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“So from now on,” Buford said angrily, pointing at Doc, “you better be lookin’ behind you when you walk. ‘Cause one day you gonna get a bullet in yo’ back.” Then he cried, “Let’s go!”
Tannen and his goons rose off noisily, leaving Doc and Marty alone for the first time. Doc watched the gang depart, then turned to look at Marty.
“Doc…” Marty said, clearly trying to talk normally but only managing to push out a harsh whisper.
“Marty,” Doc replied, shaking his head. “I gave you explicit instructions not to come here but to go directly back to 1985.”
Marty staggered closer. He was barely recognizable under the thick layer of dirt coating his entire body. The knees of his pants were torn right through. “I know, Doc… but I had to come.” He barely finished the sentence, still horribly out of breath.
Doc stepped forward to meet Marty. “But it’s good to see you, Marty.” He wrapped Marty in a tight hug, ignoring the fresh dusting of road dirt he got in the process. As soon as they got back to his lab, Doc was definitely going to check Marty for any other injuries. His young friend’s breathing was still raspy and labored.
Then he finally took in what Marty was wearing. “Marty, you’re gonna have to do something about those clothes. You walk around town like that, you’re liable to get shot.”
Marty put a hand to his neck, quipping, “Or hanged.”
“What idiot dressed you in that outfit?”
Clapping a hand on Doc’s shoulder and smiling for the first time, Marty rasped, “You did.”
As soon as the two arrived at Doc’s lab and the doors closed behind them, Doc forced Marty to sit on an unused cot beside the short flight of stairs leading up to Doc’s living quarters. The boy had become more uncoordinated and unsteady the farther they walked, only adding to Doc’s concern.
Doc dug up some respectable clothes for Marty, but insisted on giving him a checkup before he put the new clothes on. So, dressed in shorts and a shirt that served as his underclothes, Marty sat on the cot while Doc checked him over as well as his limited medical knowledge would allow him to. Dark purple bruises were already forming all over Marty’s arms and legs, and a slightly sprained ankle probably accounted for his trouble walking. His knees were scraped up, but not too badly. Doc ordered Marty to lift his shirt, discovering a bruise circling Marty’s chest where the rope had been. During the whole checkup, Doc had kept his nagging, unhelpful memories at bay, but when he took a look at Marty’s neck, they overcame him. Marty’s neck was red, raw, and bruised, and for a moment, all Doc could see was a colorfully-dressed Marty being dragged brutally behind a horse, crying out in anger and pain, then his cries falling silent as he hung by his neck, slowly choking, suffocating, dying as Tannen and his gang laughed and jeered below Doc’s young friend.
“Doc?” Marty asked in that hoarse, almost normal voice he’d been using, snapping Doc back to the present. Marty was here now, and he wasn’t dying anymore.
“Sorry, just lost in thought. How are you feeling, Marty?” Doc asked casually, but with a concerned tone. “You had quite the adventure.”
Marty put a hand to his neck again. “Everything kind of hurts. Tired, too. Hurts to talk.” The last part was proved yet again by the fact that Marty looked like he was practically forcing his words out through his damaged throat. It also explained why Marty had spoken the least amount possible since Doc shot the rope and saved him.
Doc nodded, patting Marty’s knee sympathetically. “Welcome to being an old man. I’ll get you some water.” At Marty’s grimace, he chuckled. “Don’t worry. One of the first things I did when I got here was build a water purifier. I’m not a fan of dysentery either.”
Doc had barely handed Marty the cup before it was empty again. The kid drank the next cup slower, though.
Then Marty’s stomach gave an enormous growl, to which Marty responded by putting a hand to his stomach and giving Doc a sheepish half-smile.
“Marty…” Doc said warningly. “When was the last time you ate?”
“I, uh,” Marty started, looking uncomfortable, “well I didn’t have time in 2015 or the new 1985 to eat, and after you left, I spent two more days in 1955, and I might have had a few snacks then. Me and the other Doc were pretty busy.” He fell silent, looking pained, both from talking and from the response he knew he’d get from Doc.
Doc’s worry tripled. “Marty! That’s nearly six days with almost no food! No sleep, either, right? It’s a miracle you haven’t passed out yet!” With this new information, he finally realized how rough Marty looked. Doc had had eight months to rest and recover, but Marty was here after two weeks of nonstop action and stress, day and night, not to mention watching Doc die twice. The kid hadn’t had the time to sleep or eat in days. Despite spending a fair amount of that time with Marty, Doc could only now see the toll the past two weeks were having on his friend. There was an exhaustion in Marty’s eyes that went so much deeper than simple tiredness. He looked thinner, and some of his usual cool and cheeriness was missing. Doc felt a pang of guilt and sadness knowing that he was the reason Marty looked so tired and downcast. He wouldn’t bring it up, however, because he knew that Marty, as kind as he was, would do his best to reassure Doc that it wasn’t his fault. Marty shouldn’t be comforting his friend right now, he needed to rest.
Doc shook his head, dismissing his loud words to Marty. “Never mind. You get some rest while I go cook something for us to eat.” Marty laid down, and Doc wasn’t even halfway to the kitchen area before he heard Marty’s quiet, raspy snores. The kid had never really snored before, but right now was an exception, of course. It still made Doc sad, though, to hear Marty on the verge of struggling to breathe, but there wasn’t much he could do to help.
Half an hour later, the smells of cooking meat lured Marty up the stairs. He limped slowly over to Doc, exhaling sharply when his injured ankle bumped a stray box. It might simply have been that he was groggy from waking up, but Marty looked even more tired to Doc.
After a huge yawn, Marty said sleepily, “What’re you making, Doc?” His stomach growled, promising that he’d eat plenty, whatever it was.
“Eggs and beef. I don’t have the money for much else.”
Marty shrugged, accepting the offered plate of scrambled eggs and seasoned beef. Still looking half-asleep, he finished the entire plate in record time, then asked for more. Once he finished that off, he was looking a lot more alert and even, thankfully, a little less pale. Doc could tell his friend was finally, after two weeks, feeling better. Since he was young, Doc was sure Marty would bounce back quickly.
When Marty set his plate down, Doc glanced out the window to find the sun was setting. “Okay, Marty, it’s bedtime. You need rest.”
“Aw, Doc, bedtime at eight? I’m not six,” Marty quipped, holding back a small smirk.
Doc rolled his eyes. “Go,” he said with a chuckle, pointing in the direction of the stairs.
With a laugh, Marty got up and stumbled to the cot. He was asleep and snoring the moment his head hit the pillow.
Doc sighed in relief, before heading to his own bed. They had a lot of work to do tomorrow.