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Doc’s voice got lost in his throat as his strength rapidly left him; the onset of the radiation sickness had been quick—of course, he’d had direct exposure to the plutonium just now, plus the test run before that, and even if his radiation suit hadn’t torn that first time, the fact that it hadn’t been an adequate fit would’ve left him poisoned already.
This had been his own doing, entirely—he had no one to blame but himself. Maybe if he’d let Marty in on the secret before, Marty could’ve pointed out that using that old radiation suit from Los Alamos was probably not the best idea.
…Then again, he hadn’t really talked about his time in Los Alamos with Marty, for a good deal of it was still classified, plus there was the shame he’d carried for the last 40 years, knowing that his work had resulted in the deaths of so many innocent people; he had naïvely thought back then that the government wouldn’t actually use the bombs—just flex its muscles and boast about them to coax a surrender. When Doc had seen those August headlines, he’d lost the entire contents of his stomach into the nearest garbage can, knowing that the blood of thousands upon thousands of people now soaked his hands.
…How poetic, perhaps, that he was now dying of radiation poisoning, like so many of them had. Truly, he had brought this upon himself—Oppenheimer had talked a lot about the Hindu scriptures in those days; Doc had only been listening to what he’d assumed was a man talking about the beliefs that intrigued him, but now, it seemed like a warning: the nature of Karma, and how one’s actions inevitably returned to them in time. And now, it was time.
Doc collapsed over the case of plutonium, accepting his fate. He knew Marty would never get help in time—not at the rate he was fading. But his one thought had been to ensure that he didn’t contaminate Marty, as well, getting him to go on a hopeless rescue mission, cruel as it may be in forbidding the boy a chance to say goodbye. Marty would be devastated; Doc had learned from working with him that he was one of the few people who encouraged Marty as much as possible. The loss would be a significant one for poor Marty.
But at least he’ll be safe…
The thought had barely floated into Doc’s waning consciousness when, some distance away, he heard a sound that nearly caused his weakening heart to stop on the spot—
CRACK-CRACK-CRACK.
The triple sonic boom: the sound of the DeLorean hitting 88 miles an hour and breaking through the fourth dimension—in spite of his frantic warnings to Marty to ensure that it not happen.
“…No…” Doc’s voice was a barely audible squeak at this point.
The time circuits had been set to 1955, and the rest of the plutonium was right here, under Doc’s dying body. Marty would be stranded in the past.
Even while dying, Doc had managed to forever ruin the life of the boy who was like a son to him.
If I have any good Karma out there, he silently submitted to the Powers that Be. Please… send it Marty’s way and bring him home.
A single tear managed to slip from his eye, just before the darkness closed in.