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Some time had passed, and even though Doc couldn’t bring himself to look out the window as they traveled through the Cascades (fearing another vertigo-inducing view as they climbed up) by calculating the velocity and timespan of their travel, they were a few hours out from their stop in Pasco—from there, it would be a bit of a hike to their destination, but they could stop and rest in Pasco first. And he hoped fervently that Pasco would be much closer to sea level than where they were now.
Marty, at least, had become fascinated with the view in the mountains, fixated on them so much so that it helped Doc, at least, focus on keeping his acrophobia from spiraling again.
Just a few more hours… he reminded himself. Just a few more hours…
“Doc?” Marty asked now, turning away from the window at last. “Hey, Doc?”
“Huh? Yes, Marty?”
“I’m hungry,” the boy complained.
“Oh… Well, I think we can fix that; there’s a dining car on here—trains always have them,” Doc said, happy to have his focus on something other than the mountains all around them. “They have menus and everything—you can order from them like we were in a restaurant!”
“Yeah?” Marty asked, his eyes wide.
“Yeah,” Doc agreed. “What would you like?”
“Hmm…” Marty put his finger on his chin, deep in thought; Doc was struggling to keep a straight face. “Popcorn.”
“…Popcorn,” Doc repeated.
“Uh-huh. And cookies.”
“I see… Anything to drink with that?” Doc snarked.
“Lemonade!”
“With a Pepsi chaser, no doubt.”
Marty blinked.
“Chaser?” he repeated, confused. “Whazzat?”
“…I’ll tell you when you’re older,” Doc mused, deciding that three was not the age to try to learn about mixology. “Well, unfortunately, I don’t know if we can get popcorn, cookies, and lemonade—perhaps we should’ve looked at the menu before I asked what you wanted.”
“Can’t read anyway,” Marty reminded him.
“Oh, you…” Doc teased, prompting Marty to giggle. “Come on—the dining car is over that way…”
Traveling through the cars was slightly harrowing for Doc as the small bridgeways between the cars left a very open view of their mountainous surroundings, heights and all; he held a hand to his stomach, trying to stave off the dizziness, prompting Marty to look up at him in concern.
“‘m here, Doc…” he reminded him.
In spite of himself, Doc smiled.
They finally reached the dining car, which was pretty full and chaotic; the seating areas were all occupied, and a large crowd was milling about, some people trying to order food to take back to their seats (or compartments, had they been wealthy enough to afford one—Doc, naturally, had to conserve what bit of money he had on hand).
Doc gritted his teeth, holding his porkpie hat down so that his hair couldn’t slip out and cause him to be recognized (even if everyone seemed to be preoccupied with obtaining food); with his free hand, he held Marty’s, not wanting to lose him in the crowd.
Marty was wincing at the loud chatter and conversation going on around them; he covered one ear with his free hand and tried to pull away from Doc’s hold to cover the other; Doc, thinking something was wrong, loosened his hold slightly, but didn’t fully let go.
“Marty!?” Doc asked, having to raise his voice to be heard over the crowd.
“It’s too loud!” Marty yelled.
He was getting overstimulated, and quickly—and Doc knew it.
“Okay, maybe we should—!” Doc began, but was cut off as the crowd started to loudly react to the windows of the dining car being plunged into darkness as they entered a mountain tunnel.
Now the sound of the air rushing past the train in the tunnel was added to the din; Marty let out a tiny, frustrated screech, pulled his hand out of Doc’s grip and now clung tightly to his leg.
“Okay, we’re going!” Doc decided. “I’ve got the snacks we packed—”
There was a horrible screeching sound, and Doc found himself flying off of his feat as the train suddenly stopped, someone clearly having pulled the emergency brakes. And even above that cacophony, as he lost his footing (silently cursing the Law of Inertia), he could hear Marty shriek in fright as he lost his grip on Doc’s leg.
“Marty—!?”
Doc hit the floor of the dining car alongside several other passengers also falling over; trying to extricate himself from the pile of people on the floor, he turned around to look behind him, desperately searching for Marty, who had vanished from sight as people who hadn't fallen began to move about in a confused panic—and those who had fallen were trying to get to their feet to join them.
“MARTY!?”
There was no way the boy would be able to hear him over the commotion; Doc began to scan the crowd in a panic; his heart seemed to freeze in his chest as he spotted a tiny hand getting further and further away from him as Marty was carried off by the crowd.
“MARTY!” Doc cried, desperate for the boy to hear his voice and know that he was still there, close by.
Adrenaline and paternal instincts both kicked in, and Doc yanked himself free from the pile of people he was stuck in, trying to focus on where the little hand was going—
And then the lights went out, plunging the entire dining car into darkness.
“NO!”
The agonized howl left him as he realized that the crowd was now in a frenzied state—but none more frenzied than Doc, separated from his adoptive child, who was in extreme danger of getting trampled underfoot.
Doc himself was getting battered about, but his own injuries meant nothing—not when Marty was in such mortal danger. His cries for the boy were unyielding—and still went unanswered.
He still pressed onward in the direction of where he had last seen Marty, even as a new set of voices roared over the crowd, causing them to finally quiet down as one of them blasted an air horn.
Doc clutched at his head; he was rapidly getting overstimulated now, but he let out a loud growl, knowing he had to find Marty.
“Everyone, stay still!” a voice ordered, holding a flashlight. “We’re looking for a fugitive scientist who may be on this train!”
Staying still was certainly not Doc’s choice of action at that point; it was, thankfully, still so dark in spite of the flashlight beams—Doc rolled to the side, trying to use the tables and chairs as shields against the light as he quietly dragged himself across the floor with his arms.
“Marty!?” he whispered, as loudly as he dared. “Marty, where are you!?”
Now, with the chatter in the car mostly stopped and the only sound being the footsteps and barks of the feds who had entered the room, Doc finally heard the quietest whimper—just barely audible.
“Marty…!?”
As he inched forward, his hand finally came into contact with Marty’s hair—and could feel Marty shaking beneath his hand.
“Oh, Marty…”
They had only been separated for 60 seconds, at most—but that had been long enough for Marty to have been utterly shaken to the core.
Gently, he pulled Marty close in a protective hug, but Marty was still shaking far too much to return the gesture.
“I’m here,” he whispered. It was their promise and their reassurance—their reason for surviving.
“He has to be around here somewhere!” one of the feds snarled, snapping Doc to reality as his pursuers approached closer. “We’ll find him!”
Now holding Marty close to him, Doc was now crawling forward on his knees to get to the other door of the dining car, earning squawks and curses as he pushed past—and even crawled forward on—some of the other passengers.
Oh, Great Scott—I’m too old for this! My poor menisci…!
They were already hurting him, but he knew he couldn’t stop and allow himself to be captured.
Mercifully, the back door of the dining car had been slightly open—perhaps due to someone crashing into it. Doc made it out, still holding the shaking child tightly, and finally got to his feet in the bridgeway.
His pursuers were going to search the train thoroughly; there was no doubt about that. They would have to alight here and eventually make their way Pasco some other way.
He sighed, holding Marty close as he approached the edge of the bridgeway; thankfully, they were in the tunnel, unable to see the mountain slope, but jumping from even this height to the tracks below made Doc’s head spin at the thought.
But as he continued to feel Marty shaking in his arms, he knew he had no choice.
He shut his eyes, and jumped—but, alas, forgot to bend his knees on the landing; his eyes shot open as a horrific pain surged through his left knee, which collapsed under him as he felt something pop. He fell backwards intentionally, so that he wouldn’t land on Marty, but even as he landed flat on his back, his mouth was open in a silent scream that he knew he couldn’t unleash, lest his pursuers hear him immediately.
Marty’s shaking suddenly stopped as Doc’s heartrate and pained breathing sped up. Somehow, in spite of Doc’s efforts to mask the pain, Marty knew he was hurting—and that was more important than his own fears.
Still unable to speak again just yet, Marty let out a tiny whimper, burying his face into Doc’s chest, just over his heart, finally returning the hug.
And that spurred Doc to catch his breath and sit back up. They couldn’t stay here—hurt or not, the feds would be leaving the train eventually.
Sweat was still pouring down his face from the effort of trying to pull himself up with one arm while still holding Marty close with the other; the train was his crutch to get himself to his feet—well, foot, anyway, as he could tell that there’d be no possible way his busted left knee would be able to hold his weight.
Once upright, he began to limp down the tunnel, quietly and slowly, each step on his bad leg causing stars to spin in his field of vision. He had just reached the tunnel entrance when his leg buckled under him again, forcing him to crawl behind the nearest rocky outcropping he could find in order to hide and rest.
The sun had set, and that, thankfully, hid the view of the heights from him—not that he’d be able to see with his vision blurring as much as it was.
Still holding on to Marty with one arm, Doc removed his suitjacket that he wore over his Hawaiian shirt, aiming to use it as a makeshift knee brace. But as the night wind blew and caused Marty to start shivering again, Doc glanced from him to his rapidly-swelling knee and sighed.
With a wan smile, he wrapped Marty in the big jacket and held him close again.
“I’m right here, Marty,” he promised again, ignoring the tears of pain trailing down his face. “You’re safe now.”
Marty let out another soft whimper; Doc hoped he’d be able to start verbalizing again soon—in spite of how traumatic those 60 seconds of separation had been.
He winced as the night wind now caused him to shiver; ignoring it, he held his adoptive son close, continuing to reassure him of his presence.