"Return to the Past" Chapters 8

Chapter Eight

Thursday, September 10, 1885
4:27 P.M.

"Scarlet fever?" Doc repeated after a moment of stunned silence. "Are you sure?"

Dr. Peterson nodded. "Yes. A rather serious case of it, too, as the rash is present."

The scientist felt a hand on his arm and turned to see Clara beside him. "What can we do?" she asked.

The doctor frowned a little. "Well, I would suggest he shouldn’t be moved. However, this is a hotel and an illness like this might endanger others. I’ll have to inform Richard about this, of course."

Richard Carson was the owner of the Palace Hotel and Saloon, a man that Doc knew only vaguely from occasional sightings in town. He spent most of his time out of town conducting business transactions that helped fund his real estate hobby.

"So are you saying we should move him?" Doc asked, uncertain.

Dr. Peterson eyed Marty. The teen was watching the doctor through glassy eyes, aware enough to follow the conversation. "I would suggest keeping him here tonight, and moving him tomorrow if he has recovered some. In the meantime, keep him comfortable. If he wants to pull through this, he should drink lots of fluids and get lots of rest."

"We’ll do that," Doc promised. "Thank you for coming out on a night like this."

Peterson closed his bag and picked it up. "It’s my job. Don’t hesitate to let me know if he gets worse during the night." He looked at Marty again as he walked to the door. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Eastwood, even if it wasn’t under the best circumstances," he said. "I was sorry to hear about your brother."

Marty gave a slow nod. As soon as the doctor had left, Doc turned his attention to the two boys, hovering near the door and both looking rather uncomfortable in their soaked clothes.

"Do you kids have any dry clothes to change into?" he asked.

They shook their heads, in unison.

"Emmett, would you have anything at your place that might fit them?" Clara asked. "They’ll catch their death if they have to remain in those clothes."

"I might," Doc said, though he was highly doubtful about that. Clara didn’t seem to mind.

"Why don’t I take them over there to change?" she suggested. The look in her eyes spoke more; what she wasn’t saying was that she was going to give him some time with Marty alone -- and perhaps without the other three around, he might be more apt to confess why he was here and even who the boys were. A very sharp maneuver, Doc had to admit, and showed him once more that Clara Clayton was a most extraordinary woman.

"All right," he agreed. "You should find some clothes in the wardrobe and dresser. There are some towels near the tub they can use to dry off."

Clara nodded. "We’ll be back soon," she promised.

Once they had left, Doc turned to Marty. "Why didn’t you tell me you’ve been in town all this time?" he asked.

"What do you mean?" Marty murmured, a hand drifting to his throat as he spoke.

"I know you’ve been here since Monday night," Doc said. "Why did you come back? And with two strangers?"

Marty sighed. "Can I have some water first?" he whispered. "My throat is killing me, and if I gotta talk, it’ll bother me worse."

Doc didn’t hesitate to fulfill his request. He found a glass and filled it with water from the ajoining room. He helped Marty sit up, noticing with concern how much his face paled at the slight movement. The teen gulped the whole glass, asked for another, and drank half of that before settling back.

"I had to get Jennifer a gift, since she’d been sick," Marty began in a whisper, shivering as he hugged the blankets closer to his body. "I didn’t think we’d be here this long, but the gift I wanted to get her won’t be in until next week. So I never bothered to look you up since I was gonna leave first on Monday, then Tuesday, then Wednesday, and then this really hit me...."

Doc leaned closer at Marty’s words, his mind catching something. "Jennifer was sick? Sick with what?"

Marty sighed, turning his head away from the bright glow of the lamp. "Strep throat."

"I see," Doc said, pieces of that puzzle coming together. But it wasn’t solved, not yet. "Did you have intimate contact with her while she was ill?"

Marty took his time in answering. "I kissed her a couple times," he finally admitted. "I mean, by the time the diagnosis was in, I figured I’d been exposed to it already."

Doc sighed, finally seeing a connection. "A likely assumption," he said. "It probably wouldn’t have mattered much at all, except that you ended up back here when it surfaced."

Marty looked at him quizzically. Doc explained further without being asked. "Scarlet fever is a complication of strep throat. If you have strep throat and it isn’t treated, it blossoms into scarlet fever. The bacteria that causes strep, and scarlet fever, can be passed only by intimate contact from person to person. Because you kissed Jennifer, you caught the illness from her and it snowballed into scarlet fever because it wasn’t treated right away."

Marty blinked, once. "Heavy," he murmured.

Doc hesitated a long moment before asking the next question. "You aren’t from late October 1985, are you?" he said. "You didn’t come back here to pick me up."

"No," Marty murmured. "I didn’t."

"Dare I ask who John and Mario are?"

"Who?"

"The two boys you’ve been traveling with."

Marty almost smiled. "John and Mario, eh? No, you don’t want to know."

Doc nodded, once. "I thought not." From Marty’s reaction, he had a feeling that the names he and Clara were given were not their real names. He tried not to think about what those real names might be, although he was certain he knew the true identity of John.

"Why don’t you try to get some more sleep now?" he suggested, almost absently, as his mind went off in directions that should’ve been off limits.

"Why can’t I just go home now?" Marty asked, even as he closed his eyes. "They can cure this there, right?"

"Certainly." He paused, debating whether or not to ask the question. "Is the time machine far?"

"It’s a couple miles outta town," Marty murmured.

Doc glanced towards the windows, hearing the rain snap down on the glass. "Maybe we can take you there tomorrow. I think it’s too late tonight and the weather is far too dangerous to travel in. I think that’s the best we can do."

Marty never answered, already asleep. Doc sighed and wandered over to the window, taking a look outside at the storm. Lightning arched across the sky, illuminating the landscape in a brief, harsh glow. The scientist shuddered a little, recalling his most recent encounter with the phenomenon, just over nine months before.

Clara returned with the boys a few minutes later, with a steaming pot of coffee in tow. "The bartender gave this to me on the way up," she explained, setting it down on the dresser. The boys followed her, with empty mugs. "He thought we might want something warm on a night like this, and sent his best to ‘J.W.’ -- I’m assuming that’s Marty."

Doc wasn’t terribly surprised that the news had traveled so rapidly. Small towns, like Hill Valley at this time, were prime breeding grounds for gossip. But the name? "J.W.?" he asked.

"He said it stood for John Wayne," John -- or was it really Jules, now? -- said softly, the dry clothes he now wore large enough on him to make him look smaller and younger than he probably was. "Will Marty recover?"

Doc was about to answer when Clara beat him to it. "Scarlet fever can be quite serious," she said, her eyes darting over to Marty to make sure he wasn’t listening. He hadn’t stirred at all. "People can and do recover fully from it. Marty is still rather young, and Emmett tells me that medical science has accomplished many wonders in his time and that people are much healthier then. He has both of those in his favor."

Her words didn’t seem to comfort the kids much at all. Doc tried to reassure them. "Tomorrow, if the weather is better and Marty is up for it, I can take you three out to where the time machine is located and you can go home. There, he can definitely recover with antibiotics."

The boys looked rather shocked at his mention of time travel. "You know about that?" Mario asked, eyes wide.

"Of course," Doc said. "It’s fairly clear and Marty confirmed it. And if you’re here, you obviously are aware of the existence of it -- although I’ll be damned if I know the state of this time machine." He lapsed into silence again, thinking about that for a moment, even as he told himself not to.

Clara changed the subject. "Have you boys had any dinner yet?"

They shook their heads. "I’m not real hungry, though," Mario said.

"Nor am I," John-Jules said.

Clara looked at Doc, her expression rather helpless. He could almost read her mind, strangely enough, and was touched by her efforts to distract the boys. A pity they didn’t have such things like television now; though the invention had its share of faults, it could come in handy as a distraction and time killer, both of which were needed now.

"I think the general store is still open," he said. "Do you boys want to go over there and pick out some candy?"

The kids looked at each other. "Sure," John-Jules said after a moment, little, if any, enthusiasm in the words. "But you don’t have to give us any money. We’ve got some of our own."

"Is it from this time period?" Doc asked, expecting that the kids would only have money from the future in their possession.

"It is," John-Jules said. "We can go there alone. I imagine that you and Miss Clayton would like some time to speak alone."

Before Doc or Clara could say anything in response, the older boy took his brother’s arm and pulled him out the door. The couple stared at one another a moment, silent.

"That was rather unexpected," Clara said finally.

"How was your little adventure with them?" Doc asked as he headed for the pot of coffee, intending to pour himself a cup of the brew.

Clara sat down in the armchair by the window. She frowned faintly, tilting her head to one side. Despite her damp and rather disheveled appearance, her hair mussed from the wind and rain outside, Doc couldn’t help admiring her beauty. His heart gave a rather pleasant jump as he looked at her, the sensation abruptly transforming into a sort of guilt as he glanced over at the bed and was reminded of why they were here.

"It was odd," she eventually said. "I feel as if I know them so well, but I’ve hardly met them! It felt so natural to take care of them."

"Perhaps it’s because you’re a schoolteacher," Doc pointed out as he poured himself a cup of coffee.

Clara’s frown increased. "Do you really believe that, Emmett?" she asked, rather shrewdly.

"Believing is a state of mind," Doc said. "If you weren’t aware that time machines could exist, I think that you’d believe you got along with them so well because of your teaching experience."

Clara sniffed softly. "That may be the case. But you know as well as I do that these children aren’t average children. That they even know about the time machine and have indeed time traveled says volumes. Why don’t you want to know more?"

"I do want to know more," Doc admitted, softly. "But when you mix time traveling and knowledge about your future, things can turn ugly. What if these were our children?" he asked, finally phrasing what had not yet been said. "If we know that, it tells us several very important things. That both you and I end up marrying, have at least two children that we name Jules and... well, something else, and that we somehow move to the future, to a time in the mid-1980’s. It puts incredible pressure on one’s shoulder to know that. Think about it for a minute."

Clara was silent as she pondered the words. "I suppose that could be true," she said. "If we knew we were to eventually have children, we might accidentally have them too soon... or wait too long."

"Exactly," Doc said, pleasantly surprised that she had caught on so quickly. "And it doesn’t even begin to address issues of marrying in haste, or perhaps jumping the gun with inventing another time machine too soon."

Clara sighed. "My head hurts already. I don’t understand how you’ve been able to deal with such problems and keep sane."

Doc smiled a little as he sipped the coffee. "Perhaps you might someday, Clara. It takes a lot of firsthand experience."

"So what should we do around these boys?" she asked.

"Hope to God that they don’t accidentally reveal anything more about themselves -- and ask them no questions."

Chapter Nine

Thursday, September 10, 1885
10:38 P.M.

Marty didn’t know how much time had passed before he awoke, the bedding twisted around him, his skin and clothes drenched in sweat, his surroundings dark and shadowy. He sat up in the darkness, breathing hard, his head aching fiercely in time with his heartbeat. Where am I? he wondered, utterly disoriented. Snippets from a dream, perhaps, came to him, feelings of burning or being stuck in a house that was on fire. Was that true or really just some dream?

Marty squinted at a window. It was night, he knew that much. And he still felt sick, not better at all compared to the last time he’d been awake -- whenever that was. He wished he could go home.

"Why can’t I?" he mumbled aloud, the voice he heard sounding like that of a stranger, so distorted from his sore throat. His head pounded as he tried to think about what was happening now. He was at his hotel room in the Palace Hotel in Hill Valley. The DeLorean was about two miles away. If he could get out there and go home....

Marty groaned, sinking back on the damp sheets. He couldn’t even walk across the room. Two miles would be nearly impossible. Nevertheless, he found himself carefully untangling his body from the sheets and sliding out of bed. Marty saw the room dance around him, all warped and exaggerated angles, and for one horrible moment he thought he might pass out. He gripped the side of the bed, taking a rather shaky breath and using every bit of energy he could muster to stop the room from spinning. When things had stabilized as much as they could, he headed for the door across the room.

Faintly, he heard the rise and fall of voices from nearby. He looked over and noticed the door to the ajoining room was closed, but a soft glow of light slipped under the crack. Marty managed to slip on his boots, sarapé , and hat without passing out or being caught. When he was ready, he opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Another strong dizzy spell hit, causing him to stagger into the wall. Marty was sure the noise would’ve woken up half the guests on the floor, but even as the thought darted across his brain, he realized that the noise coming from the saloon downstairs was loud enough to drown it out. If it was noticed at all, it would probably be written off as a guest who’d had a little too much to drink stumbling into a wall. He groaned a little, almost deciding to give in and return to bed. The thought of getting back home was the only thing that kept him moving forward.

What about Jules and Verne? whispered a part of his mind that was still functioning somewhat coherently. You can’t leave them here!

Marty turned his head slowly, rather stiffly, to look back. The door seemed a little too far to go -- and, anyway, the boys would probably protest leaving now. He could come back for them in the car, if he flew it into town and landed it on the roof. Seemed like the best option, definitely.

He went down the stairs, clutching the railing the entire time, and managed to slip out the back door without being noticed by anyone. It was still raining outside, pretty hard. The dampness made him shiver, hard, but it still wasn’t enough to send him back. Marty squinted as he walked slowly through the deserted streets, staggering a little. He pulled out his bandana from his pocket and wiped at his face, the cold water on his skin feeling rather welcome, though it seemed to make his chills worse.

He had hardly left the town limits when he became aware of a rush of footsteps from behind. Fine, he thought, resigning himself to surrender. I’ll let ‘em take me back. I don’t think I would’ve made it, anyway.

He started to turn around. The move wasn’t even halfway completed before a pair of strong hands encircled his neck from behind. Hot breath tickled the back of his neck. Startled, Marty let his bandana slip from his hand.

"Well, well," a voice drawled in a whisper. "If it ain’t Clint Eastwood. I thought yous was dead."

That voice. It sounded familiar... too familiar. Marty frowned, wishing that he could think clearly enough to snag the identity of the person. As he struggled to concentrate, the voice spoke again.

"It’s a good thing me an’ the boys found yous, ‘cause we was afraid we couldn’t give you yer due payment," the voice said, bitterness increasing with each syllable. Something hard was shoved in his back and that one move sparked the memory he needed to summon the name and the face to match the voice.

"Buford Tannen?" he whispered, shocked. But he was supposed to be in prison, wasn’t he? Maybe this was a hallucination. He managed to turn his head to the right and got a fleeting glimpse of the scowling Tannen face. Vivid hallucination, he thought as the outlaw shook him, hard, the jarring movement increasing the pain in his already pounding head.

"Now why don’t’cha hold still and this won’t hurt a bit," Tannen said in a low voice. The pressure of the gun was removed from his back. Marty barely had time to feel relief when the blow came, to the side of his head. There was an overwhelming wave of pain -- he felt as if every cell in his brain exploded -- then sweet, cool nothingness.

* * *

It took a couple hours and lots of patience, but it finally appeared that the boys were asleep. Clara sighed in relief and looked at Doc, circles now under her own eyes. She crept over to where he sat, in a chair next to the doorway that joined the two rooms.

"I never dreamed it would be such work," she whispered, glancing at the exhausted kids huddled under the blankets. "I didn’t think they would ever fall asleep."

"It’s likely the unusual circumstances," Doc murmured, keeping his voice low. "They’re concerned about Marty." He paused, checking the time. "I’d better go see how he’s doing."

Clara waited as he stood up and cracked the door to the other room open. The pool of faint light cast from the one dimly lit lamp in their room spilled into Marty’s chamber... and revealed a bed empty, the covers thrown aside.

Doc blinked, wondering if he was seeing things. He opened the door wider, allowing more light into the room, but the bed remained empty.

"Clara, can you come here for a moment?" he asked softly.

She joined his side a second later. "What’s wrong?" she asked, anxious.

"Do you see Marty anywhere?"

Her eyes widened as she took in the room. "No...."

Doc stepped into the room, not finding the teen on the floor. He hadn’t rolled out of bed and he hadn’t fallen elsewhere in the room. "He’s gone," Doc muttered aloud. "I don’t believe this."

"In his condition?" Clara asked, frowning. "Is that possible?"

"Apparently so. Marty can be damned stubborn when he sets his mind to it. I don’t know why he left...."

"Maybe he went out back to use the privy."

It was a good an answer as any, Doc supposed. He frowned nonetheless. "I don’t understand why he wouldn’t let us know if he was going to do something like that." He paused. "I’ve got a bad feeling about this."

"Why don’t you see if he’s gone downstairs?" Clara suggested. "Even if you don’t spot him, perhaps the bartender or someone down there has."

Doc sighed. "Of course. Would you mind staying here with the boys?"

"Not at all."

Doc slipped his coat on and headed outside the room. He was half hoping that Marty might’ve been just outside the door, but the hallway was empty. Downstairs, he saw no sign of the teen and when he asked Chester about it, the bartender admitted he hadn’t seen any sign of him, either. Doc checked outside, out back of the hotel and saloon where the outhouses were, and didn’t find him there.

He started to worry a little more.

He went to his place, wondering if Marty had made a stop there. The building was deserted. After picking up a lantern to help his investigation, Doc returned outside, already well soaked from the rain still pouring down. The scientist started walking down the street, looking around hard for any trace that Marty had been through. The street was muddy, and in a flash of lighting he caught a glimpse of a recent set of footprints, about Marty’s size. He was on them in a moment, trailing them, noticing how they would veer one way, then slowly start the other way. Marty can’t even walk straight! he thought, all but certain that the prints belonged to the teen. What possessed him to go outside on a night like this?

Shortly before the road reached the edge of town, Doc noticed a second set of footprints had joined up with Marty’s from one of the alleys. They were made by someone taller than him, with a longer stride as the distance between each footprint suggested. Doc stooped down and looked at them as carefully as he could in the flickering lantern light, wondering who had made them.

Approximately thirty feet ahead of those, Doc made a puzzling discovery. He was walking slowly, head down as he stared at the ground, when lighting brought to his attention three things at once.

One, the footprints weren’t in a straight line anymore. It looked instead like Marty and the other person had stopped, maybe even had a scuffle from the looks of it.

The second thing he saw was the muddy material. Doc reached down and pulled it out of the muck, holding it close to his light as he studied it. It looked like Marty’s bandana, the one Doc had let him have in 1885. He couldn’t remember if he had seen him wearing it that night. Still, it was a strong indication that Marty had been here.

The third thing he noticed was the lack of footprints up ahead. Where Doc knelt now there were the strange scuffle prints in the mud, then five feet away there was only one pair of footprints. And they weren’t Marty’s; Doc was able to tell that right away. These ones belonged to the person who had followed him. They were deeper then they had been earlier, too. Almost as if the person had been carrying something heavy. Or someone....

"Marty," Doc whispered, wondering what had happened to his friend. Had the person who had been trailing him been merely a kind individual who might’ve seen Marty faint or collapse and brought him to his home to recover? Doc hoped it was that. He didn’t care to consider the alternatives.

He followed the set of prints for a few minutes more before they vanished when the person had climbed into a wagon, from the looks of things. Doc looked around for a while longer, but he didn’t find any further evidence to help his investigation. Finally, he turned around and headed back to the hotel, knowing in his heart that something was dreadfully wrong.

* * *

Whispers, voices, fluttering past his ears. At the persistent sounds, Marty felt himself slowly rise from the depths of darkness and silence to a world of pain and heat. He became aware of a damp cloth resting on his face, adjusted by someone nearby. A rough, faint groan escaped him as he became fully aware of his body. Everything, every inch of him, ached and throbbed. The worst of it was centered in his head, followed by his throat. There was another remark made in whispers, said too faintly for him to catch. Curiosity helped to drag his eyes open.

Two faces hovered over him, entirely unexpected to the point that Marty wasn’t sure for a moment who they were. Then something clicked into place and he recognized them. But were they hallucinations? Marty blinked a few times, half expecting the faces to dissolve or fade away, but the faces of Seamus and Maggie McFly remained.

"How are you feelin’, Mr. Eastwood?" Maggie asked softly. She had his head cradled in her lap, Marty realized now.

He swallowed, involuntary tears filling his eyes as he did so. His throat felt like it had been scraped raw. "I’ve been better," he whispered.

Seamus frowned faintly. "You’ve a right good fever there," he said. "And judgin’ by the flush on your cheeks, it looks like the scarlet fever."

Marty managed a tentative nod, the move increasing the pain in his head. "That’s what the doc said," he managed to murmur. He strained his eyes, struggling to look around at his surroundings. He definitely wasn’t in the hotel room anymore, and not at Doc’s place, either -- and why were his great-great grandparents with him, anyway? From what he saw, he thought they were in a small room, lit only by a single lamp. A tiny window, set high and near the ceiling, let in a shaft of moonlight. The rain must’ve stopped and the sky cleared, suggesting hours had passed while Marty had been out. The floor, though boarded, was dusty and dirty. So were the walls. There was a door across from the window and it was shut.

"Where are we?" he rasped out.

"Buford Tannen’s hideout," Seamus said, looking at the closed door. "Maggie an’ I were out in the weather, tryin’ to get home before decidin’ that perhaps it might be best to stay the night in town. We spent the day ‘ere after the funeral for your brother. As we were approachin’ the town, we saw Mr. Tannen carryin’ you. When we asked what he was doin’, he pulled out his gun and demanded that we give ‘im a ride in the wagon."

Maggie spoke next, anger coloring her words. "He said he would kill us if we didn’t give ‘im what he wanted. Mr. Tannen directed us to this buildin’ outside of town an’ made us stop. He forced us out o’ the wagon and locked us in this room with you, sayin’ that if he let us go, we would run to the Marshall and tell where ‘is place was. An’ he couldn’t have that." She sighed. "I’m glad we left William with some friends this mornin’. Lord knows what would’ve happened to him had he been with us."

Marty struggled to sit up. The room shifted and titled as he did so, the pain in his head increasing sharply, but he did his best to ignore it. "Wait a minute, why does he want me out here in the first place?" he croaked. "I can understand why he’d be mad that I put him in jail, but what does he want to do? And how did he get out of prison?" Marty’s throat was killing him from asking so many questions at once, but he had to know.

Seamus and Maggie exchanged a look. "You didn’t put him in jail," Seamus said slowly, locking his eyes on Marty’s. "T’was your brother who did."

"I wouldn’t know why he wanted any of us ‘ere," Maggie added. "An’ I imagine that he broke out of the prison. Just yesterday, I read in the Telegraph that he was sentenced to twenty-one years in the Grass Valley prison."

"What time is it?" Marty asked as he leaned back against the wall, finding the support welcome and necessary. Unfortunately, the wall was also cold. He could feel it leach his body heat away.

"‘Tis a couple hours before dawn," Seamus answered. "You’ve been asleep for a quite a while, I believe."

Marty wrapped his arms around his shoulders, chilled. He started to shiver, idly wondering how one could be so cold when they had such a high temperature. "Are there any blankets?" he stammered through chattering teeth.

Maggie shook her head. "We were lucky that he left us a pitcher of water an’ a lamp." She pointed to a dark corner. "There’s some hay back there, but I wouldn’t be usin’ it. It’s dreadfully unclean."

Marty lifted a hand and wiped the sweat that was gathering on his forehead. How could he be sweating when he was so cold? He let out a rather trembling sigh, eyes drifting over the room. The only thing he wanted more than feeling better was to go home. "Did Tannen say when we could leave?"

It was Seamus’s turn to shake his head. "No. He said he’ll be visitin’ us in the mornin’ and tell us what he plans t’do."

Maggie reached out and touched Marty’s arm, her eyes soft in the dim light. "Mr. Eastwood, if you are so chilled, you may lean against me for warmth. It wouldn’t do f’you to catch pneumonia, too."

"Okay," Marty whispered, figuring the suggestion was better than nothing. "And you don’t have to call me Mr. Eastwood." He pulled his sarapé tighter around him and moved closer to Maggie, resting his head on her shoulder.

"What should we call you, then?" Maggie asked. She reached up and wiped the cool cloth across his forehead again.

"You can call me Marty," he murmured, closing his eyes.

"Is that a nickname?" Seamus asked.

Marty nodded without opening his eyes. "Mmhmmm." And it was true -- but not in the way that the McFlys would realize. He allowed himself to drift again, hovering between wakefulness and sleep. The pain faded a little, but he wasn’t so far gone that he was oblivious to his surroundings entirely; after what might’ve been minutes or hours, he heard Seamus speak.

"Is he asleep again?"

Cool fingers brushed his cheek. "It appears so," Maggie said softly. He felt movement, gentle, and then felt as if he was lying down again, his head on her lap.

Marty heard a faint stirring from above him, then felt a soft material being tucked around his shoulders. A part of his still functioning mind realized it was the sweater that Maggie had been wearing.

"Let me ‘ave your coat," Maggie whispered to Seamus. A moment later, Marty felt Maggie cover the lower half of his body with the heavy coat Seamus had been wearing.

"He’s quite ill," Seamus said to his wife. Another hand touched Marty’s face. "I cannot believe Tannen’s keepin’ him ‘ere. He needs to see the doctor. T’wouldn’t do for two brothers to die this week."

Maggie sighed. "I hope the Johnsons don’t think something dreadful happened to us. At least Will’s safe in their care." Her fingers smoothed out Marty’s damp hair. He moaned softly as they brushed against the spot where Buford had hit him earlier. Maggie let out another sigh. "The poor dear."

His great-great-grandparents lapsed into silence. Without sounds to tie him down, Marty’s mind started to wander. He wondered what Doc was doing, if he had noticed that he had left. He thought about the time machine, how he was supposed to get to it. The way he felt now, he didn’t think it was too likely he’d ever move again. But having Maggie run her fingers through his hair was oddly soothing. It made him think of his mother.

His mother was the last thing Marty thought of before falling the rest of the way into a fitful, feverish sleep.

Chapter Ten

Friday, September 11, 1885
7:34 A.M.

Doc stared bleakly out the hotel room window at the early morning sunny day. He had been up all night waiting, searching for any sign of Marty. So far, nothing had turned up. The storm that had passed overnight had since washed away the footprints, erasing what little evidence there was to his disappearance.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see Clara standing beside him. "I wouldn’t worry," she said softly. "I’m sure that he’ll turn up."

Doc shook his head as he put his back to the window. "I’m sure he’ll turn up, too," he said. "That’s not my concern. It is whether or not he will turn up alive... that is my concern. What if he fell, hurt himself, is trapped somewhere? Or what if he spent the whole night outside in that weather -- it might kill him in the condition he’s already in."

Clara rubbed his tense shoulders. "Try not to think such dark thoughts," she said. "We don’t know anything and worrying about things that might not come to be will only make it worse." She paused. "I thought I’d take those boys with me to the school today, to help me get things ready for Monday. It might help if they had something to do, to take their minds off Marty’s disappearance."

"A good idea, but I’m not sure they’ll be too enthusiastic about it," Doc said.

Clara frowned faintly. "Would you rather they be underfoot?"

"I didn’t say that the idea was a bad one -- I just don’t know if the kids will like it," Doc said. "They might want to be doing something directed towards finding Marty."

"Perhaps, but there isn’t really much they can do in that area... is there?"

"If there was, I’d be doing it right now," Doc said with a sigh. "It is a good idea to keep those kids occupied. Do you want me to help break the news to them?"

"I can do it," Clara said, patting his back. "What are you going to do today?"

"I thought I might take one of the horses out and ride around, see if I can find any further traces of Marty. It should be much easier to do in daylight than night."

"Absolutely," Clara agreed. "I’m going to speak with the boys now. Do you want to visit your home?"

Doc sighed. "I suppose," he said.

"Let me know the moment you find anything," the schoolteacher said.

"Of course."

But it was Clara who made the first discovery. A few hours later, as the scientist was trying to eat something for lunch before going out to take a ride around town, she burst into his barn, unannounced, with the two kids close at her heels.

"Emmett!" she cried.

Doc, who had been halfheartedly eating a sandwich, dropped the food from his hands, right onto a conveniently placed plate. "What is it?" he asked, bolting to his feet.

Clara took a breath before speaking. "No, I didn’t find Marty," she said quickly. "But have you heard about Buford Tannen?"

He shook his head, a puzzled look on his face. "No. What about him?"

"It’s all over town!" Mario announced. "Big news. I’m really surprised you don’t remember this!"

Doc gave the blond child a rather curious look before turning back to the schoolteacher. "Clara, I haven’t heard anything. What is it?"

"He’s escaped," she said simply. "Buford Tannen and his gang broke out of the Grass Valley prison yesterday afternoon. More than one person has reported spotting them in town."

Doc felt himself pale at the news. "And if he broke out and came here, he could’ve seen Marty and...." He didn’t finish the sentence, hurrying for the door. "We’ve got to find him!"

"Wait!" Clara cried, hauling him to a stop by grabbing his arm. "You can’t just leave here and assume that they have Marty. You don’t even know where they might be -- and these men are criminals, Emmett! They’re dangerous."

"I can intensify my search for him. If he’s lying somewhere, hurt, and they find him...."

Clara shook her head, a stubborn line to her mouth. "Emmett, the sheriff is advising that no one should interact with Buford Tannen! He’s to be considered armed and dangerous. And I don’t want you to go! He tried to kill you on Saturday and on Monday. Are you forgetting that?"

"It might be best for all of us if we avoid the outlaws," John-Jules said solemnly. "It’s possible that us being here might disturb something that didn’t happen before."

"Those are risks I’ll just have to take," Doc said seriously, looking at both the boys and Clara. "Right now, Tannen harbors far more spite against Marty than I -- and Marty’s my friend. He’s saved my life before; if Tannen’s got him, then it’s my duty to do the same."

Clara watched him as he moved towards the doors, the expression on her face one of helplessness. "How are you going to know where to look? He could be anywhere! It’ll be worse than finding a needle in a haystack."

Doc gestured to the sky through the open windows. "It’s daylight now, not night. The weather’s much better and it’ll be much easier to search today than it was yesterday. And, although you may think differently, Hill Valley’s not that large now. If Buford Tannen has been sighted in town, he has to be nearby."

Mario took a couple steps after the scientist. "Can I come, too? We can help you out!"

"I’d prefer that you stay here with Miss Clayton," Doc said as he slipped his coat on. "If I do run into Buford Tannen, it might get ugly."

Clara hung back, perhaps understanding that any further effort to stop him would be pointless. "If you indeed find him, there is still no guarantee that Marty will be with him."

Doc paused before stepping through the doorway. "Maybe not," he agreed. "But I just have a feeling...." He left the sentence hanging in the room as he left.

* * *

Maggie McFly jumped as the door keeping them prisoner finally creaked opened. She glanced at her husband seated beside her. Seamus straightened up, his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on the door. A moment later the face they had dreaded to see, belonging to one Buford Tannen, snaked around the edge of the door.

"Well, well, well," he drawled with a smirk on his face. "How’re we all this mornin’? Nice ‘n comfy?"

Seamus stood quickly and glared at Mr. Tannen. "I’m afraid not, Mr. Tannen. Did you know that Clint Eastwood’s brother is ill? The lad needs a doctor!"

Buford looked briefly confused. "What do ya mean, ‘brother’?" He pointed to Marty, curled up on the floor, asleep. "That there’s Clint Eastwood! I don’t forget a face that done wronged me!"

"Clint Eastwood was killed on Monday in a train accident. This is his brother -- his twin brother -- J.W." Seamus explained with barely disguised disgust. "An’ this Eastwood has scarlet fever."

Maggie watched as Buford withdrew his gun, stepping into the room. He leaned forward and took a long look at J.W. -- or Marty, as he preferred to be called. His eyes narrowed into thin slits. "He’s just fakin’ it, like his brother when I shot ‘im."

"No man could fake an illness like that," Seamus said. "If you keep ‘im ‘ere, it could be the death of ‘em. An’ you could catch it from ‘im, too."

Buford pondered those words for a minute, saying nothing. "Why are you keepin’ us here, Mr. Tannen?" Maggie finally asked. "Not a one of us did a thing wrong t’you."

"Mebby you’re right," he said. "You and yer husband didn’t do anythin’ wrong." He pointed again to Marty. "But he did, even if’n was his brother who did it. The family’s gotta pay for that." Tannen stepped closer to Maggie and grinned at her. "And I’m keepin’ ya both ‘ere so you won’t go runnin’ to the sheriff and tellin’ him where me an’ the boys are."

Maggie put all of her anger and temper into a look directed right at Buford Tannen. One could almost see the temperature drop in the air from her stare. The outlaw lost his grin, his face falling into it’s more natural scowl. "I don’t be supposin’ we could have some food ‘n blankets?" she asked, her voice carefully controlled.

"Not if ya continue bein’ disrespectful to me," Buford answered, strolling back to the door with a rather cocky manner. He paused before shutting the door, staring hard at Seamus and Maggie through narrowed eyes before slamming the door. On the other side there was loud scrapings and clangings as the exit was locked up tight.

Marty stirred, disturbed by the racket. His eyes opened slowly, with a clear effort. He gazed at Maggie, seated beside him, a puzzled expression on his face. His lips moved, but she couldn’t hear his words.

"Don’t speak," she cautioned, holding her hand up. Marty watched her, his eyes glassy. He raised his hand and touched first his throat, then his head. A look of pain crossed his face, which Maggie understood.

"I know, it hurts," she whispered, looking at Seamus. He was still on his feet, staring at the door. The expression on his face was one Maggie rarely saw on her husband’s face. It was a look of anger.

"Tannen will never let us out," Seamus said, scowling. "We might be rottin’ here for the rest of our lives, however long they may prove t’be."

"Don’t be sayin’ that, Seamus!" Maggie said, well aware that there was another set of ears now listening to the conversation. "Someone’ll find us. By now, ‘tis certain that the town knows of the escape."

Seamus walked away from the door and over to the tiny window. Warm sunlight somehow managed to slip through the dirty glass and shine across the slowly rotting floor. He looked up at it, squinting to the outside world. "If only that window was a mite bigger, we could stand a chance of escapin’."

Maggie was distracted from Seamus’s reflections when her hand was grabbed. She jumped at the touch, jerking her eyes down. Marty was staring at her, his expression pleading.

"What is it?" she asked, pulling her hand out of his grasp.

"I have to find the Doc," he whispered, his voice raspy. The brief sentence caused him to cough suddenly and tears filled his blue eyes. Maggie wished that she had some fresh water to give him.

"Hush now," she murmured, reaching for the damp cloth and wiping his forehead with it. "Don’t you be worryin’. We’ll get out of here soon. Why don’t you try an’ get some more rest?"

Marty shook his head and tried to sit up. His eyes were wide, frantic. "I can’t. I have to go home, I have to go back to--" His words halted in mid-sentence, and he moaned.

Seamus turned away from the window and looked at his wife. She wasn’t surprised until he spoke, his mind clearly away from the room. "I think I know where we are."

"Where is that?" Maggie asked, trying to calm Marty down. The young man seemed determined to sit up, despite the clear protests that his body was giving him.

"In the buildin’ beside the abandoned silver mine. I remember now, recognizing the buildin’ when we were forced off the wagon. It was so dark, though, that I really didn’t put it t’gether with everythin’ else."

Maggie nodded. Now that he had mentioned it, that did make a fair bit of sense.

"The abandoned silver mine?" their ill patient murmured. "That’s where we set up camp and put the DeLorean on Saturday. Or was it months ago?"

Seamus looked at him with a frown, then shifted his eyes to Maggie. She shrugged and the message passed unspoken between them -- the fever was taking over his mind, rising to dangerous levels. He needed a doctor desperately. His cheeks were flushed a bright pink color, such a strange look in the cold, damp room.

The Irishwoman tucked the sweater and coat around him better. "Aye," she said soothingly. "Now why don’t you close your eyes and maybe when you wake up we’ll be out o’ this place."

Marty gave her the strangest look, but obediently closed his eyes. Maggie sighed as she looked at her husband. She hoped they would be free of this prison soon. Mr. Eastwood was running out of time.

Chapter Eleven

Friday, September 11, 1885
2:57 P.M.

Verne ran out of the classroom as soon as Clara announced that they were done with setting things up for classes. He took a deep breath of the early fall air, glad to be out of the stuffy classroom that was too filled with tense silences or forced conversations.

"Do you think that Marty is back yet?" he asked Jules as they waited for their future mother to close up the building.

Jules shrugged, his mouth remaining closed. He’s been unusually quiet today, Verne thought. "What’s wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You aren’t getting sick, are you?" Verne asked, looking at him uneasily.

"No."

"Then why are you so quiet?"

"Maybe I don’t have much to say."

Verne rolled his eyes. "You always have something to say. C’mon, what’s wrong?"

"Nothing. And even if something was wrong, I wouldn’t tell you," Jules added when his brother opened his mouth. He was saved from further interrogation by the arrival of Clara on the scene.

"Let me put my supplies in the cabin, then we can return to town," she said.

The boys followed her to the building a stone’s throw away from the schoolhouse, waiting outside as she went indoors. When the door had closed, Verne turned to his brother, sitting on the steps to the porch.

"What’s eating you, Jules?"

"Nothing -- except you calling me by that name around the adults," Jules muttered. "You probably blew it for the both of us."

Verne’s face reddened a little at the reminder of his mistake. "I said I was sorry, like, twenty times," he said. "Anyway, it’s not like this was somethin’ we could’ve put off forever. Marty probably would’ve spilled the beans at some point."

Jules gave no answer. Verne sat down beside his brother with a sigh. "I’m worried about Marty," he said.

"I am as well," Jules said.

"Where do you think he is?"

"With that fever, the only safe place for him is in a bed under a doctor’s care." Jules sighed. "But I’m sure that’s not the location."

"Then why don’t we go look for him? We can help out, too."

"I don’t know if they will let us," Jules said, tilting his head towards the cabin. He lowered his voice. "Ever since you more or less told them who we were, they’ve been acting as if we were children of theirs... have you noticed?"

Verne shrugged. "I guess," he said slowly. "But they’re not like Mom and Dad yet. Mom and Dad would just be stricter with us, I think."

"Perhaps," Jules agreed.

Clara came outside, stopping the conversation again. She looked rather troubled. "I don’t suppose you saw Emmett out here, did you?"

The boys shook their heads. "No one’s out here," Verne said.

"I’m sure that Mr. Brown is still searching," Jules said.

"Or maybe he ran into Buford Tannen," Verne suggested in his most helpful manner. Clara paled visibly at the words.

"Perish the thought" she murmured.

"Why don’t we help out in the search now?" Jules asked. "It would certainly be better than waiting for word at the Palace hotel."

Clara was silent as she considered the question. "I thought the same thing myself this morning," she admitted. "But I don’t like the idea of no one being there if something is discovered."

"Leave a note," Verne said. "That way, if they come back an’ find it, they’ll wait and know what’s goin’ on."

Clara sighed, although she seemed to be leaning toward the idea. "I also don’t like the idea of us all separated with no contact."

"Too bad we didn’t bring any walkie-talkies with us," Verne said without thinking. Clara gave him an odd look as his brother glared at him, hard. Verne’s face reddened at his slip up and he rushed ahead to change the subject.

"Let’s just go," he said. "We’re wastin’ time and daylight."

Clara hesitated. "Well, I suppose that a few hours of looking around won’t hurt. But if we’re going to be doing this, I want to take one thing with me, first."

Verne looked at Jules as Clara hurried back into the cabin. He gave a shrug, indicating that he was as lost as Verne was when it came to what the schoolteacher had meant. They heard a few things being moved around inside, and a moment later she returned with a rifle in hand!

The boys stared at their future mother with shock. Never before had Verne seen her with a gun. She was always saying how dangerous and barbaric they were, more problem than solution. But the way she handled the weapon now showed that she knew a little something about them.

It was a side of Clara Clayton that neither boy had ever seen.

The schoolteacher noticed the twin expressions of shock and disbelief and said grimly, as they left the cabin, "You never know what you could run into out here in the West. My mother taught me how to handle one of these weapons so I can defend myself on the chance there is danger around -- and I think this situation might very well qualify."

* * *

Doc watched Buford Tannen through narrowed eyes, his heart pounding in both excitement and a touch of unease at having finally found his quarry. He had caught sight of the outlaw in town rather by accident, as he was searching the back alleyways. Buford had stepped out the back door of the butcher, glanced around for a moment, then strolled over to his horse, tethered to a tree. Doc watched from afar, with the binoculars from the future that he had brought with him nine months ago.

Buford got on his horse and turned the animal west, away from town. Doc waited a couple minutes, then emerged from behind the Palace building and started to follow him on foot. Riding a horse was too conspicuous out in the middle of nowhere. He left a wide distance, able to keep Buford in his sights with the binoculars, and was able to keep up without much of a problem. After nearly fifteen minutes, he realized he knew the direction they were headed.

Is he going to the abandoned silver mine? he wondered, recalling their campsite of less than a week before.

Sure enough, a few minutes later, Tannen stopped at the old building a couple dozen feet away from the "DeLorean Campsite." Doc kept his eyes on the outlaw as he dismounted and tied the animal to a nearby tree. He entered the dilapidated building, a paper bag in hand, filled with his booty from the butcher.

When no one came out immediately, Doc crept closer to the place, around to the back. He could hear voices inside, the loud rowdy voices of Tannen and his gang. Yes, Doc thought, his excitement growing, this appears to be their hideout.

The scientist stepped up to the wall and put his ear to it. He heard different voices this time, not the ones he was expecting.

"...You think he is growin’ worse?" a female voice asked, with a strong Irish accent.

Their was a brief pause. "Aye, it appears to be so. We’ve got to get ‘im to a doctor, or I don’t know if he’ll survive the night." This time it was a man’s voice, with the same accent. Doc frowned for a moment, noticing the voices were familiar to him, and then he realized why -- they were Marty’s great-great-grandparents, Seamus and Maggie McFly!

But what are they doing here? And who are they talking about? Is it Marty?

The frown on his face increased. Without thinking about it, Doc glanced up and noticed a window. It was set in the wall pretty high, but he was sure that if he could stand just so....

He wiped away some of the dirt and mold coating the glass and leaned close to peer inside. Maggie and Seamus were still speaking, but he couldn’t really see them.

"Do you think we should wake ‘im?" Maggie asked. "He’s been sleepin’ for hours, and with that fever--"

"No, I think it’s good that he sleeps," Seamus said. "I just wish that Tannen would let us have some food ‘n blankets. He needs to have somethin’ to drink, at least."

Doc’s heart started to pound as he realized they were almost talking about Marty. There seemed no other way it could be, and it fit far too well together to be a coincidence. Tentatively, he tapped his finger against the dusty glass. The conversation abruptly silenced and a moment later a face peered through the window at him. It was Seamus.

"Yes?" he asked cautiously.

Doc was quick to reassure him. "Don’t worry, it’s only me, Emmett Brown, the blacksmith."

"Mr. Brown?" Maggie repeated. She joined Seamus at the window, her face brightening. "Is the sheriff out there?"

"No, it’s just me." Doc tried to look past the couple. "Is anyone else with you?"

Seamus glanced to his left. "Clint Eastwood’s brother. He’s dreadfully ill, I’m afraid. We think he may have scarlet fever."

His suspicions confirmed, Doc nodded. "It is." He paused, then lowed his voice. "Are you three trapped inside?"

Maggie nodded vigorously. "Mr. Tannen stopped us last night and demanded that we take ‘im to this place in our wagon. T’was either that or be shot."

"Last night," Doc muttered to himself. "Was it before midnight?"

"Aye," Seamus answered. "Maggie an’ I were on our way home from spendin’ the day in town when he approached us. He had young Mr. Eastwood in his arms. The lad was unconscious."

Doc froze as he heard a noise from behind. It sounded suspiciously like footsteps. He put a finger to his lips, then turned slowly around.

"Clara!" he gasped. "What are you doing here?"

The schoolteacher smiled grimly. "We decided to conduct our own search," she explained, a shotgun in one hand. John-Jules and Mario were standing beside her, eyeing the building with interest. "Have you found Marty?"

Doc nodded. "He’s inside, being held prisoner by Buford Tannen with Seamus and Maggie McFly.

Clara frowned. "Aren’t they--"

"Yes," Doc said quickly, knowing her question. He didn’t want the McFlys to hear anything about them being great-great-grandparents. The less they knew, the better. "We’ve got to get them out."

"Can’t we fetch the sheriff now?"

"It’s too risky to do that," Doc said with a sigh. "The gang might use them as hostages." He turned back to the window. "Do you know what Tannen and his gang are up to now?" he asked the prisoners.

The McFlys looked at each other. "We can hear ‘em out in the other room now. They’re bein’ awfully noisy," Maggie said.

Doc pondered that for a minute, then motioned for the McFlys, Clara, and the boys to come closer. "I’ve got an idea...."

* * *

When Marty drifted back up to some level of consciousness, he had no idea where he was. He was only aware of the intense pain that seemed to be centered mostly in his head and throat, and the strong sensations of dizziness and disorientation. The forms above him, as he opened his eyes, were dim and blurry.. Only after much blinking did his vision clear enough to show him that it was Maggie McFly who was leaning over him, her face full of anxiety. It was she who was shaking him awake.

"I’m sorry to be disturbin’ you, but we have to go," she said. "It’s time."

"Time?" Marty croaked. "Time for what?" He looked around, trying to get his bearings. It was more difficult than it should’ve been. Everything was moving in and out of focus.

Seamus crouched beside him. "We’ll be gettin’ out of here soon," he said softly. "The blacksmith and some friends of his are goin’ to help us."

"The blacksmith? Don’t you mean the Doc?" Wondering if his friend was around, Marty sat up. He gasped softly as he executed the move, squeezing his eyes shut against both the dizziness and pain slicing through his head as he did so. He felt a cool hand against his cheek and opened his eyes to see Maggie kneeling beside him.

"I don’t much favor this plan," she said to Seamus, looking at him. "There’s too much risk in it."

Someone rapped on what sounded like windowglass. Faintly recalling the presence of at least one window in the room, Marty raised his eyes to it and was shocked to see Doc Brown looking in at them. Forgetting his illness for a moment, he found the resources to stand up and stagger over to the window, pried halfway open.

"Doc," he said in a low voice. "What’re you doin’ here?" Marty had to keep his fingers gripping the windowsill, already feeling his burst of energy slip away; his legs felt like Jello.

"I came to rescue you three," Doc answered. "How are you feeling?"

"The worst I have in my life."

The scientist frowned, clearly worried. "We’ll have you out of there soon." He lifted something up and slid it inside, through the small space. It was a old-fashioned Winchester rifle. "Give this to the McFlys for me."

Marty fumbled the gun as he tried to get a hold of it, finding his coordination was slower than normal. Seamus noticed his difficulties and stepped beside him, taking the gun from his hands. "What’re we gonna do?" Marty asked Doc.

"You are going to sit out and watch," Doc said, pointing a finger at him. "You’re too sick to be involved in this. Leave everything to us."

Marty stared at him dubiously. He wanted to say more, but it was too hard to ask the questions; he had to choose carefully when to speak, and he had the feeling that his questions on what was to come would be brushed aside. Instead, he allowed his trembling legs to sink to the ground and watched Seamus cross the room with Maggie. His great-great-grandfather raised the rifle, and aimed it at the door.

"Now, Mr. Brown?" the Irishman asked Doc.

"Yes, now." Doc ducked away, vanishing from the window.

Seamus fired the gun. Unprepared, Marty jumped, his heart suddenly racing, and threw his hands over his ears. The noise from the shot was incredible. The blast from the gun stirred up dust and smoke. When it thinned out a little, Marty saw that it had blown away the lock on the door. His ears hadn’t yet stopped ringing when he caught the sound of pounding footsteps heading in their direction, and a moment later the door was thrown open by Buford Tannen.

"What the hell is goin’ on!" he demanded, his face wearing the darkest scowl Marty had ever seen. Is Seamus trying to get us all killed? he wondered, confused.

"We’re leavin’," Seamus said simply to the outlaw, holding the gun steady at Tannen. Maggie stood behind him, peering over Seamus’s shoulder.

"Are ya sure ‘bout that?" Tannen asked, his large body blocking the doorway. Behind him stood the three members of his gang, their guns drawn. Tannen pulled his own gun out, cocking the hammer back and aiming it at Marty’s great-great-grandfather.

Perfect, Marty thought from the sidelines, feeling reality fuzz around the edges again. Doc’s making my great-grandfather an orphan, right before my eyes.

"Now," Tannen drawled slowly, "why don’t y’all set the gun down an’ nobody’ll be gettin’ hurt."

Marty watched his great-great-grandparents exchange a look. Dizziness briefly spun his surroundings, and he had to lean against the wall to keep sitting up. He took a couple deep breaths, silently praying to keep awake now. After a long moment, looking at the number of weapons aimed at them, Seamus gently set the rifle down on the ground.

"Aye, Mr. Tannen," he said slowly, raising his hands in the air. "We give up."

Tannen smiled, then nodded to his gang. They lowered their guns.

A split second later, all hell broke loose.

It began with a loud noise from the other end of the building. It sounded like more gunfire, or fireworks. Buford spun around and looked at his gang.

"Ain’t any of yous stay behind an’ keep watch?" he yelled.

The three men in his gang looked at one another. "Guess not," the one in the front said with a shrug.

Tannen growled and ran out of the room, pushing his posse out of the way and into the hallway wall. His boys followed, their footsteps rapid, and they all started to shout at something or someone. Maggie and Seamus followed them, their path now free of hindrance. Marty waited a minute, but when no one else came to the room he managed to crawl across the floor and pick up the rifle. The thing weighed a ton to him. Aiming the muzzle of the gun to the ground, he grabbed the butt of it and used it to help himself to his feet. He had to lean on it for support for a minute when he first stood, dim black spots dancing before his eyes, threatening to overtake his vision completely. When the worst passed, he dragged the gun with him in the direction of the commotion.

The building where they’d been held prisoner was falling apart. The walls were crumbling, the floor sagged, the ceiling was full of holes. All the windows were broken, missing, or boarded up. Marty staggered as he walked, treating the gun as a cane more than once as he made his way to the front, slowly. His dizziness increased by the step, until he felt as if he was trying to walk across a Tilt-A-Whirl.

The strange firework sounds continued, leading him to the front of the building and outside. It was there he met an interesting sight. A large pile of fireworks was lit in the middle of the clearing before the dilapidated building, causing all sorts of noise and lights. It was spooking the horses something terrible; the animals were bucking and thrashing around, trying to get loose from the trees where they were tethered. There was no sign of the person who had set off the pyrotechnics or the slightest suggestion they were still in the neighborhood.

Tannen was furious! He had his gun drawn as his eyes searched the nearby forest for signs of life, a perfect place for the perpetrator to hide. Marty followed his gaze and didn’t see anything, which wasn’t saying much, considering the condition he was in.

"All right," Tannen growled to all of them standing around. "Who the hell set that off?"

Naturally, no one fessed up. The outlaw crept towards the trees, his eyes narrowed and his finger resting on the trigger, ready to squeeze at the first sign of the guilty party.

There was a flash of movement and the gun suddenly leapt out of his hand, directly into the flames of the burning fireworks. Tannen let out a howl of pain and surprise, drawing his hand back rapidly. Marty remembered he had smashed that particular hand into a cast iron stove less then a week before... or was it five months earlier?

Focus, Marty thought, trying to ignore the fever cooking his brain.

"Dammit!" Tannen cried, waving his hand in the air. He stared at the bushes, eyes full of a burning hatred.

"Doc," Marty whispered. Nobody else could’ve made a shot that accurate. Doc had, after all, cut through a rope several months -- or days -- before to quite literally save Marty’s neck.

Tannen’s gang ran to his aide, all of their guns ready to fire. Before they had a chance to do anything, though, Doc shot their guns one by one out of their hands. All were stunned. One of the guns landed near the outlaw. Tannen lunged for it, but Marty remembered that he had a weapon of his own. He raised his rifle.

"I wouldn’t try it," he murmured.

Buford stopped, turning to look at him. A smile curled on his lips. Marty had a good idea why -- his whole body was trembling, on the verge of collapse, the rifle shaking in his hands. He couldn’t hit anything if he tried.

"Ya don’t wanna shoot me," Tannen said, taking another step towards the gun. "Look at ya!" He chuckled. "Ya couldn’t shoot me."

Marty took in a ragged breath, trying to gain himself some time. "I could, and I will if you don’t drop the gun," he said as forcefully as he could manage. Even to his ears, it was a pitiful attempt; his voice shook as well, and his throat burned at the words.

Doc stepped out of the forest, his modified rifle at his hand. "Marty!" he called. "What do you think you’re doing?"

Another deep breath. The black spots were back, creeping in around the edge of his vision. "I’m trying... to help," he managed. "Don’t you want my help?" He looked down the barrel at Buford.

Doc stayed where he was. "Everything is under control. Now set down the gun, we don’t want anyone hurt."

"I wouldn’t be too sure about that, smithy," Tannen said. In a move too swift for Marty to track or react to, Buford scooped up the gun and aimed it at Doc. His finger reached for the trigger and from the deadly serious look on his face, Tannen was not going to back down or hesitate from his goal.

Time got strange then. Marty opened his mouth to yell, to shout a warning, but if he spoke, he didn’t hear his words. There was only the pounding of his heart in his ears, as loud as thunder -- louder, it seemed, than that first rifle shot. His own finger reached for the trigger of the rifle. Marty squeezed it before he really knew what he was doing.

A charge shot out, the recoil knocking Marty back to the ground to an unforgiving landing. Buford let out another howl of pain, this one considerably louder than the first. He dropped the gun and fell to the ground, bleeding. Marty had caught him in the leg.

Doc stared first at the outlaw, then at his friend, a stunned expression on his face. "Great Scott," he murmured. "You saved my life."

Marty managed to raise his head. He tried to smile at the scientist, relieved that the immediate danger was over -- then his fever caught up with him and he dropped back into the pool of unconsciousness.

* * *

Doc was running to Marty’s side just as the sheriff and marshal showed up on galloping horses. Clara, John-Jules, and Mario arrived right behind, all gathered on one horse. Doc had told them to go into the town to fetch the lawmen right before he had set off the fireworks. The sheriff immediately drew out his gun and pointed it at Buford Tannen, a humorless smile on his face.

"So," he said, "we meet again, Tannen. I thought one arrest would be enough for you."

Tannen scowled as he looked up from his injured leg, saying nothing. Doc knelt down next to Marty, silent and unmoving on the ground. Seamus was already by his side, patting his cheeks and trying to revive him. Doc quickly took his pulse. It was weak and racing.

"How is he doin’?" Maggie asked Doc, looking worried as she crouched beside her husband.

Doc leaned forward, listening to his breathing. It, too, was fast and labored. Finally, he placed a hand on the teen’s forehead, trying to estimate his fever. The skin was unnaturally hot. "Not good," Doc finally concluded.

Clara joined his side, somewhat breathless from the trip over. The boys were too intent on the arrest to notice Marty right away. The marshall had run into the woods after Tannen’s gang. A few gunshots were heard, but when the lawman emerged several moments later with a couple of the men prompted by gunpoint, they were all unscathed.

"We did exactly what you told us, Emmett," Clara said as she reached him. She let out a slight gasp when she saw Marty. "Oh good Lord. Is he alive?"

Doc lifted him up, cradling Marty’s limp body in his arms. "Yes, but he’s still sick. I’m taking him to my place."

Before they could leave, however, the sheriff stopped them. He had Tannen and his gang cuffed and guarded at gunpoint by a few more men of the marshall’s who had arrived on the scene. "What happened here?" he demanded.

No one spoke. Marshall Strickland came over, having heard the question. "Well? What’s going on?"

Doc sighed and shifted Marty’s weight in his arms. "Marshall, our friend here is very ill and needs medical care. You have Buford Tannen under arrest again. What more do you need?"

"Answers," the Marshall said. He looked at Marty, sighed, then gave a reluctant nod. "Go ahead, but I’ll be talkin’ to you soon. This ain’t over yet."

Doc managed a strained smile of thanks. "No, it’s not," he agreed softly.

Chapter Twelve

Friday, September 11, 1885
5:29 P.M.

The McFlys gave Doc, Marty, and the boys a ride back to town on their buckboard wagon, Clara following behind on horseback, before heading back to their place. They were clearly concerned over Marty’s condition and asked Doc to keep them informed on his recovery as best he could. The scientist agreed immediately, thanked them for their help, then told the kids to get the doctor as he moved Marty inside. They left quickly, without protest, passing Clara on her way in.

"How is he doing?" she asked Doc, following him as he made his way across the room and set Marty on top of his bed at the back. "Any better?"

"I don’t think so," he said grimly.

The schoolteacher peered at Marty from the foot of the bed. "Do you think he’ll recover?" she asked tentatively.

"He’d better." Doc reached over to the table by his bed, to the pitcher and basin. He grabbed the washcloth and soaked it in the water, then set it on Marty’s forehead, the cloth still dripping water. His friend was still unearthly still and unnaturally hot.

"I’m going to take his temperature," Doc said after a minute, wanting to know what they were up against. "I’ve got a thermometer here somewhere...." He hurried over to his desk and starting digging around in the drawers, trying to find it in the nine months of accumulated clutter.

Clara sat down on the edge of the bed beside Marty and touched his cheek. "Are you sure you want to know that?" she asked. "It’s clear that it is high."

Doc finally found what he was looking for, in a drawer of meters and glassware, and returned to the bed. "I’ll feel better if we have some facts, even if it is bad news." He rinsed the medical instrument in the basin water, wiped it off, then slipped it in Marty’s mouth. The teen’s eyes opened suddenly, startling Doc. They stared up at the scientist, glazed and unfocused.

"Marty?"

No response. Doc looked closer into his eyes. The pupils were round and dilated. He waved his hand and snapped his fingers a few times in front of his face, an inch from his nose. Nothing. Not even a blink.

"Why does he look like that?" Clara murmured, her hand to her mouth.

Doc wiped the washcloth across Marty’s flushed face, trying to get some sort of response from him. "It’s the high fever. He might not be awake now; I don’t think he’s all the way here."

Clara brushed Marty’s bangs away from his eyes, a rather odd expression on her face as she took in Marty’s blank stare. "Poor dear."

A few minutes later, Doc pulled the thermometer from Marty’s mouth and looked at the line where the mercury was. He let out a low whistle, his heart sinking.

"What is it?" Clara asked, standing up and trying to see what the diagnosis was.

Doc held the thermometer next to the lamp nearby and read it again, hoping that better lighting would prove him wrong. When the number didn’t change, he sighed and shook his head. "This says his temperature is up to one hundred and five degrees!"

Clara digested the information for a moment. "That’s serious, isn’t it?"

"Quite. Even in my time." He set the thermometer down and glanced at the doors, half hoping the doctor had arrived already. They remained closed, late afternoon sunlight slanting between the gaps of wood. He sighed again, then looked at Marty’s face. His eyes were still open, but this time it looked as if he was staring back.

"Doc," he breathed, his cracked lips hardly moving to form the words. Doc took his hand and gave it a squeeze, speaking rapidly in an attempt to answer all of the questions he didn’t want the teen to take the energy to voice.

"We’re at my place. We took you here after you fainted. Buford Tannen and his gang are behind bars again and I sent the boys to get the doctor. They should be back soon. You’ve been out half an hour or so."

Marty gave a slight nod to say he understood. Clara stepped to the bedside, leaning over as she put a hand to his face. "How are you feeling?" she asked.

Marty’s eyes focused on the silver and turquoise necklace dangling around her neck, a gift that Doc had given her the day after sending Marty back to the future... again. His eyes widened and he sat up.

"That’s mine!" he gasped hoarsely, grabbing it. Clara was almost knocked off her feet from the sudden and unexpected gesture.

"How can it be yours?" she asked, prying Marty’s hand off the necklace and quickly stepping away. "Emmett gave it to me a couple days ago."

Doc tried to push him back to the pillows, but Marty was pretty strong for someone so sick. "I gave it to Jennifer. She loves that necklace," he said, straining for another attempt on the locket. Clara quickly slipped it under the collar of her blouse, as Doc was finally able to restrain him.

"I don’t think so," the scientist said. "Settle down, Marty."

Marty shook his head and fought the inventor, trying to push his hands off his shoulders.

"I’d know that necklace anywhere! I spent two bucks for it. It’s Jennifer’s favorite!" He was growing more and more frantic as he tried to escape, breathing hard and speaking in a normal tone even if it probably hurt something awful. His voice sounded horrible.

Clara shook her head again as she stood at the foot of the bed. "Emmett, what is he talking about?" she asked, looking rather scared.

Doc couldn’t answer her right away. Marty was putting up a strong fight and he had to use every ounce of strength he had to keep him on the bed.

"The doctor is here," Clara announced a moment later, her voice full of relief. Doc risked a look up, his attention diverted for just a moment. Long enough for Marty to shove him away and climb off the bed. He staggered over to Clara, swaying from side to side as he stood before her.

"Can I have Jennifer’s necklace back?" Marty asked, breathing hard and holding his hand out.

Clara looked helplessly at Doc, her hand at her throat, trying to conceal the lump made by the jewelry. The inventor approached Marty from behind and put his arm around his shoulders, tight.

"Don’t worry about that now," he said softly, soothingly. "Why don’t you lie back down on the bed so the doctor can take a look at you, and we’ll deal with this later. Jennifer’s not here right now and she won’t mind if Clara looks after her necklace for her."

Marty knees gave way and he sagged against Doc. He nodded weakly and closed his eyes. A moment later, he was safely back on the bed. Dr. Peterson, who had been watching the spectacle from a distance when not staring at some of Doc’s improvements to the comforts of home, came forward to examine the patient. Almost immediately, he checked Marty’s fever. The frown on his face was deep.

"His fever’s gotten worse," he said, reaching into his black bag. "Why did you move him?"

"It’s a long story," Doc said. He didn’t feel like explaining it now.

"Where did the boys go?" Clara suddenly asked, creeping slowly over to the bed. She was eyeing Marty with a wary look on her face, but the teen seemed to have forgotten about her presence; his eyes were closed and it looked like he had drifted off again. Doc looked around at her words.

"I thought you saw them when Dr. Peterson came in?"

Clara shook her head. "No. Do you think something happened to them, too?" Her face paled a little at the idea.

Dr. Peterson spoke up. "The boys both ran off to the Palace Hotel after directing me here. They said they were going to go by their room first before coming here." He pulled his stethoscope out and listened to Marty’s breathing with it.

"Do you think they’re all right, Emmett?" Clara asked, looking at Doc. "They must be dreadfully worried about Marty."

"Give them some time alone," Doc said. "They might need that more than us trying to help them out."

"This doesn’t look good."

Doc turned at the sound of Dr. Peterson’s voice. The medical doctor was peering into Marty’s mouth, the frown on his face clearly concerned. "What’s wrong?" he asked, trying to keep the sudden feeling of dread in his stomach from expanding.

The doctor removed the tongue depressor and looked up at Doc and Clara. His face was grave. "Your friend’s much worse off now than when I last saw him."

Doc swallowed hard. "Is that true? He was just up a few minutes ago."

Dr. Peterson slipped his instruments back in his bag. "He’s also delirious. I’ve seen it happen more often than not with fevers like this."

"What will happen to him?" Clara asked softly. "He won’t actually... die... will he?"

The doctor looked outside at the increasing shadows outside as the sun went down. "If he makes it through the night and his fever lowers, he stands a good chance of surviving. But if it keeps climbing...." Dr. Peterson sighed and shrugged. "I’m sorry."

Doc stared numbly at Marty as Clara escorted the doctor out, speaking to him softly, asking questions. The words rushed past his ears like water. Odds, Clara wanted to know. Less than fifty, the doctor answered.

"Marty," Doc whispered, lifting the teen’s hand off the blankets and gripping it between his own. He gave it a squeeze, hoping for a sign of life. But the hand remained slack in his. At least Marty was still breathing, and alive. He was in bad shape, but he was alive now and Doc was determined to have it stay that way.

* * *

Jules sat in the chair before the balcony door in Marty’s room and stared outside. He had convinced Verne earlier to stop by and pack up their things, in case they didn’t return before their rooms were given to other people.

"Didn’t you say ‘we’ when you said to come back here and pack?" Verne asked from behind. Jules looked to the windowglass, at the reflection of his brother standing in the doorway to their room, holding their coats.

"Is that everything?"

"Maybe," Verne said with a shrug. "Why don’t you come over here and find out?"

That was everything. Verne had never really learned how to lie well. Jules leaned back in the chair and continued to gaze out the window. His thoughts were an uneasy mass held together by the worst feeling in the world: guilt. He should have known better than to force Marty to stay here from the first day, shouldn’t’ve left him to go to the funeral and run off that day to see his parents. If he hadn’t pressured Marty into staying longer, they’d’ve been home when he got sick and he wouldn’t be in danger of dying....

"Can we go back to Dad’s place?" Verne shut the door to their room and walked over to the one that led out to the hall. "I wanna see how Marty’s doing."

"I doubt that he’s made a miraculous recovery by now," Jules said with sarcasm in his voice.

"What’s wrong with you?" Verne demanded. "You’ve been acting so weird these last couple days!"

Jules pushed himself out of the chair, hard. "I’m fine!" he cried, putting an emphasis on the last word. "Fine! I just wish you would quit thinking that something is wrong! It’s my problem, and you wouldn’t understand it at all!"

"Ha," Verne said, a smug look on his face. "You just admitted that you had a problem."

Jules opened his mouth to deny it, then bit his lower lip when he realized that it was true. He had said it. He walked over to Marty’s bed and sat down on the edge of the still-rumpled covers, putting his face in his hands. "It’s my fault," he finally whispered.

Now Verne sat beside him, suddenly serious. "What’s your fault?" he asked softly.

Jules took a deep breath. He had come this far. He might as well go the rest of the way. "I’m the reason why Marty is so ill."

"Yeah, right," Verne said. "Remember what Dad told us last night? Marty’s sick because he caught it from Jennifer. He was probably gonna get sick even before we left 1986."

"I know that," Jules answered. "But he wouldn’t be ill here if I hadn’t convinced him to stay extra days. It’s my fault."

Verne was silent for a minute, his face darkening. "Then it’s my fault, too," he said softly. "We both went in on that." He was silent for a minute, then sighed and shrugged. "But we didn’t know this would happen, so how can it really be our fault?"

Jules looked at him, shocked. "If we hadn’t persisted to stay in town longer, he would have fallen ill at home, where the medical treatments are better. Therefore, he wouldn’t be on a deathbed at all, likely just as sick as Jennifer was."

Verne was quiet again. "Man, you really know how to brighten up someone’s day," he muttered.

"Welcome to my world," Jules said. He stood up and walked briskly to the door, not wanting to dwell on this any more. He would only get more depressed. "Come on, let’s go to the barn before our future parents start to worry."

* * *

A touch from Clara brought Doc back to earth. He didn’t know how long had sat there, Marty’s hand in his, staring at the teen but not really seeing him, before she had put her hand on his shoulder. "Are you going to be all right?" she asked softly, her eyes on Marty.

Doc leaned back and sighed, letting his grip fall from the hand. "I don’t know. I’m worried this time, I really am. Marty’s so sick, and I don’t know what to do to help him here."

"Yes," Clara agreed. "I don’t think I have ever seen such flushed cheeks."

Doc went over to the pump he had rigged up inside the barn, so he wouldn’t have to go outside for water. "We might as well follow the doctor’s orders from last night, and give him plenty of water," he said, flipping the switch to do the pumping. It had taken him several months to build up the plumbing, but it also filtered the water from the well so it wasn’t silty and brown.

"Do you think that might help?" Clara asked.

Doc twisted a few more knobs and switches and a moment later filled a glass to nearly the brim with water. "It certainly can’t hurt."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

"You could keep an eye out for the boys. If they don’t return soon, maybe you could check on them and make sure they’re okay." Doc crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed, the glass in hand. He slipped his hand under Marty’s head and lifted it up a little, putting the glass to his parted lips.

"Marty?" Doc said softly, giving him a shake. "I want you to drink this, okay?"

He tilted the glass and allowed a little bit of the water to flow out. Marty coughed and turned his head away, his eyes opening to see what was happening. A moment later, understanding what Doc was trying to do, he greedily gulped most of the water down before leaning back. He dropped off to sleep again almost immediately. After covering him with a quilt, Doc joined Clara, still standing near the "sink."

John-Jules and Mario arrived at the barn, then. The way they crept in, it was almost as if they expected to get into trouble. "How is Marty doing?" Mario asked Doc as he and his brother gingerly approached the bed.

He and Clara exchanged a look: Should we tell them the truth? Doc hadn’t known the boys that long, but he felt honesty might be the best policy in this case. "He’s worse. Not very unexpected, under the circumstances." He hesitated, the two young pairs of eyes staring at him, already wide and afraid. "If he makes it through tonight, the doctor believes he’ll be all right."

John-Jules’ face paled. "No," he whispered, catching on immediately to what the scientist wasn’t saying.

Doc nodded slowly, then sighed, genuinely frustrated. "I just wish I had some Tylenol or aspirin for him to take," he muttered, half to himself. "It would definitely lower his fever and ease his pain. And the lower his fever is, the better chance he’ll recover."

Mario gasped this time, his face lighting up. "We do! In the first-aid kit that’s in the DeLorean!"

Three heads turned to stare at them. "Do you think you can get it and bring it back here?" Doc asked, trying to keep from feeling too excited at this unexpected twist.

Mario looked at his brother, who wore a look of cautious hope on his own face. John-Jules nodded. "Yes. But we’ll need some horses, since it’s a couple miles away."

"Not a problem," Doc said, already more optimistic about the situation. He ran across the room, to the stable area of his home and pulled Newton and Archimedes out of their stalls. The horses whinnied softly as Doc quickly saddled them up.

"And we need the keys," Mario added. "Marty has ‘em, I think, in his pocket."

Clara checked, discovering them quickly. "I take it these are it?" she asked, holding up the keyring with the DeLorean key attached.

John-Jules nodded, taking the object from her hand.

"How long do you think it will take you to get out there and back?" Doc asked.

The boys shrugged. "Not more than an hour?" John-Jules guessed.

Doc glanced outside. "You probably have a couple hours of daylight left. You both know how to ride a horse?"

The kids nodded. Doc stepped back and gestured to the waiting animals. "Let’s get you on your way, then!"

He helped the boys on the horses, then led them outside. Doc watched them ride off at a gallop, out of town, clearly comfortable on horseback.

One more thing to not think about, he thought on that observation. Distraction wasn’t much of a problem. He sighed and ran a hand though his hair. He hoped for Marty’s sake they’d hurry!

Chapter Thirteen

Friday, September 11, 1885
6:37 P.M.

Jules and Verne reached the concealed DeLorean, hidden behind an outcropping of rock and covered with some brush the three of them had scraped up, twenty minutes after departing from their future father’s place. Verne jumped off his horse before the animal had fully stopped. "You got the keys?" he asked.

Jules nodded as he dismounted. "Of course. That was smart remembering we needed them, Verne."

Verne shrugged, too keyed up to really enjoy the praise. Jules removed enough of the brush to unlock the driver’s side door. He crawled inside, leaned behind the seats, and fished around for a moment before bringing up the plastic box that held the first-aid kit. He popped it open, Verne watching from over his shoulder. Yes, the plastic bottle filled with Tylenol was there. Extra-strength, too. Jules nodded to himself, then shut the box and handed it to Verne.

"Place this in the bag," he said, gesturing to the saddlebag that their father had thoughtfully attached to Verne’s mount. The younger boy slipped it inside as Jules locked the car back up and pocketed the keys.

"Is there anything else we need from here?" Verne asked his brother as he headed for his ride.

"That would be it, I believe," Jules said, climbing back on his horse. Verne followed and a moment later they were galloping back they way they had come, the sun at their backs. Despite the urgency of the situation, Verne was having fun riding the horse, the wind through his hair and the feeling of speed. As soon as he thought that, though, he felt guilty. Here he was, loving all the excitement and everything, and Marty was practically on his deathbed! Verne pushed his horse even faster as the guilt hit him, almost wishing that the speed would allow him to outrun the enjoyment he felt.

Emmett came outside to meet them when they returned to the barn. "Did you locate the first-aid kit?" he asked.

In response, Verne pulled it out of the saddlebag and tossed it to him. "The stuff’s in there," he said. "An’ the pulls are extra strength, too!"

Emmett nodded and hurried back into the building. Verne got off his horse and started to lead it inside when he noticed his brother wasn’t following.

"What’s wrong?" he asked.

Jules shrugged, still on the saddle. "I don’t know if I want to go in there."

"Why not? It’s not like we’ll catch that thing from Marty."

Jules fussed with the leather reins. "Verne, don’t you see? Every time I see him now, especially since his health has deteriorated, I feel like someone has slugged me in the gut. If I hadn’t--"

"If you hadn’t what? Convinced ‘im to stay?" Verne shook his head. "Jules, you can spend your whole life going, ‘if this’ and ‘if that.’ But you can’t change the past."

"Yes you can!" Jules said, rolling his eyes.

"Well, okay, maybe you can," Verne agreed, shrugging. "But I don’t think it would be very safe if you took the DeLorean and stopped yourself from getting him to stay here -- and me, too. I helped you do it, too, don’t forget that. But I don’t think it would make much of a difference."

Jules sighed, finally sliding off his horse. "I know that. But I still can’t help my emotions. I’m surprised you aren’t feeling more melancholy."

Verne shrugged again. "I don’t want to mope; I’d rather do something. Getting the pills was a good thing, and you helped out with that," he reminded Jules as they finally shuffled inside. "That must be worth something."

Clara met them when they entered, just a few steps from the doors. "Emmett’s asked me to take you both back to my cabin for the night," she explained, stopping them from entering the room further.

Immediately, Jules tried to step past her. "Has Marty taken a turn for the worst while we’ve been gone?" he asked, sounding uneasy.

Clara shook her head. "He’s resting right now, still alive. No, Emmett just believes that you will both be more comfortable at my house."

"But what if something happens to Marty tonight?" Verne asked. "There aren’t any cars or phones now, so how would we know until it would be too late?"

Emmett looked up from the other end of the room, where he sat beside the bed where Marty lay. "If something should happen -- and I’m sure it won’t -- I’ll send someone to fetch you all."

"But why can’t we stay here?" Jules asked stubbornly. For one of the few times in his life, Verne saw him protesting what his parents were telling them, right to their faces. True, they were not yet his parents, but he was nevertheless shocked.

"It’s going to be a long night," Emmett said. "And I believe you’d be more comfortable at Clara’s cabin, where you could get a good night’s rest."

"I’m not going to rest tonight, no matter what," Jules muttered.

"Hey, I know!" Verne said, turning to his future parents. "Mo-- Miss Clayton and Jules an’ I could all stay in the Palace Hotel rooms we’ve still got. They’re super close in town, so we’d be right next door!"

Emmett and Clara looked at each other for a long moment. "I don’t see a problem with that, Emmett," Clara said finally. "The child has a point. We’d be quite close on the chance something would happen -- not that it will," she added quickly.

Emmett sighed and shrugged. "Whatever you feel is best."

"Why don’t we just take Marty back to the future in the DeLorean now?" Jules asked. "That way he could have the antibiotics and care he’ll need to recover."

"You previously mentioned the DeLorean is two miles away," Emmett said, standing. "I don’t think it would be safe to transport Marty such a distance at this time, especially with nightfall coming."

"What if we got the time machine and took it back here?" Verne asked.

Emmett shook his head. "No good. Don’t you realize the stir that would cause in town? And it’s not safe to drive a vehicle like that on the unpaved terrain for so long a distance." He sighed again. "No, the best thing we can do at this point is wait for Marty’s fever to come down, and then consider sending him back to the future with you both. At the earliest, tomorrow."

* * *

Hours later that night, Marty gripped Doc’s hand and stared up at him, his fever-bright eyes pleading. "Promise me," he said in a ragged whisper. His voice had scarcely risen above that tone all night, and at times Doc had to lean forward to hear his words.

"Promise you what?" Doc asked, wondering how ludicrous this request would be. In his intermittent periods of consciousness, ranging from a few minutes, to half an hour, Marty had asked for a variety of odd things: his family; Jennifer; his Walkman; a book to cram for a school assignment -- even a paper so he could start a will. The last request had chilled Doc rather badly and he had to wonder how truly out of it his friend really was, how much he knew.

"Promise me that you’ll let me get my necklace back," Marty murmured. He closed his eyes and a look of pain briefly twisted his features. "Ohhhh, God, my head," he moaned, letting go of Doc’s hand to gingerly touch his forehead.

Doc reached for the washcloth and set it on his forehead again. "I know, I know," he said. "I wish you weren’t here right now." He picked up a fresh glass of water. "Why don’t you have another drink?"

"Uh uh." Marty raised a hand briefly, letting it drop, and opened his eyes. "No more." He changed the subject again. "Did Jules and Verne go back?"

Doc winced slightly at the names -- Marty had asked for them more than once that evening, and Doc would bet all his worldly possessions that "Mario" was really Verne. It merely confirmed his and Clara’s theory, which he really didn’t want to think about....

"Back where?" he asked instead.

"To the DeLorean. Back to the future."

"No, they’re at the hotel with Clara for the night."

"Clara? Where is she? I need to get my necklace back. Jennifer is expecting it when I see her again. Where is she? Where’s my girlfriend? Does she know I wanna see her?"

Doc shook his head and sighed. "Marty, Clara is at the Palace Hotel," he patiently explained. "The boys are with her. And your girlfriend is more than a hundred years in the future."

Marty turned his head away, his eyes roaming around the room. "Are you sure? I coulda sworn I saw her here earlier...."

Doc decided to change the subject again, sure that Marty’s sighting was due more to a fever-induced hallucination than anything else. "I’m going to give you some more Tylenol. You’re growing incoherent again."

Marty gave a long sigh, sounding tired. "I’ve already had enough," he said, whining the words out. "I don’t want any more."

Doc checked the time on a couple of the clocks around his barn. Almost one in the morning. "It appears the last dose is wearing off. I want to check your temperature again."

"You just took it," Marty protested, turning his face away from Doc again. "Not again."

"I took it over two hours ago." Doc picked up the thermometer and placed it in Marty’s mouth. The teen was too weak to fight it. "Now lie there quietly for a couple minutes -- no more talking."

He stood up from the chair and walked over to the window above his desk, stretching his stiff muscles as he looked outside. Night had fallen hours ago and Hill Valley had grown quiet, the streets deserted. Doc gazed up at the stars above, as clearly visible from the middle of town as they were in the middle of the countryside now. Not quite one week before, he and Clara had sat in her buckboard wagon and viewed the constellations with her telescope. It seemed like a million years before.

Time, Doc realized, is not necessarily moving at the same rate for everyone. While a clock might show a couple minutes passing, those minutes could fly by or drag on forever, depending on many variables. It was something he found endlessly interesting to think about.

He sighed and turned away from the window, more pressing matters to ponder. He stared at Marty from across the room, lying in bed with the thermometer in his mouth. He was surprisingly alert for someone so sick. Although he was slipping in and out of delirium, for hours at a stretch, when the medication lowered his fever to merely high than life-threatening, he would be perfectly lucid and conscious of what was happening to him. Unfortunately, as soon as the medication wore off, every three to four hours, the fever would slip up again. It was an exhausting game, and Doc could only hope that the fever tired out before the body did.

Marty’s young and strong and damn stubborn when he wants to be, he told himself. He can easily pull out of this -- odds are in his favor, except for the damn ones the doctor quoted....

"Okay, you can take it out now," Doc finally announced, returning to the bedside. Marty lifted a hand and pulled out the thermometer, silently handing it to Doc. His eyes followed the scientist as he bent over the slim glass tubing and examined the line of mercury. One hundred and six. Up a half degree since he had last checked. Doc swore under his breath. He had thought they were making progress.

"Sorry, Marty, but I need you to take some more pills," Doc said with a sigh, setting the thermometer beside the basin again.

"Why?" Marty croaked.

Doc picked up the glass of water. "I’ve told you before, we must get this fever down. It’s far too high."

Marty closed his eyes and sighed. "I’m sick of this," he murmured. "I wanna go home. I don’t wanna be here anymore. I wanna get Jennifer’s necklace back and leave."

Doc shook his head. "I’m sorry. You’re stuck here until you’re well enough to travel. Maybe you can go home tomorrow."

Marty sighed again, the action transforming into a yawn halfway. "Gimme the stuff," he whispered. Doc handed him a couple of the capsules and the water glass. Marty raised his head enough to take the Tylenol and drain the glass. When he had finished, he fell back, closing his eyes. Doc took the glass from his hand and set it back on the table. Minutes later, he had drifted back to a restless sleep, his breathing ragged.

Doc watched him for a while, worrying, trying to think of other things he could do that might help the fever lower and make Marty more comfortable. He was already counting his blessings that someone -- his future self, perhaps? -- had included a first-aid kit complete with Tylenol. If they hadn’t had that, Doc wasn’t sure where they’d be now.

Finally, he got up and walked over to his steam powered refrigerator, turning it on. It made a tremendous amount of noise in the dead of night, but that couldn’t be helped. It took nearly fifteen minutes, but soon he had a bowl full of ice cubes. Doc poured some water in with the ice and brought it over to the bed. He quickly soaked the washcloth in the icy water and, not wringing it out at all, set it on Marty’s face.

Marty winced at the touch, waking up. "Wha-- what’s goin’ on?" he mumbled, the words slurred.

"I’m trying to get your fever down. Just relax."

Marty reached up and tried to brush the cloth off, his eyes still shut. "It’s sooo cold."

Doc grabbed his wrist and gently pushed his hand down. "Don’t touch it. It’s supposed to be cold. Just get some more sleep."

Marty started shivering, hugging the blankets close around him. He let out a rather miserable groan but, minutes later, he was sound asleep again. Doc rolled back Marty’s sleeves and applied more cool cloths to his arms and added one on his neck. After he had done all he could short of tossing him in a bathtub or soaking the clothes on his back, Doc stood up again to pace the room. He felt incredibly restless. Will this night ever end?

* * *

For Marty, it was like being in the middle or a movie or music video, sans the music, of course.

Time was fluid, moving in spurts of speed and then suddenly slowing down. One minute he would be staring up at Doc, noticing the rather tense and concerned expression on the scientist’s face, then he would blink and the world would be in a different place -- Doc would be elsewhere in the room, or else telling him that hours had passed since he had last crammed pills and water down his throat.

And then there were the weird dreams that seemed almost more real than reality itself. In one, Jennifer was sitting next to him, talking with him, telling him that she missed him and asking why he didn’t come back.

"I’ve got to get your necklace," he told her. "That’s why I’m here."

"Is it really?" Jennifer asked, skeptically. Then, without warning, she would vanish.

Buford Tannen stood before him, in the middle of main street. "You’re not yellow, are ya?" he asked. Before Marty could say anything one way or another, he drew his gun and fired. The impact of the bullet send him sailing back, but instead of being protected by the iron casing of the wood stove door, Marty found that the bullet missed and caught him in the shoulder. The pain was intense, but instead of staying in the shoulder, it snaked into his head, the pressure building until he was sure that his skull would explode.

The scene shifted to a dark, dimly hit room. Marty saw his parents, standing side by side and looking down.

"I can’t believe this happened to Marty," his mother said, her face contorted in an expression of grief. "He was so young."

"The good die young," his father said with a sigh.

And then he realized he was in a narrow coffin, on display, in the middle of a funeral. He’d try to move, to speak, to tell his parents he was okay, but would be paralyzed. The realization would cause his heart to hammer painfully fast in his chest.

Oh my God! he thought. I’m dead? I died? I’m too young! Why didn’t Doc save me!

And with that, the scene would shift again, and he’d be in one of the time machines. The DeLorean, where he had spent the most time. He was in the driver’s seat, alone... he thought. But when he turned his head and looked to the passenger seat, he saw himself there... and he looked dead. As he watched, the flesh on his body dissolved, until all that remained was a skeleton.

Marty screamed.

"Shhhhh, calm down."

The voice helped to dissolve the too-real images surrounding him. Marty looked up and saw Doc looming over him, his face strained and his hands on Marty’s shoulders. "It’s just a dream, Marty. Dreams can’t hurt you."

"I don’t know what’s real and what’s not," he whispered, his mouth desert dry. "I could be dreamin’ now. Maybe I am dead."

Doc reached for the bottle of pills and the glass of water again. "Time for your next dose," he said.

Marty was too drained to fight or protest. "Am I gonna die, Doc?" he murmured as the scientist spilled a few pills onto the palm of his hand.

"Not if I have anything to do with it," Doc said.

"So if I don’t make it, can you change history?"

"Marty, don’t think such things."

"It’s impossible when I keep seein’ my funeral...."

Doc gave him a glass of water and helped him sit up enough to drink it. Water had never tasted so good, so wonderful. The pills went down and Marty drifted off again, unsure of what he would next see in the throes of this crazy fever. Even as he felt himself returning to sleep, he couldn’t help wishing that the dreams would be over, that he could just sleep and have no memories of what happened.

* * *

Clara Clayton was sick and tired of being awake. She sat up in the bed that had originally been rented for Marty and looked at the clock in the room. It was closing in on five in the morning. She sighed, wondering if she should give rest another go, but knew at the back of her mind that it wasn’t going to happen.

She slipped off the covers of the bed, still fully clothed, and cracked open the door connecting the two rooms. Both boys were asleep, though they’d put up another long fight against it like the night before. She eased the door shut, then decided it wouldn’t hurt if she checked in on Emmett and Marty. She hadn’t heard anything since leaving the barn hours before.

And I don’t care what the townspeople say, either, she thought as she headed for the door. Anyone who looked down upon her for paying a visit to a man to whom she was not married in this hour of the night would surely understand if they knew she was also visiting someone gravely ill.

The Palace Saloon was closed at this hour, the bar empty and unattended and the chairs stacked on the tables. Clara slipped through the front doors, shutting them at her back, then walked briskly to Emmett’s home and business. She could see a few lamps burning from the inside through a couple windows. She hesitated for a moment before the doors, wondering if she should knock.

But if Marty’s asleep, I wouldn’t want to wake him, Clara thought, knowing it was sort of a lame excuse. She tentatively pushed the door open and stepped inside, crossing the room.

Emmett sat in a chair close to the bed, his head back and his eyes closed. She wondered if he was sleeping, but at the sound of her footsteps growing closer, his eyes opened.

"Clara," he said softly, his voice tired. "What are you doing here?"

"I was concerned," she said honestly. "I’ve not been able to sleep a wink." The schoolteacher looked at Marty in the bed, damp rags draped over his arms, chest, neck, and forehead, lying almost unnaturally still. "How is he doing?"

Emmett sighed, the sound filled with a deep exhaustion. "I don’t know. He’s been delirious on and off tonight, talking in his sleep."

"What about his fever?"

"It’s been going up and down in correspondence with the doses of Tylenol. The highest, so far, has been a hundred and six point two. The lowest, a hundred and three."

Clara frowned, tentatively sitting on foot of the bed. "What was it when you last checked?"

"An hour ago, it was a hundred and four."

Clara wasn’t quite sure what to say in response to that. "Can I make you some coffee?" she finally asked.

Perhaps sensing her need to do something, Emmett nodded. "If you’d like. I can show you where it is--"

"No need to -- I can find it myself," Clara said, not wanting the scientist to get up. She went over to the kitchen are and, after a little investigating, found the proper ingredients and had the pot on the stove in no time. When she returned to the bedside, she found Emmett slipping the thermometer into Marty’s mouth, holding his jaw closed with one hand.

"How did you meet him?" she asked, the question only now occurring to her.

Emmett smiled a little. "That question has a couple answers," he said. "I first saw him on my doorstep in 1955, when he had accidentally traveled through time on the night of the original experiment. But I’m guessing you meant when we first met under more... normal circumstances. That would be May of 1982, if I’m remembering correctly.

"I’d found a flyer posted in the Burger King one morning, where Marty -- who was thirteen at the time -- was advertising himself for hire for odd jobs." Emmett paused, an odd expression on his face. "I had this feeling about it -- like this was how I was supposed to meet him. Since 1955, I’d been waiting and wondering how we would become friends and, let me tell you, something like that can wreck havoc on your life."

Emmett paused, his eyes focused on something far, far away from the room. "I went over to his house to ask him about the job I had in mind in person." He paused, frowning faintly. "I’ve never had the best reputation in the eyes of the narrow-minded people in town, so I thought I might stand a better chance of having my offer accepted if I asked him face-to-face. And I think that decision was a wise one, because Marty looked like he wanted to slam the door the second he saw me on the porch."

Clara blinked, surprised, glancing at the silent, ill Marty lying not more than a foot from her. "I’m surprised," she confessed.

"I’m not. All Marty knew about me then were the rumors he’d heard around town. At any rate, I gave him a generous offer, he accepted, and even after the work stopped he kept coming back to help out." Emmett stopped again and sighed. "He became like a son to me. I had no family around, and about the only friend I had in town was my dog, Einstein."

"He’s not gone yet, Emmett," Clara said, dismayed at his use of past tense.

"In a way, he is," Emmett said softly. "I don’t mean that I think this will kill him, no. But I don’t know how long it will be until I see him again. Clearly, that he came here in the time machine tells me one of two things -- that he has either managed to repair the DeLorean, which I’m slightly skeptical about... especially since he knew that I wanted it to be destroyed. Or a me of the future moved to the future, quite possibly with a new time machine, and I created either a new DeLorean or was able to repair the old."

Clara was quiet for a minute. "And those boys?" she asked.

Emmett looked at her. "It’s our duty to put them out of our mind as soon as we can," he said.

The schoolteacher frowned a little. "I think we both know who they are -- who they will become," she said. She reached across the bed and took his free hand. "It’s not a bad thing, Emmett."

He smiled a little. "No, I suppose it’s not." Emmett slipped the thermometer out of Marty’s mouth and looked at it closely. His forehead furrowed slightly as he read the mercury, then he put a hand to Marty’s cheek.

"Did it rise again?" Clara asked, giving his hand a squeeze.

Emmett frowned yet, paradoxically, his eyes started to lose some of their weariness and looked a tad brighter. "It’s gone down to a hundred and two."

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. "Does that mean the worst is past?" she asked.

"Maybe," Emmett said, setting the thermometer aside. "I hope so! He’s far from being out of the woods, and his fever might go up a bit when the latest dose of Tylenol wears off in a couple hours, but if it doesn’t skyrocket again, he should be able to be moved to the time machine and return home later today."

"That’s wonderful!" Clara said, smiling.

Emmett let out a long sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Let’s not be too hasty," he warned. "Things could take another turn."

"The night’s almost over," she said. "Dr. Peterson said that if he made it until morning, then he would stand a strong chance of recovering completely -- in this time, no less."

"I know. But I’d rather be pleasantly surprised than tremendously disappointed. If he takes a turn for the worst, it would just be harder if we sat here and told ourselves, and expected, that he’d be fine."

Clara saw the wisdom in the words. "I suppose," she said. "But something tells me that he will be fine."

Emmett took her hand again and gave it a warm squeeze. "I hope your feeling is correct."

Chapter Fourteen

Saturday, September 12, 1885
5:12 P.M.

After fragments of fractured consciousness, there passed a long, long time where Marty wasn’t aware of anything. When he finally opened his eyes, he saw a blurred form hovering over him. He blinked, trying to focus his eyes -- a task that seemed to take longer than usual and more effort than usual. Eventually he recognized Jules looking down at him. A look of relief flashed across the boy’s face.

"You’re awake," he said.

"Yeah, I guess," Marty muttered, wondering if he was sure about that. He lifted a hand up to his head, feeling oddly weak and sore. His head still hurt, as did his throat, but the sensations were numbed somewhat, not nearly as intense as he recalled them from earlier. "Where’s Doc?"

"The sheriff wanted to speak to both him and Mother about what had happened last night. The ordeal with Buford Tannen. Do you remember that?"

Marty managed to sit up. Dizziness briefly spun his surroundings, but it wasn’t as overwhelming as it had been earlier. Vague, clouded memories of the whole incident with Tannen flashed into his mind, the whole thing seeming more like a dream than anything else -- and mixing uncomfortably with that too-real dream of being shot by the outlaw. Marty made a face as he tried untangling himself from the blankets, his clothes feeling uncomfortably damp from his struggle with the fever.

"Anyway," Jules continued, "they had to testify or something to that extent, and asked Verne and I to look after you. They should be back soon, and I’m certain they’ll be pleased that you are now awake."

Marty cleared his throat, searching for the glass of water near the bed. "Where’s Verne?"

"Right here."

Marty turned his head at the sound of the voice and saw Verne sitting on the other side of the bed. He looked bored. "Did you know you’ve been sleeping for over twelve hours straight, according to Dad?"

Glancing out a window, Marty noticed the dim light of dusk. Indeed, a whole day must have passed without him knowing. "No."

"Mother and Father were concerned, but the doctor told them that was a normal and good thing when he visited again," Jules said.

Marty shrugged a little, finding the water glass. He took a long drink from it, not caring that the liquid was a little warm.

"How are you feeling now?" Verne asked. "Think you can go back to the DeLorean now?"

"Verne!" Jules scolded. "He’s been awake for less than five minutes! What a question!"

Verne shrugged. "Mom an’ Dad did say it would be good for him to get home as soon as possible," he said.

"I’m up for it," Marty said softly. "But there’s no way I can walk out there."

Verne’s eyes gleamed rather mischievously. "We can borrow some horses from outside the saloon," he said. "No biggie."

"That’s robbery," Jules objected.

"Not if we leave ‘em behind," Verne said, rolling his eyes.

Marty was more inclined to side with Verne on this one. "Let’s just do what he says," he said to Jules, making his first attempt at standing up. His legs shook, his muscles feeling like overcooked spaghetti, but they supported him.

"Where are you going?" Jules asked, watching him carefully as he took a few tentative steps forward.

"Home," Marty said. "We’d better leave before Doc and Clara return."

"Fine by me!" Verne said, bounding to his feet.

Jules looked a little surprised. "You mean just leave without telling them? Marty, they were quite concerned about you. You could at least allow them to see that you’re doing better with their own eyes."

Marty brushed a handful of damp bangs away from his eyes. "If we wait for them, it might be too late and they probably won’t let me leave tonight," he murmured. "And right now, being back in the future will be the only way I will get better. I need antibiotics and doctors."

"Are you sure that you can even make it back to the DeLorean?" Jules finally asked. "Remember, you wanted us to park a few miles out of town."

Marty nodded once. "I can make it if we’re on horseback."

Jules wasn’t satisfied yet. "The medical doctor wasn’t sure you’d make it through the night. Don’t you think you’re pushing it a little?" "I think I know my limits!" Marty snapped, sick of the procrastination. "Let’s just go."

"You’re the only one with the problem, Jules," Verne said. "Let’s just go already."

Jules scowled faintly. "Fine," he said. "But I insist we leave a note, explaining our absence, before leaving. I don’t think that Mother and Father should have to worry."

Marty shrugged. "Fine, go ahead."

Jules took care of that while Verne made sure they weren’t leaving anything behind and Marty took a silent inventory of his body to make sure he could indeed make the trip. The following few hours wouldn’t be the best in his life, but he supposed they could be worse. He didn’t feel so much on the verge of collapse as he had just twenty-four hours before.

"I think we should take Dad’s horses instead of stealing them," Verne said as they headed for the door, the note left on the bed. "They’re smart and can go back home on their own."

"Wise," Jules said before Marty could open his mouth. "If we were caught stealing horses from outside the Palace, we might be shot. There are some real rough characters there."

Marty went along with it, not bothering to speak as the kids collected three horses from their stalls at the opposite end of the barn from the living quarters. The boys saddled them up quickly, with far more familiarity to the task than Marty would’ve thought possible -- until he remembered they’d spent almost all of their life in a time where getting around on horseback was the only way to get around.

As the kids led the animals to the front of the building, Marty went ahead and pushed the door open. Cool evening air touched his still-warm face. He carefully watched the people outside, feeling like he was committing some kind of crime, making certain that Doc or Clara wasn’t among them. When he was sure the coast was clear, he stepped outside all the way and held the door open for Jules and Verne with the three horses in tow.

"Are you certain you’re up for this?" Jules asked again as they stopped to mount their rides.

"Positive," Marty grunted as he pulled himself into the saddle, hoping he sounded more confident than he really felt.

They started out of town at a fast walk, as per Marty’s request. Frankly, he didn’t feel up to speed right now, especially considering he hadn’t ridden a horse in a few months -- not since that trip to the Middle Ages. By the end of their journey to the DeLorean, Marty could feel his symptoms worsening, and he started to feel the equivalent of being carsick on a horse. The bumps and jolts he felt from his ride, just moving at a walk, were enough to worsen his dizziness.

It took less than half an hour to reach the DeLorean. Thankfully, it looked like it had gone untouched and unnoticed in the days since they had left it "for a few hours." Marty almost laughed when he remembered his original plan.

Real simple, McFly, he thought. And you still didn’t get what you came for.

Marty sighed at that, carefully dismounting from the horse. It couldn’t be helped now. He’d just have to settle for getting Jennifer something else.

"I’ve got the car keys," Jules said, pulling them out. "We had to come here to get the Tylenol. I can drive if you’re not up for it."

"No way," Marty said, plucking the keys from Jules’ fingers. "Even half dead, I’m a better driver than you."

"Just don’t kill us," Jules said, frowning.

The boys helped remove the improvised camouflage on the DeLorean, then the trio got inside. Marty had one moment where he wasn’t even sure how to use the car -- then it came back to him. He started it, then stared at the time circuits for a moment.

"Can one of you guys put the destination in?" he asked.

"When do you want it?" Verne asked, his finger hovering above the keypad.

"Five minutes after we left, I guess. Might as well try to get everything settled down before your parents come home."

Jules snorted softly as Verne began to put the date in. "Fat chance," he muttered. "How are you going to explain your illness? You are still sick, you know."

"People get sick," he said. "It happens." Even so, Marty had a very good feeling that there was absolutely no way they were going to get away with this trip without Doc and Clara knowing. Maybe because they’d remember it as part of their past.

* * *

The barn was dark when Doc and Clara returned from the sheriff’s office. It had been well after eight in the evening before the sheriff had been finished with his questions.

"Do you think everyone is asleep?" Clara asked as they paused outside, gazing at the dark building.

"I don’t know," Doc said. "It’s possible." He looked at Clara, noticing she looked rather uneasy -- the same way Doc was currently feeling.

"I suppose the only way we’ll find out is to go inside," she said softly. The schoolteacher walked forward, her head high, and opened the doors, Doc behind her. "Hello?" she called softly.

Doc squinted at the darkness inside, seeing nothing. He took a moment to find a lamp, locate the matches in his pocket, and light the lamp. The glow revealed no one, not a single person, in the barn. Even Marty was gone from the bed, leaving behind a piece of paper, nothing more. The couple walked across the room together and read the note side by side.

Dear Dr. Brown and Miss Clayton,

We have decided to return to the future and have left for the time machine. Don’t worry about us. Marty was the one who insisted we make the trip. I’m sure that we will be discussing this later in the future.
Sincerely,
John, Mario, and Marty.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, a neat but childish cursive script. Likely one of the kids had penned it, probably the older one.

"They’ve all gone back to the future," Doc said. He sighed, feeling a sudden pang of loneliness and disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

Clara’s eyes were wide as it sunk in. "In the condition Marty was in?"

"He’s better off there than here, even if he went out there still running a fever."

Clara sighed, her face wistful. "Do you think we’ll ever see them again?"

Doc shrugged. "We’ll have to see what the future brings. But yes, I have a feeling we will -- even if it may be a good long wait."

Chapter Fifteen

Sunday, March 9, 1986
10:23 P.M.

The Brown property was dark and appeared deserted to Marty’s eyes when they returned to the future. He didn’t see the station wagon that Doc had driven to the lecture, which had to mean only one thing -- Doc and Clara weren’t back yet. Thank God, he thought, a part of him still hoping that it was possible he would get away with this trip.

He landed the car as quickly as he could, driving it into the still-open doors of the lab. "You guys gotta get to bed," he said when he stopped the car. "Your parents will be home soon."

"You’re the one who should be in bed," Verne said. "We’re fine."

"We’re not even tired," Jules said as he opened the door. "To us, it’s early evening. We’re still on the time of day that it was in 1885."

Marty opened his door and paused to give the boys a hard look. "I don’t have time to fight with you guys about it, okay? If you want to get in trouble for still being up when your parents get home, fine, do that. Doc and Clara know you two well enough that they won’t blame me for it."

The boys looked at him dubiously as they climbed out of the car, saying nothing as Marty locked the car and made sure, as best he was able, that the lab looked as it had before their departure. Jules hung back a little as Verne led the way to the house, the boy wearing a pained look on his face. "I’m sorry about getting you so sick," he said softly. "It’s all my fault and I will accept the full blame."

Marty stared at him, puzzled by the apology. "What are you talking about?"

Jules swallowed hard. "I was the one who convinced you to stay longer when you didn’t want to, therefore causing complications in your illness. It is all my fault and I’m sorry."

Marty smiled a little, slightly amused. "None of that was your fault; I was sick before all that. If anything you helped me. Didn’t you get the Tylenol from the DeLorean?"

"I told you that!" Verne said to his brother as they reached the porch, rolling his eyes. "But did you listen to me? Noooooo!"

"You don’t blame me?" Jules asked hesitantly.

Marty shook his head once. "No. If anyone’s to blame, it’s myself. I wouldn’t have stayed unless a part of me wanted to. Just get to bed and we’ll forget this ever happened."

Once inside the house, the boys went upstairs as he headed for the first floor bathroom to change clothes. The face in the mirror was a bit of a shock -- pale, hollow, a faint rash still visible on his neck. Marty frowned at his reflection as he exchanged clothes. He’d have to do some explaining to Doc and Clara about how he could get so ill in the time while they’d been gone.

By the time he was back in his present-day attire, he was shaking slightly on his feet and getting dizzier by the minute. He paused long enough to take a long drink of water, find some Tylenol in the bathroom’s cabinet (though he had to wonder if he was going to OD on those after the last twenty-four hours), and make sure he had removed every trace of 1885 from his body and the bathroom before stumbling into the family room and allowing himself to collapse on the couch.

It seemed like minutes later when he felt someone shaking him gently. He opened his eyes and found Doc peering down at him, his expression clearly concerned. The scientist was wearing the same suit and tie as he had when he and Clara had set off on their date just hours ago.

"Marty? Are you feeling all right?"

Marty swallowed, feeling a little worse than when he had laid down. "Not really," he muttered.

Doc felt his forehead and frowned. A strange expression flickered across his face, one Marty couldn’t quite read. "You’ve got a fever," he said. "Feels like a high one. Were you feeling sick when we left?"

"Not really," Marty said again. He sat up, a strong spell of dizziness causing him to lean back in the couch. Perhaps Doc saw his face pale or perhaps memories from some ten years ago were coming back to him. At any rate, he started for the telephone.

"I’m going to call your parents," he said.

Marty would’ve stood up if he had the energy. "What? Why?"

Doc gave him a long look, not saying a word. As he was being scrutinized, Clara stepped into the room. "I just looked in on the boys and--" Her words slammed to a halt as she noticed Marty. "Oh my goodness, Marty! You look as if you have scarlet fever again!"

Doc looked at his wife, then turned back to Marty. "So this is when it happened," he said.

Marty saw no point in denial. "Yeah," he said.

Clara sat down next to him on the couch and put a hand to his forehead. "Oh, Marty, you’ve got to get to a doctor," she said, her face pinching in worry.

Doc took the cordless phone off the hook. "I’m going to call your parents and tell them that you fainted over here and that you’re running a high fever," he said.

Marty blinked. "Why?"

"You need medical treatment right now for this -- it’s serious, Marty. If you wait until morning, you might relapse again."

Marty knew he was probably right -- he was already feeling worse than he had been earlier. "Man, my mom’s gonna have a fit," he groaned, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back.

Doc made the phone call, explaining how both he and his wife had returned from their night out to find Marty asleep on the couch. When he had stood up, he had passed out and was running a high fever. Lorraine McFly promised to be over immediately and had her husband alert the doctor. Marty watched as Doc hung up the phone.

"What about my truck?" he asked. "I drove over."

"I’m sure Emmett can drive it to your home, or else someone in your family can," Clara said.

Doc frowned as he came over to the couch, clearly irritated. "I suppose that this illness is punishment enough for taking the time machine without permission," he began.

Marty sighed. "Uh-huh. Can we talk about this later?"

Doc hesitated. "I suppose," he said. "But we are going to talk about it. You’re not off the hook yet, Marty -- and that also goes for your illness."

* * *

Marty’s mother arrived in ten minutes with her car, her eyes wide and frantic as she came into the Brown home. Clara managed to calm her down a little and the sight of her son sitting up and awake seemed to help as well. Once Marty was in the car with her, she drove like a demon to the hospital emergency room.

"Why are we here?" he had to ask.

"The doctor said this is where we want to be," Lorraine said. "Your father called ahead and they’re waiting for you."

Marty was the one who ended up waiting; as his mother filled out a few forms, he sat on one of the uncomfortable vinyl couches, watching a parade of injuries drift through and trying not to nod off. A nurse finally called for him, and he was led to an examining room where, after the nurse took his temperature and asked for some of his symptoms, more time ticked by.

Finally, a doctor arrived in the room and introduced himself as Dr. Powers. The examination took a couple minutes, the doctor frowning faintly as he looked at the temperature reading that the nurse had recorded on the chart. Marty had the most unpleasant opportunity of experiencing a throat culture, though the results of the test wouldn’t be available until the following day.

"That’s more of a formality," the doctor said. "I’m confident that what you have is a case of scarlet fever."

Marty’s mother gasped. "I don’t believe it!"

"It’s nothing to worry about, unless it goes untreated," Dr. Powers assured her. "This is probably one of the most severe cases that I’ve seen of it, but I’m sure with some antibiotics and bed rest, it will clear up fine." He pulled a pad out of his coat pocket and started to fill out a prescription form.

"I can’t believe this," Mom murmured. "How could Marty contract scarlet fever in this day and age?"

"It’s not as difficult as you might think," the doctor said. "Scarlet fever is really just a severe case of strep throat with a rash and usually develops in those who aren’t treated for strep right away." He tore the paper off the pad. "Here’s a prescription for some antibiotics that should clear it right up. You can get it filled up front. Keep Marty in bed until the fever runs it’s course and have him drink plenty of fluids, so he won’t get dehydrated."

Marty grimaced, vague memories of drinking lots of water coming back to him.

"How long before he should be better?" Marty’s mother asked.

"A few days, though he should feel better tomorrow morning. I’d keep him out of school until Wednesday, at least, or twenty-four hours after the fever goes away. If his condition hasn’t improved at all by Tuesday, give me a call."

Marty’s mother said little as they left the examining room, picked up the pills, and returned to the car. As she drove home, she cast quick, nervous glances at her son in the passenger seat.

"Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?" she finally asked. "This wasn’t something you could’ve come down with in a couple hours."

Marty sighed as he watched the dark streets pass by. "I just thought it was... my imagination," he said. "Maybe I thought I was getting sick ‘cause Jen was or something."

His mother didn’t look entirely satisfied with the answer, yet she dropped it. Marty could only hope this was the last time he returned from a trip through time in less than perfect health. Any more episodes like this and his mom would be breathing down his neck even more.

Chapter Sixteen

Monday, March 10, 1986
3:34 P.M.

Marty was reading the latest Rolling Stone issue in bed when someone knocked on his door. For the first time in days, he was feeling semi-normal. His fever had dropped down to around a hundred by lunchtime, and the strange rash on his skin was more gone than there. A couple days more and he would be up for returning to school -- an event that Marty found himself strangely anticipating, as he’d had about a week off already when one took into account his time in the past.

"Come in," he called to the visitor, lowering the magazine to his lap.

The door opened and Doc Brown stepped into the room. Marty was surprised; he figured that it’d just be his mom checking up on him, or maybe his sister dropping off the homework she’d picked up at school for him. "Doc! What are you doing here?"

Doc shut the door behind him. "I wanted to make sure that you were all right." He eyed Marty. "You look--"

"Like hell," Marty finished for him. "I know." He was still in his clothes from the day before, now all wrinkled, and his hair was messy and disheveled. And despite getting plenty of rest, he still had dark circles under his eyes, which managed to show through the faintly flushed tint still in his face.

"Not my words, exactly. You look better than you did last night." Doc sat down in the chair at Marty’s desk. Marty watched him carefully, a little uneasy. Finally, he spoke.

"So you know about the trip."

Doc nodded. "It’s my past now, after all."

Marty shifted uneasily in the bed. "Are you really mad? You seemed kinda tweaked last night."

"I was more concerned about you." Doc sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I’m not pleased about the DeLorean being borrowed like that. I know that you, Jules, and Verne have ready access to it without my knowing all the time, though I hope to change that in the future."

"I promise you, I’ve never used the DeLorean without your knowing except for that one trip to Egypt and to 1885 -- and you did find out about those. I can’t speak for Jules and Verne, though, but I don’t think they know enough about the time machines to use them on their own."

Doc snorted softly. "I doubt that. They’re certainly not stupid and when they put their minds to something and work together, they can get away with murder. How are you feeling today?"

"Better. The fever’s almost gone and I almost feel like a normal human being again for the first time in what seems like a year -- or a hundred years."

"How high is your fever now?"

"A hundred even -- or it was an hour ago. The doctor clocked it last night at a hundred and three."

Doc nodded. "Did I ever tell you how high it got at its peak?"

Marty thought about it hard for a minute. The last couple days back in the past had an unreal quality about them, almost like a long, strange dream. "Not really."

"One hundred at six point two."

"A hundred and six?" Marty said incredulously. "Jeez!"

"You were pretty out of it," Doc said. "Delirious. I’m not surprised you don’t remember much." He glanced down at a small white box in his hand that Marty hadn’t noticed before. "Although something you said during your delirium stuck with me in the days after you left." He held out the box.

Marty looked at him for a moment, puzzled, before taking the box from his hand. His mouth fell open when he lifted the lid. "Aw, Doc, this is the necklace I went back for! I wanted to get it for Jennifer as a get-well gift. How did you know?"

Doc smiled. "You mentioned it repeatedly during that long night at my place. I went to the general store a couple days after you left, when they got a new shipment in, and bought it. I had a feeling I might see you again, but I wasn’t sure when, so I decided to put it aside until I was sure this event was past for you, too."

"You mean you’ve had this with you ever since you came back to the future and never told me?"

"I didn’t know when you’d gone back to 1885 until last night. Then I knew that it was time to let you have it."

Marty held up the silver chain and watched it catch the light. "Thanks so much! I know that Jen is going to love it."

Doc stood. "Well, I better be going now. You need your rest, and I promised your mother I would only stay for a few minutes. She’s running your recovery like a drill sergeant."

Marty stopped him as he opened the door. "Tell Jules and Verne that I’m feeling much better. They seemed pretty worried about me when I left your house yesterday."

Doc nodded. "I will."

Not a minute after the scientist left, Marty picked up his phone and dialed Jennifer’s number. He had tried calling her once since his return, but she had been asleep and her parents hadn’t wanted to disturb her. This time, however, she answered it on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it’s Marty," he said. "How are you feeling?"

"Oh, I’ve been better, but I think by tomorrow I’ll be back to normal." She paused. "Is something wrong? Your voice sounds kind of strange."

"I have scarlet fever."

There was a pause. "Are you serious?"

"Definitely."

Jennifer gasped. "Oh my God! How did that happen?"

"It’s a long story. I’ll be fine, though, just have to stay in bed a few days. Hey," Marty added, "I got you something to make you feel better."

"What’s that?"

"It’s a surprise. I’ll give it to you next time I see you. I’m sure you’ll like it, but if you don’t, let me tell you right now that I went to a lot of trouble to get it and it’s the thought that counts."

"Oh, Marty, you didn’t have to do that!"

"I wanted to. You seemed so down about being sick and missing the prom. I know this can’t change the prom thing, but I thought this might cheer you up a little."

"Oh, that’s so sweet of you," Jennifer said. Marty could tell from the tone of her voice that she was smiling. "Thanks. I should be back at school by Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. What about you?"

Marty sighed and leaned back on the pillows. "Oh, about the same if the doctor’s right -- my mom’s paranoid, though, so I can see her keeping me home for a day or two after that."

Marty heard someone speak in the background, the sound of which caused Jennifer to sigh. "I’ve got to go now. My dad needs to use the phone. I hope you feel better soon."

"Yeah, you too," Marty said. "Bye. I love you."

Jennifer lowered her voice. Marty got the feeling that her dad was standing right next to her, waiting for the phone to be free. "I love you, too. Bye."

There was a click, then the dial tone. Marty placed the phone back in the receiver and looked at the locket again. So much to go through, just to have that small piece of jewelry in his hand. Who would have thought that a necklace could have caused so many problems, that a simple trip could turn out to be so complicated?

Ain’t the first time, Marty thought as he settled back in bed. And it probably ain’t the last.

Time would prove that to be true over and over again.