Brown was gonna kill him! Marty looked at the time circuit display. Amazingly, it was still lit. It read:
DEC 27, 1886, 7:05PM
NOV 12, 2015, 2:01AM
HILL VALLEY, CA, USA
As Marty watched, however, the digital display flickered, dimmed, then went dark. Marty hit the metal casing, then flipped the time circuit control on and off a couple times. Nothing happened. The time circuits were dead.
"Shit!" Marty said again. He yanked the keys from the ignition, grabbed the old duster coat from the passenger seat, then got out of the car. Marty pulled the coat on over his clothes, concealing his future clothing. It was a little big on him, but he had been in too much of a rush to care when he had left.
He locked up the DeLorean and pocketed the keys. Marty looked up at the sky then, trying to get his bearings. Bad move. He was struck again by a nearly overwhelming sensation of dizziness. The clear night sky seemed to whirl around him, in a nauseating merry-go-round. Marty staggered back, his hand going up to his forehead.
"I gotta find Doc," Marty whispered. When the world stopped it's high speed carousel, he started walking in the direction of town.
Marty stumbled over the hard, frozen ground. Hours had passed since he had left the DeLorean. The moon was high above his head, clearly illuminating his path. But, despite that, he was having trouble seeing straight.
Musta hit my head harder then I realized, he thought, as the dizzy spells grew more frequent. Then again, hiking ten miles was probably not a good idea after going through the kind of crash he had gone through. Marty wondered if he was in some kind of shock. He hoped he wasn't walking in circles--he didn't know how much longer he could be out here like this.
He tripped again, catching himself before he could fall. He felt so woozy on his feet! His headache had grown considerably worse since he had started out. I should've brought that first-aid kit with me, Marty thought, wishing he had the Tylenol from that with him.
He squinted at the horizon before him, searching for some signs of civilization. It was cold out, below freezing; his breath came out in frozen puffs before his face. Marty--unprepared for the low temperatures--hugged the coat tightly around his body. His hands, face, and feet had grown numb hours before. On the ground, a trace of snow could be seen, seeming to make his surroundings glow. Up ahead, he could see a couple buildings. As Marty drew closer to them, he recognized that one of them was a schoolhouse, and the other was the schoolteacher's cabin.
Hey, I wonder if Clara still lives there, Marty thought. If he remembered correctly, the school was a mile from downtown Hill Valley, where Doc's place was set up. He wasn't sure if he could make it another mile on his feet without collapsing. Marty decided to stop by that cabin first, on the chance Clara was still living there. If she wasn't....well, maybe whoever did reside there would let him stay the night.
Marty approached the cabin slowly, from the back. Someone definitely lived there now. Smoke was rising from a chimney and lights glowed in the windows. He circled around to the front and mounted the steps. He nearly tripped again. Marty stood before the door for a moment, gathering his nerve, then knocked.
A minute passed. Footsteps approached from the inside, slowly. Then the door was opened a crack. A face peered out at him, pale in the dim light. A face Marty recognized.
"Clara!" he said, relieved, stepping forward. "It's me. Marty McFly."
Clara gasped, putting a hand to her mouth. "Marty!? Oh my goodness! What are you doing here?"
Marty shifted his weight, wincing at his powerful headache. "Well, that's a long story. Do you think I could come in? It's a little cold out here."
Clara looked flustered. "Oh, certainly!" She pulled the door open wider. Marty started forward, warm air rushing outside to meet him.
"Listen, I gotta find Doc," he said to her as he entered the cozy cabin. "Do you know where he is?"
Clara nodded, shutting the door. "Yes," she said. "Would you like to sit down? You look rather pale."
"Thanks," Marty said. He started for the couch, then stopped in his tracks. Another wave of pain hit his head. His surroundings seemed to flip upside down, right side up, then back again. Marty let out a sound that was a cross between a moan and a whimper.
"Marty?" he head Clara ask. She sounded far away. "Is something wrong?"
Marty couldn't answer her. The black spots were back. The danced before his vision, growing bigger, dimming out the scene before him. He swayed on his feet for a moment.
Looks like I just made it, he thought dimly, right before he saw the floor rush to meet him.
Clara Brown drew in a sharp breath as she watched Marty suddenly pitch to the ground. She stepped over to him as Emmett called to her from the other end of the cabin.
"Clara? Is something wrong? What was that noise?"
Clara leaned over a little, reached out a hand towards Marty's still face, not quite touching him. He lay on his side, eyes were closed, his face ashen. There was a big bump, turning purple, on his forehead. "Emmett! Come quickly!"
Doc ran into the room from the kitchen, his eyes wide. "What's wrong? Is it time?"
Clara shook her head. She was nine months pregnant with their first child. "Look," she said, gesturing to the floor.
Doc gave her a puzzled stare, then moved deeper into the room. When he saw Marty lying there, his mouth fell open.
"Marty?!" he said incredulously. Doc knelt down next to him and put a hand on his cheek. Marty didn't move or make a sound. He was out cold. Doc looked up at Clara. "What happened?"
Clara shrugged her shoulders, hugging close the large sweater she wore. "I don't know. I heard a knock at the door, and when I opened it Marty was standing there! He looked pale, half frozen so I invited him inside to sit down. He asked me if I knew where you were and I said I did. Then, as he was going to the couch, he suddenly stopped, then fell to the ground." She looked down at Marty, fretting. "What's wrong with him?"
Doc reached up and gently brushed his fingers against the bump on Marty's head. "This may be the culprit," he said slowly. "It looks like he got quite a blow to the head. He might have a concussion." Doc glanced at his wife. "Can you get me a bowl of water and a washcloth? Or better yet, some ice chips from the icebox?"
Clara nodded at the request, hurrying as fast as she could move in her condition to the kitchen. She placed a bowl under the spigot of the pump, then flipped a switch. The water was automatically pumped, thanks to some minor modifications of Doc's. Clara switched it off when the bowl was filled, took a small towel from the cabinet, and draped it over the rim of the bowl. Next, she opened up the icebox, knocked off a handful of chips from the main block, and folded them up in another towel. When Clara returned to the parlor, Doc had moved Marty onto the couch.
Clara set the bowl down on the table next to the couch. "How is he doing?" she asked as Doc covered Marty with a couple heavy quilts.
"He's still out," Doc said. "I suspect he will be for several more hours, at least." He looked at Clara. "It's going to be a long wait. You might as well go to bed now. You need your rest, what with the baby due soon."
Clara looked at the clock on the mantle and was surprised to see it was after eleven. "Are you staying up?"
"Of course. When Marty wakes up, he will probably be confused and disoriented. Plus," Doc added, setting the cold compress on Marty's bump, "I have some questions for him."
Clara kissed Doc and rubbed his shoulder. "Don't you stay up all night," she warned. "If you think Marty might not wake up until tomorrow morning, then try and get some rest yourself."
Doc nodded, distracted. Clara sighed knowing that, despite her wishes, her husband would remain up the whole night.
Doc Brown sat in the armchair next to the couch watching Marty, waiting for him to regain consciousness. Hours had passed since he had first arrived--but from where, Doc didn't know. By the physical look of Marty, it was clear that he had come from the mid-1980's. He didn't appear to be any older then eighteen, if that. Which put the time about 1986. But the clothes under the coat were a mystery to Doc, looking a bit too advanced for the 1980's. Though the hour was late and Doc was tired, he continued his vigil. He had too many burning questions that needed to be answered before he could go to bed.
From a few feet away, the clock struck three AM. At the sound of the chimes, Marty began to stir. Doc jumped out of the chair and slipped the cold compress on Marty's face, over the nasty black- and-blue bump on his forehead.
"Marty," Doc called softly, trying to prod him awake. Marty's eyelashes fluttered and he groaned softly, a look of pain flashing across his face. Doc held his breath, willing his eyes to open. Then, Marty's face smoothed out and he sighed, sinking back into unconsciousness.
Doc sighed, too, in frustration, and got to his feet, heading to the kitchen. He fixed himself a cup of coffee and when he returned to the main room, a few minutes later, Marty was sitting up, awake.
"Doc?" he said when the scientist entered the room. Marty lifted a hand to his head and winced. "I have the worst headache!"
Tuesday, December 28, 1886
3:07AM
"Marty!" Doc cried, nearly dropping his cup of coffee as he hurried over to his friend's side. "What the hell are you doing here?!"
Marty smiled weakly, relieved to see the scientist. "It's a long story."
Doc set his drink on a table next to the couch and took a seat in the armchair. "How's the head?" he asked, looking as if he had a jillion more questions at the back of his throat.
Marty gently touched the aching lump on his forehead and closed his eyes, grimacing. "It's been better," he said. "Doc, I really have to talk to you...."
"Emmett?"
Doc looked up. Marty turned his head. Clara stood in the doorway of the bedroom, concern on her face. "Is everything all right?" she asked.
Doc looked at Marty, cocking an eyebrow. "I don't know. Is it?" he echoed.
Marty sighed. "Well, the thing is--Jesus Christ!" he exclaimed, really seeing Clara for the first time. "You're pregnant!"
Clara nodded, smoothing her nightgown out over her very large belly. "The baby should be here within a week, according to the town doctor," she said.
"Wow," Marty said, not knowing quite what else to say. "Congratulations."
"Thank you." Clara looked at Doc. "Are you coming to bed soon?"
"Perhaps," Doc said, distracted. "Speaking of which, you'd better get back to bed! You need your rest...."
"As do you," Clara said. But she said nothing more on the matter, smiling instead at Marty. "It's nice to see you again, Marty."
"Ditto," Marty said. Clara turned and shuffled back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. He lay back down on the couch, adjusting the cold compress that he'd found on his forehead when he had woken up.
"Are you sure you feel okay?" Doc asked, watching Marty carefully. "You're awfully pale."
"You'd be pale, too, if you'd gone through what I have so far!" Marty assured him.
Doc picked up his coffee mug and took a sip from it. "I suggest, then, that you tell me this long story of yours."
"All right," Marty agreed, figuring he couldn't put it off any longer. "How much do you want to know?"
"Well....why are you here in the first place?"
"It was an accident," Marty said honestly. "I thought I was putting in 1986, not 1886."
Doc frowned. "1986? So you're not from 1985?"
Marty started to shake his head, stopping when a bolt of pain ran from his forehead around to the back of his neck. He sucked in a sharp breath, then let it out slowly under Doc's concerned gaze. "No, I'm from December 27, 1986--sorta."
"Sorta?" Doc repeated. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well, I didn't come directly from there--I came from 2015."
"2015? As in two thousand fifteen? Why on earth for?" Doc narrowed his eyes at him. "You didn't look into your own future...did you?"
Marty shrank under Doc's gaze. "No! The reason I went there was, uh, well.... I kind of sort of needed the hoverboard fixed. I, uh, was messing with it at your place in the future and....broke it. I didn't want you to find out, so I thought I would go back and buy a new one and you'd never know. The plan went off fine, until I came back."
Doc uttered a loud sight and jumped to his feet, pacing the cozy living room. "Marty," he groaned, "how could you time travel for something so trivial!"
"Doc, it wasn't that trivial. I didn't think you'd find out...."
Doc sighed again, shaking his head. "All right, fine. What's done is done. You didn't look up your family at all, did you?"
Marty started to shake his head, then stopped himself. "No, I swear to God I didn't. I didn't want to mess anything up and risk having you kill me when I got back home. But, like I said, that trip should be the least of our worries."
Doc abruptly stopped his pacing. "And why is that?"
"Because...." Marty swallowed hard, trying to work up the nerve to say what he was about to. "Because I crashed the DeLorean."
Doc's eyes widened. "You crashed the DeLorean?!"
"It wasn't my fault!" Marty insisted, sitting up without thinking about it. His head highly protested the movement but Marty gritted his teeth against the pain and plunged ahead. "Right before I hit 88, another car clipped me in 2015. I didn't think it was that serious--not even a fender bender--but that hover conversion stuff must be damned sensitive. The next thing I know, I'm hurtling towards the ground and unable to get out of this nosedive from hell! That's how I got the bump on my head," he added.
"Where is the DeLorean now?" Doc asked.
"About ten miles away. I couldn't really move it and I was having enough trouble staying on my feet and conscious."
Doc rubbed his forehead. "How badly is the vehicle damaged?"
"It's pretty banged up. The sucker won't start, the headlights are smashed, the hood is kind of blocking the windshield...."
Doc groaned softly. "Perfect. This is just what I need on top of everything else!"
Marty lowered his head. "Doc, I'm really really sorry about this. If I knew that all this shit would've happen, I wouldn't bothered using the time machine in the first place!"
Doc waved a hand. "Shhhh, don't worry about it," he said. "I guess our first job is to go out there are survey the damage to the time machine. We can bring it back to my barn in town for repairs. Even though Clara and I now reside here, I still have my blacksmithing business."
Now it was Marty's turn to groan. "Now? You want to get the DeLorean now, Doc? God, it's such a long way...."
"We can use horses this time around," Doc said. "And there is no time like the present. With Clara due virtually any day now, I would prefer to be away from her as little as possible."
Marty managed a smile. "So how's this impending fatherhood thing striking you?"
Doc's face lit up at the words. He grinned at Marty. "It's very very exciting, and very very frightening," he confessed. "I don't know the first thing about kids, let alone babies! Clara and I never intended to bring children into the world, though we both like 'em. You know the danger this could have to the space-time continuum. But...." He shrugged. "It happened. And I must admit, I'm rather glad it did."
"You decide on any names, yet?" Marty asked, a little curious though he already knew the outcome of the situation.
"More or less. Clara and I have settled on Jules if it's a boy, after our favorite writer Jules Verne. But the female issue is still a little dicey. Clara likes Emily, and I'm a bit partial to Marie, after the famous scientist Marie Curie."
"Well, I'm sure it'll work out okay," Marty said, unable to surpass a smile. Doc looked at him, eyes narrowed.
"Why Marty, you don't mean to tell me that you know what happens already...?"
"You always said you didn't want to know too much about your future," Marty said. "So I'm not saying anything."
Doc looked at him a moment, then nodded in agreement. "I know. And you better not let anything slip!" he added, mock-sternly. "I rather like surprises. Now," he added, changing the subject, "let's get the DeLorean before daylight makes it more difficult for prying eyes."
Tuesday, December 28, 1886
5:31AM
"Well?" Marty asked several hours later, as Doc Brown looked over the DeLorean. "Do you think you can fix it?"
After giving Marty some clothes to change into--pants, a work shirt, boots, suspenders, a wool vest, and some long underwear--Doc had told Clara of his plans for the day. The mother-to-be assured her husband that she would be fine. Once that matter was settled, they were off to retrieve the time machine.
Doc walked slowly around the DeLorean, pausing at the front. He stared it for a long, long time without saying a word. Marty started to get seriously nervous. "I didn't permanently wreck it, did I? I'm not gonna be stuck here, am I?"
Finally, Doc shook his head. "No, I believe it can be fixed. But it'll take at least a week, I'm sure. It's hard to tell at this point, but I think the time circuits are more or less unscathed. At least the flux capacitor didn't shatter. But the front of the car will definitely have to be pounded out and reshaped as best it can. And I'm fairly sure that the flying circuits are out at this point. But until we get it back to the barn, nothing is certain."
Marty let out a huge sigh of relief. "God, I'm glad to hear it! I mean, I guess there could be worse places to be stuck a week--and at least it's only a week, right?"
"Hmmmm," Doc muttered, not really answering Marty's question. He looked up from the wrecked DeLorean. "I hope it can be pulled back to town." Doc opened the driver's side door and ducked inside, shifting the car to neutral. Then, with Marty watching from the sidelines (with the nasty bump on his head, Doc didn't want him doing any heavy work), Doc hooked up the four horses he'd brought with them to pull the car. Despite it's crushed appearance, the vehicle moved forward smoothly. After covering the car with a sheet, Doc and Marty climbed on the top of the car and drove it back to town--exactly the same way they'd done it back in September of 1885.
"Luckily, it's wintertime," Doc commented as they moved at a steady ten miles an hour. "So the sunrise won't be until around 7 or 7:30AM. We should be able to make it back to my business by then."
"Good," Marty said, burrowing his face deep in the collar of his coat to escape the chilly wind that blew.
It took nearly an hour to get back to Hill Valley. As they drove through the sparsely populated street, Marty looked around at the town that he had last seen about 15 months ago, in September of 1885. It seemed to have grown to twice the size he remembered, with a bunch of new buildings. Doc's place looked the same from the outside, but inside there were some changes. The living space had been completely disassembled. In its place were more modifications on current tools and creations. Marty didn't have the foggiest clue on what most of the things did. He wandered around a little, his headache still hanging on, as Doc unhitched the horses from the DeLorean, lit some lamps, and started some more in-depth inspections.
"Marty," Doc called a few minutes later. Marty turned around from his examination of some strange contraption assembled around the forge. Doc had his head poked out of the DeLorean.
"What is it?" Marty asked.
Doc looked a little confused and hesitant. "Did--I mean, is this a new DeLorean time machine? I'm noticing some modifications in it that I don't recall were in there in the first place. Like a destination location time display."
Marty shrugged, walking over to the time machine. "Do you really want to know?"
Doc frowned, his brow furrowing. "Well, I think their's no other choice in this case. It may be information I need for the repairs."
"All right," Marty agreed. "Yeah, it's a new DeLorean. The first one was destroyed right after I came back to the future from 1885."
Doc nodded, looking like he wanted to say more on the matter. But he ducked back in the car and continued his inspections. Ten minutes passed before he emerged from the car, with a clearer perspective on the damage.
"Well," he began, "it could have been worse."
Marty stared at him a moment. "It could have been worse?" he echoed. "Jeez, Doc, that's not giving me a lot of confidence--"
"Relax, Marty," Doc said, waving his hand. "The damage could have been a lot worse then it is. The flux capacitor looks fine. I must admit, I'm still amazed it didn't shatter. The time circuits seem fine as well. I think most of the problems in this case are related to the mechanics of the car, rather than the mechanics of the time machine."
Marty sighed, relieved. "So do you still think you can fix it?"
"I know I can fix it," Doc corrected. "It's just a matter of time. It will definitely take me a few days to straighten out the front end of the car as best I can, repair the windshield and headlights, and realign the steering--which seems a little off from the impact."
"Why'd the engine not start and the time circuits turn off, then?" Marty wanted to know.
"I'll have to take a closer look at that," Doc admitted. "But I think the repairs can be made here, if the problems with those are what I think they are."
Marty scratched his head thoughtfully. "I've had the same stuff happen before with the DeLorean," he recalled. "When I first got to 1955, both the engine and the time circuits went out on me." He frowned. "But wasn't that because we were out of plutonium?"
"No," Doc answered without hesitation. "Plutonium was what fueled the actual process of time travel--it didn't power the engine or the time circuits."
Marty sighed again. "Next time you build a time machine into a car, I think you should consider something that is a bit better built, mechanically. DeLoreans may look pretty cool, but they're a pain to deal with in regular ol' traveling."
Doc shrugged, heading across his workshop to the forge. "Couldn't be helped," he said, stacking some familiar-looking homemade Presto logs in the middle of the set up. "DeLoreans are the only automobiles made from stainless steel, which assists in the flux dispersal and allows the vehicle to bust through the time barrier."
Marty watched as his friend quickly lit a fire--a welcome addition in the chilly barn-turned- blacksmithery. He joined Doc beside the forge, warming his hands above the flames and glowing coals. Doc stared at him for a long moment, a wide grin spreading slowly across his face.
"It's good to see you, Marty," he said sincerely. "I've really missed you. And I must admit, I've been a little concerned about you since your abrupt departure back in September 1885, after your scarlet fever episode."
Marty had almost forgotten about that. "Oh yeah," he said. "Well, I'm fine now. Man, that was months ago!"
"I know," Doc said. "If I remember correctly, you departed from March of '86."
Marty winced a little. "You still remember that? I thought you didn't want to know too much about your own future?"
"It's hard to forget things once you've learned them," Doc said. "Anyway, I've already got several strong feelings about what the future holds for me, thanks to you."
Marty's eyes widened. "Oh, Doc, I'm so sorry--"
Doc cut the apology off before it could really begin. "Don't worry about it, Marty. None of it is your fault, really. I'm afraid I think too much over innocent comments you may make. I'm not mad at you." He abruptly changed the subject before Marty could say anything else. "Are you hungry? I don't know about you, but I'm starving!"
At the mention of food, Marty's stomach growled. He literally couldn't remember the last time he had had anything to eat. "A little," he admitted with a smile. "Are we gonna go back to your place and eat?"
Doc shook his head, heading for a new portion of his workplace. "I've still got the breakfast device set up," he said. "Just need to get the ingredients installed inside it...."
Twenty minutes later, the two of them sat down to a meal of eggs, bacon, toast, and some hot coffee. Marty didn't realize how hungry he actually was until he was before the food. As they ate, Doc talked with him on some other points of this unexpected trip that Marty hadn't yet considered.
"We need to come up with a name for you," he said, buttering a piece of toast. "Memories of Clint Eastwood are still firmly embedded in the minds of the townspeople here, so perhaps we should stick with the same pseudonym you used last time, as his twin brother. J.W. Eastwood, wasn't it?"
Marty thought a moment, trying to dig through memories faded by months gone by and his serious illness at the time. Finally, he nodded. "Yeah, I think that's right. J.W. stood for John Wayne."
"No one believes that he has died, as they have with Clint, so I think that identity will go unchallenged," Doc said. "Now, your great-great-grandparents are still around, and are in fact expecting their second child now, due sometime in the spring, I believe. Because of that, I haven't seen Maggie or Seamus in town as much, though they're usually here on Sundays for church. I just felt I should warn you, in case you run into them. They still ask about you occasionally, in fact." Doc smiled. "You and Clint have made quite the impression on them!"
Marty nodded, remembering the first McFlys of Hill Valley. "Does Clara still teach in the schoolhouse?"
Doc nodded. "Yes--or she did until a month ago. She's taking some time off now, what with the baby due soon. When the child gets a little older, maybe of schooling age, she hopes to return to the classroom. In the meantime, my buisness'll support the both of us and our new family." Doc frowned a little. "The only problem, of course, is housing. By the end of January, we're going to have to find a new residence, or start paying some rent to the town."
"Why is that a problem?" Marty asked, curious. "Money?"
Doc looked taken aback by the question. "Money? Well, that's always a bit of a problem. Clara and I have been saving to buy our own house since we were married last year, but we don't have nearly enough yet for the kind of place we'd like. Somewhere big, with lots of land so I can have the privacy I need to conduct certain experiments. Currently, this is as close as I can get to a lab," Doc added, gesturing to their surroundings. "Not very convenient, or very private. But right now, we'll likely be paying rent on the cabin until we can afford what we want. It certainly wouldn't work if Clara and the baby moved in here! This is a place of business first and foremost. Not a place that a family should be raised in."
Marty frowned, a little confused. "I thought the cabin was for the schoolteacher to live in?"
Doc nodded. "It is. But the town has hired Ruth Carter, daughter of the general store owner, to be the new schoolteacher. She just got her teaching certificate and isn't yet married, so she's living at home with her family still. Lucky for us," he added.
Marty looked at his friend, a little concerned. "Doc, I didn't know you guys were struggling so much--"
"We're not struggling," Doc interrupted, his voice a little sharp. "We just prefer to hold out until we can get precisely what we want."
Marty nodded slowly, remembering Doc once mentioning something about how they'd moved right after Verne had been born into the house they still had in 1986. "That's smart," he said. "So, do you want me to stay here while the time machine is being fixed?" he asked, gesturing to the blacksmith shop.
Doc looked taken aback by the question. "Oh, no. You can stay with us in the cabin. I'll set up a cot in the living room. It's far too cold for you to be all the way out here; this building is a pain to keep heated in the wintertime. I'll never forget the first winter I spent here."
"Aren't you afraid something will happen to the time machine?" Marty asked.
Doc took a sip of coffee, then shook his head. "No, it should be perfectly safe here. First of all, the vehicle can't travel through time right now. Secondly, I don't have anything in this shop that anyone would want to steal. This isn't 1985, or 1986--crime is nearly non-existent here. We don't even lock our doors."
"Hey!" Marty cried suddenly, leaning forward across the table. "Couldn't we just take the other DeLorean and use that, the one that you put in the mine? It's still there, right?"
Doc shook his head hard. "Great Scott, no! The repercussions are far too great! You saved my life from Buford Tannen because you were able to come back here from 1955! If the time machine is not there, you're stuck in the '50's, I will die, and we have one massive paradox on our hands. Don't you remember what I told you about the gas?"
Marty had no idea what Doc was talking about for a moment, then he remembered. When he had come back to September of 1885 from 1955, he had ripped a hole in the gas tank and all the liquid had drained out. While trying to figure out a way out of that mess and a way to get the DeLorean up to 88, Marty had suggested they get the gas in the hidden DeLorean--but Doc had immediately dismissed the idea as too dangerous and risky.
"What if," he had said at the time, "we take the gas and while trying to put things back the way they were, the mine collapsed and destroyed the time machine? Then you would have no way of leaving the 50's in the first place!"
Even though Marty thought the chances of that happening were slim at best, Doc couldn't be persuaded and so they had moved onto other ideas--like pushing the car up to 88 with the train and wrecking the locomotive.
"Oh yeah," Marty said in response to Doc's question. "Hey, that reminds me--they ever finish that bridge over Clay--uh, Shona--uh, Eastwood Ravine?"
Doc nodded. "Yes, just this past summer. There was a nice opening ceremony where they decided to name the bridge after you, as well. Eastwood Bridge over Eastwood Ravine." Doc looked at Marty, his eyes twinkling. "You left quite a legacy here."
Marty grinned. "That's really cool, even though I can't really enjoy the fame."
Doc returned the smile, then pulled out a watch from his pocket and checked the time. "We'd better get started on the repairs," he said, changing the subject. "The sooner we start 'em, the sooner you can get home."
Tuesday, December 28, 1886
4:12PM
Doc Brown was so intent on his work on the DeLorean that he didn't even realize that it was getting dark outside until he realized that he was having trouble seeing his work. He looked up from the front seat of the time machine, then pulled out his watch and checked the time. He inhaled sharply when he saw it was after four in the afternoon.
Time passes quickly when one is in a time machine, he thought with a wry smile, getting out of the car. Doc pulled out a notepad from his pocket, jotting down notes to himself on certain items he was going to need to pick up to fix the time machine. It was going to be quite a job to get things into proper working order, but Doc was sure that his future self could do some of the more complicated and unnecessary cosmetic repairs when Marty returned home.
His future self. Doc wasn't sure if Marty was aware of the verbal slip he had made early, when telling how he had gotten back here. It wasn't so much what he said; it was what he had implied.
"I kind of sort of needed the hoverboard fixed. I, uh, was messing with it at your place in the future and....broke it. I didn't want you to find out, so I thought I would go back and buy a new one and you'd never know."
There was more in those three sentences then Marty knew, Doc was sure. It told him that he likely returned back to the future permanently, especially if Marty had a new DeLorean time machine. Doc sighed, not wanting to think about such matters now. He had too many other things to currently worry about. He walked away from the time machine, over to the stove which he had started up in an attempt to warm up the workshop. The heat it was throwing out wasn't moving too far from the source. Doc warmed his hands over it for a moment--Hill Valley was in the grip of a cold spell--then turned around.
A few feet away from the stove rested an old couch, and on that couch Marty was curled up under his coat, sound asleep. He'd helped Doc as best he could after breakfast and into the early afternoon, but shortly after lunch he'd started to complain again of a headache. Doc had suggested that he get off his feet and relax for a while. He had been so engrossed in the DeLorean that he hadn't even noticed or remembered where Marty had gone until now.
Doc leaned over Marty, staring at the bruise on his forehead. He was fairly certain that the teenager didn't have a concussion--he didn't appear to be harboring any of the common symptoms--but seeing the way the DeLorean had impacted into the ground had been a little shocking. Doc was stunned that Marty had walked away from the accident with nothing worse then a bump on the head--though it was a nasty bump at that.
Doc reached out and took him by the shoulder, shaking him gently. After a moment, Marty opened his eyes, blinking sleepily up at Doc.
"It's time to go back," the scientist said softly.
"Back to the future?" Marty mumbled.
Doc shook his head. "Not for a while yet. No, I'm talking about back to the cabin. It's starting to get dark outside and I'd prefer to be home before night falls completely. It looks like it may snow, as well."
Marty nodded, closing his eyes again. "Lemme know when you're ready to go," he said softly.
Doc frowned slightly, concerned with his behavior. "Marty, are you feeling okay?"
"I'm fine, 'cept for this headache," Marty said, burrowing deeper under his coat.
Doc wasn't comforted much by the statement. "Is there anything else?" he pressed on. "Are you feeling sick at all? Numb anywhere? Any dizzy spells?"
"I'm fine, Doc," Marty insisted, not opening his eyes. "I'm just tired and I hit my head pretty hard in the crash. I'm not dying or anything, relax. I think I have time lag or something. I'll feel fine tomorrow, probably."
"Time lag?" Doc repeated, the statement foreign to him--but easily grasped. "You mean your internal body clock is off from the current time of day?"
"Exactly," Marty said.
Doc nodded to himself; he could understand that. He moved away from the couch and started shutting the fires down in the forge and stove, then closed up the DeLorean and covered the vehicle with an old sheet. Finally, he hitched two of his horses, Newton and Archemedis, up to the buckboard wagon outside, then loaded up the old cot he'd promised Marty in the back.
When everything was ready to go, Doc returned to the couch and discovered Marty had drifted off to sleep again. Doc roused him, then blew the last of the lamps out in the shop before locking it up and heading back towards the cabin again. A cold, steady wind blew from the east, and the last of the sunlight was all but hidden behind a layer of clouds.
"We'll be a little late back," Doc told Marty as the horses hurried down the road at a fast clip. "I normally like to be back by dark, which can be tricky in these winter months."
"How come you want to be home by dark?" Marty asked, holding his coat tight around him against the chilly wind.
"It could be dangerous out here after dark," Doc said. "And Clara worries. I especially don't want to worry her now, what with the baby due so soon."
"Why is it dangerous?" Marty wanted to know, suddenly sounding nervous. "We're not going to be attacked by wild animals, are we?"
"Doubtful," Doc said. "But always possible."
Marty sighed heavily. "How's the DeLorean coming along?"
"I'm still shocked there wasn't more damage done to it in the fall--and to you," Doc added, glancing away from the front for a moment to Marty. "Are you sure that you feel all right? Maybe we should have the doctor take a look at that bump...."
Marty rolled his eyes, looking a little irritated. "I'm fine, Doc. Do you think I'd be sitting here talking to you if something was wrong? That it wouldn't have showed up earlier? I don't have a concussion or anything else!"
"If you do, then it's not serious," Doc corrected. He shook his head. "Were you even wearing a seatbelt in the crash?"
"No," Marty said. "I didn't think I'd be having a crash landing or anything, and I'm never in the DeLorean for that long, anyway." He winced. "And will you please stop mentioning that crash? I'm trying to forget it even happened!"
Doc shifted the subject to something else. "I think that we could plan on your departure being January 4th--a week from today. I'll start digging into the repairs tomorrow, after picking up some materials at the store. I spent most of today surveying the damage."
Marty shrugged, not saying anything in response to that.
"I think I can get most of the dents out of the DeLorean," Doc went on, "but some of the finer work my future self will have to take care of. Maybe take the DeLorean to a auto repair shop that can work such miracles. But I don't believe it will be a hinderance in the time travel."
Marty started to grunt, then suddenly whipped his head to look at Doc. A look of pain briefly crossed his features at the move, but before Doc could comment on it, Marty spoke. "What do you mean 'your future self'?" he asked.
Doc hid a smile. "Why, Marty, are you telling me that I move to the future in the future?"
Marty suddenly looked flustered. "I didn't say anything!" he insisted. Then, suddenly, he sighed. "Fine, sure, I guess that's sorta obvious now, isn't it? I mean, I sure as hell didn't build a new DeLorean!"
Doc nodded. "I know. And it wasn't terribly hard for me to figure out that I must have moved back home in the future since you arrived, though you didn't outright say it. But I'm more or less in the dark about everything else about my future self," he added. "So refrain from telling me anything that might contain that information."
"I'll try my best," Marty said, "but it might slip out accidentally."
"You've been able to pull it off before--more or less," Doc said.
They reached the cabin twenty minutes later, just as the first flurries of snow were starting to fall. Doc quickly unhitched the horses, then handed Marty the cot to carry inside as he took the horses to the fenced-in pasture nearby. Then he went into the cabin himself.
"Clara!" he called as he stepped through the door. His wife emerged from the kitchen, smiling.
"How did the repairs go?" she asked, greeting her husband with a kiss.
"It's going to take a week or so," Doc admitted with a sigh. "But at least the vehicle can be repaired." He looked at his wife, an apron tied over her very large belly. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine," Clara said. "I don't think the baby will be coming today."
"Hey, Doc?"
Doc turned around and saw Marty at the other end of the room, next to the fireplace. "Where do you want this?" the teenager asked, holding up the cot.
Doc's eyes scanned the cluttered but cozy living room, stuffed with a couch, a couple armchairs, writing desk, Christmas tree, and some of Doc's clock collection. "You can just unfold it by the fire," he finally said. "Next to the couch. We can put it away during the day."
Marty nodded and started to set up the cot. "I'll get some linens for it--" Clara began, starting to turn for the bedroom where the linens were kept in a chest. Doc stopped her.
"No, I'll take care of it. You're in no shape to be bending over now."
Clara looked at Doc, frowning a bit frostily. "Don't tell me what I can and can't do now, Emmett Brown! Just because I'm expecting a child does in no way mean I cannot do everything I normally do!"
Doc inwardly cringed at his spouse's testiness. Hormones, he thought, bemused. Clara was normally pretty easygoing, but throughout her pregnancy, her moods changed as frequently as tropical summer weather. "I didn't mean you couldn't do it," he said hastily, under Clara's narrow-eyed gaze. "But even the doctor said that you should rest as much as possible right now. Cooking meals for me is more than enough!"
Clara looked at him for a beat longer. "Fine," she said. "You may make the cot up if you wish. But please, Emmett, don't treat me like I'm an invalid, or that I'm made from glass. A little hard work never hurt anyone and I don't see why this"--Clara pointed to her belly--"should change a thing."
"I know, I know," Doc soothed. "I just don't want you to overexert yourself on my behalf. I was a bachelor for a good many years and I'm used to taking care of myself. It's a little strange for me to now have a wife who does that."
Clara sniffed. "I want to do those things for you, Emmett--I love you," she said, then headed back to the kitchen. "Dinner should be ready soon," she added over her shoulder.
Doc let out a sigh at her departure, as the door swung closed at her back. A grinning Marty stepped next to him, the cot now set up. "So this is what life is like for newlyweds, eh?" he asked.
"More like expectant women," Doc said softly, when he was sure his wife couldn't hear him. "There is no way to gauge the moods of Clara now. One moment she can be deliriously happy, the next I'll find myself at the end of some cold silent treatment for saying or doing something I don't even remember!" Doc shook his head and looked at his old friend. "I'm afraid I still don't understand women all that well. I think they're one of the most bewildering creatures ever created."
"Wait'll you have kids," Marty said, taking off his coat and hanging it up on the rack next to the door. "You might change your mind, then."
"It won't be long," Doc said. "Clara's due date was yesterday." He looked hard at Marty, sitting down on the couch. "You don't happen to know when this will happen...do you?"
Marty shrugged. "Not really--and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Remember, you don't want to know everything about you future?"
"Ah yes--that," Doc agreed. "No, I suppose I don't want to know. But," he added with a sigh, "a part of me does remain curious."
Marty looked at him, smiling slyly. "Sorry, Doc, I can't help you on this. You'll just have to do things the way you did if I hadn't been here--wait it out and be prepared anytime."
"Anytime" did not turn out to be that night. After dinner, Doc made up the cot for Marty. Then, after a few more minutes of chitchat, Marty told Doc that he wanted to get some sleep--even if it was relatively early. The scientist, who looked pretty exhausted himself, agreed that it would probably be best, in order to get an early start the next day on the repairs, then retired to his room with Clara for the night.
Marty lay on his cot, watching the flames in the fireplace dance. Faintly, he could hear Doc and Clara talking in their room. Eventually, though, their voices faded into silence, until the crackle of the fire was the only sound.
But Marty couldn't sleep. He was tired, sure, and his head still ached with a dull pain. Yet he felt strangely wired.
Stupid time changes, he thought, wondering how off his body clock was now. Marty honestly couldn't remember.
Finally, when he heard the clock strike midnight, Marty got up and walked over to the window, looking outside. There was snow on the ground outside, giving off a faint, luminescent glow. Marty wiped the condensation off the glass and squinted, trying to see more. But in a time before streetlights, let alone electricity, he couldn't see anything else. After a long moment he leaned away from the glass, turning his attention back into the room.
A small Christmas tree sat in one corner of the room, near the window. Strings of popcorn and cranberries wound around the branches, with paper ornaments. A tin-foil star was wired to the top. There were no lights or candles on the tree. Marty continued his exploration of the room by examining the pictures set on the desk in the corner, near the fireplace. There were a couple pictures of Clara with people that Marty guessed to be her family from back East. There was the picture of himself and Doc before the clocktower clock from the town festival. There was a picture of Doc and Clara together, from what appeared to be the same night; their clothes were identical to what Marty remembered them wearing. And there was what looked like a wedding picture of Doc and Clara.
Marty picked that one up for a closer look. Clara was wearing a white dress, with lots of lace. She held a bouquet of flowers in her hands. Doc stood at her side, his arm linked through hers. He was wearing a dark, serious suit, his white hair neatly combed. The couple wore wide smiles on their faces and Marty couldn't help smiling back at the picture, though he felt a little wistful as well.
What I wouldn't give to have gone to that wedding! he thought--then paused. It was possible. Once the time machine was fixed, anyway. Marty held onto the idea for a minute, turning it around in his head and imagining the possibilities and Doc's reaction to him putting in an appearance at such an important event. But, finally, he came to the conclusion it would be a bad idea. It was terrible enough he was here now, with Jules' birth so eminent. He'd told Doc the truth about that--as much as he strained, Marty couldn't remember the boy's birthday. It really could happen at any time, and Marty hoped he was back in the future when it did happen. Aside from the fact he couldn't handle being around childbirth well, there was always the possibility that his presence could create all sorts of nasty side-effects. Marty gulped at the very idea of Jules not living just because he was here now.
"Just a week," Marty whispered, setting the picture back down on the desk. "Doc said a week and he's never let me down before."
But would Clara--and the baby who would be known as Jules--be able to wait a week?
Wednesday, December 29, 1886
12:37PM
Marty had his first real brush with the townspeople of 1886 Hill Valley on Wednesday afternoon. After a more-or-less sleepless night for Marty, Doc got him up around nine and, after breakfast from Clara, the three of them had gone into town. Yes, even Clara. Though Doc had protested (under more cool looks from his wife), Clara had insisted she tag along to do some shopping in town.
"Once the baby comes," she had said, "I don't believe I'll be getting out of the house much for a while. This could be my last trip into town for weeks!"
Though Doc was far from happy with the idea, Clara had ridden with him in the front of the wagon, while Marty sat in the back. His headache, which had nearly faded, woke up again from the bumpy ride. The snow that had fallen the night before was a light layer, giving the area the look of winter, nothing more.
When they had arrived into town and Doc had placed his horses and wagon in his barn, the three of them had headed off to the general store. It was here that Marty started to feel the first stares from the Hill Valleyians as he walked behind Doc and Clara. People didn't stare as much as they did double-takes. Yet no one approached him, at least not until he reached the general store and was browsing through the supplies as Doc and Clara took care of their shopping.
"Pardon me, sir," a voice interrupted, as Marty was looking over a selection of candies and sweets. Marty looked up and saw an older, balding man that he didn't recognize in the least.
"Yeah?" he said, wondering what the guy wanted. The man frowned faintly, leaning forward a bit and narrowing his eyes at Marty.
"This may be a bit forward of me, but....are you related to Clint Eastwood at all? You bear quite the resemblance to him."
And so it begins, Marty thought. He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I'm his identical twin brother."
The man's eyes widened. "Really? Why are you in town?"
Marty glanced over at Doc and Clara, at the other end of the store. "I'm just passing through and thought I'd visit some friends of mine for a couple days," he explained honestly.
The man followed his gaze. "Are Mr. and Mrs. Brown your friends?" he asked.
Marty nodded. "Yeah, they're old friends of mine."
The man turned back to Marty. "What's your name, son?"
"Uh, J.W. Eastwood," Marty said, remembering what Doc had told him the day before.
"I suppose you know all about what your brother did," the man said. "How he saved Mrs. Brown over there from a train crash and singlehandedly captured Buford Tannen."
Marty hid a smile. "Oh yes, I've heard all about that," he said with a straight face.
The man sighed and shook his head. "Such a tragedy that he died. But we did name the ravine, where he perished, in his honor. It was the least we could do."
Marty nodded. "I knew that, too."
Doc headed over to him, just as the man excused himself. "Who was that?" the scientist asked, watching the man's retreat from the store.
Marty shrugged. "Another fan of Clint Eastwood, I guess. Are you almost through here? I think the sooner we get back to the DeLorean and continue the repairs, the better."
Doc nodded, but he looked a little odd. "I forgot to mention this to you earlier," he said, "but we can't work on the DeLorean today."
Marty stared at him, surprised and confused. "What? Why not?"
"I have appointments all day today, to shoe horses and tune up wagons. I can't really reveal the DeLorean while others are in the barn. I've tried to lighten my work load this week and next, because of Clara and the baby. But I do have a couple days where I have to do my job, and today is one of them."
Marty frowned. "Why didn't you tell me this earlier?"
Doc shrugged. "I simply forgot, until one of my customers asked me why I was not at the barn this morning. I'll be tied up all day with the blacksmithing."
"So what do you want me to do?" Marty asked, a little miffed. "Go back to the cabin with Clara?"
"Actually, yes," Doc said, looking uncomfortable. "I think that the less people see you, the better."
Marty sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Jeez, Doc, you could've told me this yesterday! Does this mean that the DeLorean won't be fixed in a week?"
"I didn't say that," Doc insisted. "I just have to work today--then I have the rest of the week off unless there is an emergency of some sort. We can resume the repairs tomorrow."
Marty sighed again. "Fine," he muttered. "Whatever. I don't care."
Doc looked at him, looking like he wanted to say something else, but Clara's voice interrupted them. "Emmett? Do you have the money?"
Doc headed over to the counter, where Clara had piled up their purchases. Marty followed, having nothing better to do. He watched as Doc paid the merchant, then collected the supplies. The merchant gave Marty a strange look as he grabbed some of the loot. He was getting used to them.
Doc promised to be back by dark, then bid farewell as Clara drove herself and Marty back to the cabin. Marty had no idea how to drive a wagon, so he was perfectly content to leave the job up to Clara. Things were silent between them for a few minutes before Clara spoke up.
"Emmett tells me you came from 1986," she said. "Is it true that we move there?"
Marty almost fell off his seat at her question. "What?" he gasped. "I can't tell you that! Doc would kill me."
Clara glanced at him for a second. "I believe we already know, Marty," she said. "And your reaction is merely the icing on the cake."
Marty sighed, throwing his hands up for a second before placing them back on the seat for balance. "I give up! Maybe I shouldn't have even gone to you guys when I was here."
"I don't see how that could have been avoided," Clara said. "You would need Emmett's help to repair the time machine."
Marty knew she was right. "Okay, fine," he conceded. "But you guys don't have to pump me about your future and everything. I don't want to accidentally say something I shouldn't."
Clara nodded. "All right. How is Jennifer?"
Marty blinked at the change of subject. "Jennifer? She's fine. Things couldn't be better between us."
"I take it, then, that the automobile accident never occurred," Clara said. Upon Marty's shocked expression, she laughed. "Emmett worried about that for weeks after you left--even after you arrived here with those two boys."
Marty winced at the reminder of his previous tampering in their lives--especially since they had seen their future children. "Uh huh," he muttered. "No, the accident never happened."
"Whatever happened to those two children you had with you?" Clara asked. "Do you still see them?"
"Yeah, all the time," Marty said honestly. He decided to change the subject, and fast. "How are things with you and the Doc? Looking forward to being a mother?"
It was the right question; Clara positively glowed. "Oh, yes!" she said, smiling widely though her eyes never left the road ahead. "I've always wanted children. I was rather happy, I must say, when I realized I was expecting. Emmett took a little convincing, though," she added, her smile fading a little. "In fact, he was rather upset at that turn of events."
This was news to Marty. "Really?" he said, trying to imagine his friend reacting in that way. "How come?"
Clara shrugged. "He's told me about the way things were before," she said, emphasizing the last word. "Before he built a time machine and came back here. How I was killed in the ravine. It worried him enough there were two people alive in Hill Valley now that hadn't been before--himself and me. And then to add a child into the equation...." Clara shrugged again and looked at Marty for a second. "It took him several days to digest and accept the news, but he came around."
"That's good," Marty said. "Doc likes kids, too--or at least I'd always had that impression," he added.
"He'll be a good father," Clara said decisively. She shifted the subject again. "How are you feeling? That's a pretty nasty bump on your head."
Marty reached up and tentatively brushed his fingers against the protruding bruise. "Tell me about it," he muttered. "At least it feels better than it did yesterday."
"I take it you made a full recovery with your scarlet fever," Clara went on.
"Yeah. I just needed the miracles of future medicine to get better," Marty said. "Hey, how are you feeling?" he asked. "Think today'll be the day?"
Clara took one hand off the reins to touch her round belly. "No," she said. "I'm feeling as fine as one could feel carrying a child."
"I can't believe you're up and around so much," Marty said without thinking about it. Clara looked at him sharply. Marty swallowed hard. "Uh, I mean, it's pretty impressive that you're still doing everything you are so pregnant in this kinda time," he quickly correct.
"I don't see why expecting should hinder me in any way," Clara said firmly. "I suppose I cannot ride a horse now, but I don't see why I cannot cook and clean and drive wagons."
Marty looked at her, impressed. "Most women would use pregnancy as a way to get out of doing those things," he said.
"Life does not stop because you are with child," Clara declared. She wrinkled her nose in scorn. "I don't believe I care much for women in the future if they act so delicate!"
The cabin came into sight minutes later. Marty hopped off and got the supplies as Clara unhitched the horses and turned them loose in the pasture. As she walked up the steps to the cabin, Clara suddenly paused, putting a hand to her belly. Marty saw it and his heart immediately started pounding.
"What's wrong?" he demanded. "Is it time?"
Clara smiled and shook her head, continuing up the steps. "No, the baby just kicked. It's the strangest sensation. Give me your hand."
Marty eyed her as she approached him and took his hand. She put it on her stomach. "Do you feel it?" Clara asked.
Marty felt something move in there. Little shivers ran down his spine at the sensation. "Weird," he muttered softly. He pulled his hand away and looked at her hard. "Are you sure you're not going into labor?"
Clara opened the door to the cabin. "No, Marty, I am quite sure. Don't worry about it. I'll know when the baby is coming and I won't hesitate to let you--or Emmett--know."
Marty followed her into the cabin. "All right," he said, a little uncertainly. "Still, it makes me nervous. I hope that you can wait until after I leave before having the kid."
"That's not for me to decide," Clara said, taking off her coat. "But I will do what I can at my end."
Doc Brown returned to his home just as darkness started to settle in and the first stars were appearing in the sky. He dismounted Gaileio and led the horse to the pasture with the others, then entered his cabin.
The living room was empty, though a fire burned merrily in the hearth. Doc took off his coat, hanging it up. "Hello?" he called out.
"We're in here, Emmett."
Doc followed Clara's voice to the kitchen. She was standing at the stove, stirring something in a pot. Marty sat at the table, his feet propped up on another chair. "How are you feeling?" Doc asked his wife, giving her a kiss on the cheek.
"Fine," she answered. "How was work?"
"Oh, the usual," Doc said with a sigh. He looked at Marty. "I did manage to knock out some of the distortions in the hood over my lunch break. But, for some reason, the trunk won't latch. We may have to tape it down for temporal travel."
"Okay," Marty said. "So we can work on the DeLorean tomorrow?"
Doc nodded. "Definitely."
Thursday, December 30, 1886
3:41PM
Marty had the shock of his life when he was in the general store Thursday afternoon. Doc had sent him to the business to pick up a couple little things for the time machine repairs--a specific hammer and some screws. While he waited to pay for his purchases, Marty was sidetracked by a selection of periodicals stacked on the counter. He browsed through a couple of the magazines, fascinated at the ads and the articles. Then, on page 30 of the August 1886 issue of some magazine he didn't recognize called The West, he saw himself.
Marty took in a sharp breath at the sight of the ad. It showed himself, posing with a handgun from the Colt company. The caption said nothing about local Hill Valley hero Clint Eastwood-- people from other areas wouldn't have any idea who the guy was, after all--but read instead, "The Colt Peacemaker--The Only Way to Win Your Frontier Fights."
"Good God," Marty muttered. He'd nearly forgotten about those pictures he'd done for the company the last time he had been here. Of course, Marty reflected, having a high fever could do that to a person.
But this was terrible! It probably didn't alter the future in any big way--Marty was sure he'd notice that when he had gone back home--but if Doc saw these pictures.....
"Are you ready, Mr. Eastwood?" a voice interrupted.
Marty looked up and saw the merchant standing at the counter before him, looking a little impatient. "What? Oh, yeah, I'm ready," he said, pushing the hammer and screws across the counter.
"Want the magazine, too?" the man asked him.
Marty glanced down at the periodical, closing it in one quick, swift gesture before the man could see the ad and ask questions. "Sure, why not?" he said without thinking about it.
The man rang up his purchases, then accepted the money that Marty passed over to him. "Everyone is real excited about your visit, Mr. Eastwood," the merchant said, as he bagged the hammer, magazine, and screws. "Are you gonna be showin' up at the New Year's party in the saloon?"
"I don't think so," Marty said. This was the first he'd heard at such a party. "I'm just going to hang out with my friends that night." He paused, something bugging him. "What do you mean, 'everyone'?"
"Why, everyone in town, of course." The man looked at him strangely. "Surely, Mr. Eastwood, you knew that people would be excited at your visit. Your brother did a lot for this town." He shook his head. "And my, lookin' at you is like lookin' at a ghost. You're the spit an' image of 'im."
"We were identical twins," Marty muttered. "Thanks." He took the bag from the merchant and headed out of the store, back to Doc's barn. The scientist was inside the car, attempting to repair the cracked windshield. Marty didn't know how he planned to pull that one off in this time, without getting a new windshield entirely. Doc, though, seemed to be using the all-purpose method of duct- tape, the roll of which had been found in the DeLorean's glove box.
"Did they have what I wanted?" Doc asked without looking up.
Marty pulled out the magazine, stuffed it in his coat, then tossed the bag on the hood of the car. "Yeah," he said. "Hey, did you know it's all over town that I'm back here?"
"Really?" Doc said. He patted the last inch of tape in place and looked up for the first time. "How did you hear that?"
"From the guy in the store. He said that everyone is hoping I'll be at some New Year's party tomorrow in the saloon."
"You're not going," Doc said, shaking his head as he got out of the car. "It's too dangerous."
Marty rolled his eyes. "I know that," he said. "I'm just nervous this could screw up things in the future."
Doc looked at him sharply. He wasn't stupid. "Why would you worry about that? Did you do something you shouldn't have?"
Marty hesitated. Should I tell him about the ad? he wondered. But he dismissed the idea immediately. There was nothing Doc could do about it but worry. The photo shoot was over a year in the past! "No," he finally said. "I haven't done anything."
Doc stared at him for a full minute, his eyes narrowed. Marty started to get real uncomfortable with the scrutiny. But just as he was about to open his mouth and confess, Doc looked away abruptly, turning his attention back to the time machine. "Then I wouldn't worry too much," he said. "But I would try my best to keep out of the sight of the townspeople--"
There was a knock at the door. Marty and Doc looked at each other. "Conceal the time machine," Doc hissed, heading for the doors. As Marty rushed to pull a tarp over the vehicle, Doc called out to their visitor. "Yes, who is it?"
The door creaked open, just as Marty had tugged the tarp into place. "Pardon me, but I be hearin' a rumor in town, Emmett, and--" The man stepped into view, seeing Marty just as Marty saw him. It was Seamus McFly. "Tis true!" his great-great-grandfather gasped.
Marty managed a smile. "Hey," he said. "How are you doing?"
Seamus stepped inside the barn, staring at Marty. "Mr. Eastwood? What are you doin' back in town?"
Marty shrugged, stepping away from the concealed DeLorean. "I wanted to visit Do--uh, Mr. and Mrs. Brown for the New Year."
Seamus approached Marty, looking closely at him. Marty thought his ancestor looked just the same as he'd been before--though he appeared to have a different kind of hat now. "How are you doin'? When I last saw you, you were quite ill."
"I'm fine now, thanks," Marty said. "Made a full recovery."
"That is good," Seamus said, nodding. He looked to Doc. "Are you all comin' to the celebration tomorrow?"
Doc shook his head. "No, Clara and I plan to stay in. The baby's due any day now."
Seamus nodded in understanding. "How is she feelin'?"
"Fine." Doc shook his head again, this time with exasperation. "I just can't get her to sit still and relax, though! She's certainly bent on doing things her way."
"My Maggie hasn't been followin' the doctor's orders so well, either," Seamus said, smiling. "But she did the same with William, and he turned out fine. I'm sure the same be true for your wife."
"I hope so," Doc agreed.
Seamus glanced back at Marty. "How long are you plannin' on bein' in town?"
"Just a few more days," Marty said. "I have....appointments to keep back home."
Seamus looked disappointed at the news. "Maggie an' I would love to have you over for supper," he said.
"I'm sure J.W. would like to as well, but it's quite impossible under the circumstances," Doc said smoothly, though not without a touch of sympathy in his voice. "Clara and I need his assistance right now."
Marty looked at Doc sharply at the words, but Seamus was nodding in understanding. "I see." He looked at Marty. "It's mighty nice to see you again, Mr. Eastwood. Feel free to drop by the farm if'n you have the time."
"I will," Marty said, watching his ancestor as he left the barn. Doc was starting for the car before the door had closed all the way behind Seamus.
"Why couldn't I go have dinner with them?" Marty blurted out. "I mean, I understand the danger, maybe, but I'd be really careful--"
"No, Marty," Doc said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You know why. It's too dangerous for you to be interacting with your ancestors. Anyway, you don't have time. If you want to be home in a week, I'm going to need your help with this."
Marty sighed as Doc uncovered the DeLorean, then started assisting his old friend with the repairs.
In the middle of the night, Doc Brown found himself suddenly wide away and unable to pinpoint a precise reason why. Next to him, in the dark bedroom, Clara huddled under a heap of quilts, silent and unmoving. She was not the cause of his abrupt insomnia. Nor was the culprit any noise. The cabin was silent, save for the faint creaking of the walls against occasional gusty winds.
Doc sat up and pushed the blankets back, climbing out of bed. He walked over to the window, already feeling a chill sink in his bones. Amazing how much you take something like centralized heating for granted, until it's gone, he mused, pulling back the curtain for a glimpse outside. Except for the faint gleam from the touch of snow scattered across the landscape, all was dark. Doc let the curtain drop back into place and stepped away from the drafty window, heading for the bedroom door. He suddenly realized he needed a drink of water.
The main room of the cabin was lit only by a dying fire and an oil lamp burning low. Doc caught sight of the clocks on the wall--3:12AM. When Doc had gone to bed, Marty had still been up, prowling restlessly around and looking bored. Now, as Doc trod deeper into the room, he saw his future friend lying on the couch, not the cot, fully dressed, asleep. A magazine lay across Marty's chest, open to the middle of the periodical, spine up. Doc glanced at it for a moment, not recognizing it. The West.
"Wonder where he picked that up?" Doc muttered under his breath. He took the quilt from the cot and covered Marty with it, pausing to take the magazine from his hands. Marty didn't seem to notice or mind, sighing in his sleep and rolling over. Doc was about to close the magazine and set it on the table nearby when something caught his eye on the page that had been opened. He blinked, wondering if it was a trick of the light. Then Doc stared, shocked and stunned.
In the lower left-hand corner of page was an advertisement. And Marty was in the ad, posing with a handgun from the Colt Gun company, a tough look on his face. "The Colt Peacemaker--The Only Way to Win Your Frontier Fights," read the caption under Marty.
"Great Scott!" Doc exclaimed. "Marty McFly, what is the meaning of this!"
Marty twitched at the sound of Doc's voice. Doc hoped he hadn't woken Clara up with his shout! "Hmmm?" Marty murmured, not opening his eyes.
Doc pushed the magazine in his face. "Look at this!"
Marty opened his eyes, squinting and blinking as he focused on the picture Doc held inches from his noise. "What?" he mumbled.
Doc shook the magazine in his hand. "This ad! What are you doing in this ad?"
Marty finally seemed to focus on what Doc was talking about and pointing to. "The ad?" he repeated.
"Yes, the ad!" Doc said. "Explain this to me."
"Can't I do it in the morning?" Marty asked, yawning. "It's late...."
"No, I want to know now or else I won't sleep!" Doc said firmly. "Tell me the story!"
Marty sighed. "Not much to tell. Last time I was here, the week after 'Clint Eastwood' beat Buford at that gunfight, this guy from the Colt company came up to me and wanted to know if I'd do some ads for the company. They paid me a bunch of money and so I decided to do it."
Doc stared at him, not able to believe what he was hearing. "Why the hell did you go and do a thing like that?! Don't you realize the danger that has on the space-time continuum? And why did you need money from this time, anyhow? It has no value to you in the future!"
"I know, but I needed the cash to reimburse you for the money I used on that trip," Marty said. "And I'm not stupid--I knew the risks. But when I got back home, everything was the same. Nothing changed, or I would've known it. I mean, it's been close to a year since I made that trip in 1986!"
"Just because you didn't notice anything had changed didn't mean that nothing did!" Doc said sharply. "Something might have changed that didn't directly affect your life."
Marty shrugged, the gesture infuriating Doc. "Well, it's too late now, isn't it?" Perhaps noticing the scowl that was darkening his friend's face, Marty was quick to add, "Doc, I forgot all about doing this thing, I swear! I didn't see there was a reason to tell you about it....and I think the day after I did those pictures I came down with scarlet fever. It was the furthest thing from my mind then."
Doc stared at Marty--still lying on the couch--with narrowed eyes. Finally, he sighed and tossed the magazine on the table. "Where did you get that, anyway?"
"From the general store." Marty grinned crookedly. "Startled the shit out of me, too, I'll admit. I was just looking through that magazine when boom--I saw myself in it!"
"Was that before or after you bought it?"
"Before, obviously. Like I'd want some old magazine from this time otherwise. Some of those articles are pretty funny, though, if you compare them to the future."
"Most of history is like that," Doc muttered under his breath. "You're not taking that periodical back with you."
Marty looked surprised. "Why not?"
"What if it fell into the wrong hands? It could have damaging effects on the space-time continuum--and bring up some questions we don't want brought up."
Marty frowned. "You gave me that picture, though. How is that different?"
Doc blinked, not getting it. "Picture? What picture?"
Marty shook his head. "Never mind, I forgot. Forget what I just said."
Doc decided to do just that, realizing Marty had likely blurted out to him something relating to the future. "All right. I just think it would be wisest to leave this magazine here. It has no place in the future."
Marty sighed. "Okay, fine. It is kinda cool, though. I'm almost like a celebrity."
"You aren't a celebrity, 'Clint Eastwood' is," Doc reminded him. "And in the eyes of the people here, he is long dead and buried."
"Yeah, I know," Marty said. "I was at the funeral. That was weird." He yawned. "Are you through interrogating me now?"
"Just promise me you won't do such a thing again," Doc said. "At least in times other than your own."
Marty raised his hand in the air. "I promise," he said. "Now can I go back to sleep?"
"Fine."
Marty burrowed under the quilt as Doc tossed a couple more pieces of wood on the fire, then turned the lamp off and returned to his room. Clara stirred as he got back into bed. "Something wrong, Emmett?" she murmured.
"No, everything's fine," he said. "Go back to sleep."