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Doc had been grateful for having three different fake ID cards; he had expected them to come in handy someday, but allowing him and Marty to escape onto a train headed to the Pacific Northwest under the nose of various agencies seeking his knowledge out hadn't really been what he had expected.
They were taking an early morning train; after leaving the DeLorean behind, Doc had carried Marty through the desert night until they had finally reached the train station. The sun hadn't even risen yet, and the three-year-old was still fast asleep as Doc, hiding his distinctive hair under his old straw porkpie hat (one of the few things he had taken with him when his handlers had practically dragged him out of Hill Valley prior to the bombardment), had used one of his ID cards to get the two of them tickets for the first train out of California.
Even then, they were very early; the train wouldn’t even be in until 7:00—still two hours away—but Doc didn’t dare to leave the bench on the platform of the station, in spite of how much he wanted to pace. Not only was it on account of him not wanting to wake Marty up, but the pre-dawn aura of the platform felt off, like some sort of Twilight Zone—part of him hoped Rod Serling would just show up and tell him it was all a story he was in.
But he knew it was all too real—the fires burning off in the distance showed that another place had been recently attacked; perhaps the eeriest part of it was how quiet everything was, for the fires were far enough away that it was unable to pierce the silence. Why had this place been attacked? Had it been because someone had seen him in the area? Doc’s heart sank at the thought; how many more people were going to suffer because of some information that he knew—and desperately would have given anything to forget?
Why do I have to be the psychopomp for these people, everywhere I go…? Would it help anything if I just surrendered…?
Marty now stirred slightly, giving a tiny yawn that was just as silent as everything around them.
“Marty…?” Doc asked, softly.
Still half-asleep, Marty opened his eyes and looked up; seeing Doc, he managed a sleepy smile and then laid his head back on Doc’s shoulder, drifting off again.
Well… I’m not a psychopomp for him, anyway; he seems to be having those night terrors far less often now…
His thought trailed off as the realization struck him—that he was directly responsible for that, at least—that he was able to give this traumatized child enough reassurance and security to allow him to sleep in peace.
If Doc surrendered, Marty would be torn away and return to that horrific reality again, haunted by night terrors on a regular basis once more as Doc would be forced to actively be a part of this destruction, instead of just being a witness to it.
And then, the same realization that Marty had been wordlessly insisting on finally struck Doc.
This isn’t my fault; I didn’t ask for any of this. I wanted peace; it was the powers in charge that decided to start playing with people’s lives and decided that I just happened to be a valuable collectible in this sick game of theirs. And to think I was even considering surrendering to them…! Great Scott… Marty, I owe you more than you’ll ever know! And I’ll be right here to make sure you make it through this, too!
If the various agencies and governments were hoping that they could eventually keep him running so far and so long that he would finally give in, then they would be sorely disappointed, for Doc had just found a reason to keep going.
And as the sun rose and the silence was finally broken by the whistle of the approaching train, it was with a new determination that Doc rose to his feet, still carrying Marty, who was grumpily coming awake on account of the loud train.
They won’t get us that easily, he vowed, as he prepared to board.
His inner fire was now burning brightly, as well. And he would raise this boy, who was, by all accounts, now his son, to keep a similar fire within him, as well.