Chapter 4, everybody! In which we discuss the worst ways to get plutonium….On an interesting side note, the "Libyans" in the movie don't actually say anything—they just holler gibberish. And the boot of the car is actually the trunk, for those like me who didn't know—thank you, Skulduggery Pleasant books. Wilson also references Mad Max here, just for the record.
Don't Starve © 2013 Klei Entertainment
Skulduggery Pleasant © 2007 Derek Landy
Mad Max © 1979 George Miller
Back to the Future © 1985 Robert Zemeckis
Plutonium.
The bloody thing ran on plutonium.
"Let me get this straight," Wilson said, once it was safe to take the protective gear off. He flipped his face mask off so he could be understood better. "This thing is nuclear?"
"Well, the flux capacitor is nuclear," Professor Carter explained. "I needed something with a little more kick to produce the 1.21 gigawatts needed for the time travel to take place."
"I'm sorry—how much?"
"Did I stutter?"
"Now wait a minute!" Wilson griped, lowering the camera so he could gesture more effectively. "You don't just walk into the corner store and buy plutonium! You ripped that off, didn't you?" he added, filled with a certain level of dread.
"Just a little," Professor Carter admitted. "Somewhere, there's some goons with a fake bomb made entirely of used pinball parts. Now if you'll excuse me—" he put a suitcase in the boot of the car. "I don't know if they have sensible clothes in the future just yet."
"Wait—you're leaving now? What about Chester? What about the house? What about that honking pile of ungraded papers and unpaid bills on your desk?"
"Don't worry, I'll be back before you know it," Professor Carter said. "I'll just have my destination set to precisely when I leave—it'll be like I never left. And I'll be nice and bring back the winners of the next thirty World Series—then the lovely Professor Strickland can kiss my—"
"Max, be serious."
"Fine. Am I forgetting anything?"
"Money? Gas? Wait—the thing does run on gas, right?"
"The car part does, yes—oop! Almost forgot some plutonium for the return trip."
"What, you think it'll be like that Australian film and no fuel in the future? I'm sure plutonium will be in every five-and-dime in thirty years."
"Not unless they enjoy not needing lightbulbs. And besides, how much can the human race possibly get done in thirty years?"
"Might I introduce you to the Industrial Revolution?"
"Unless we're due for a second one, you'll notice that technology seems to have stabilized a bit. What, Chester?" Professor Carter snapped, finally directing his attention to the dog that had been barking for several minutes now.
Wilson glanced at the dog—
"Oh no," Professor Carter muttered.
"What?" Wilson asked, looking back at him.
He was surprised to see the normally even-keeled professor looking terrified. "They found me," he muttered. "I don't know how, but they found me."
Wilson glanced around frantically—a black sedan was pulling into the lot. "Who?"
"Who do you think? Run Wilson!"
Any question as to why was quickly absolved when the bullets started flying.
Wilson dove for the pavement, Professor Carter dashed for the hauler—the sedan was coming closer, and then Professor Carter was trying to shoot back with a small handgun—
And the man with the uzi gunned him down.
Wilson was aware of a horrible scream and his throat burning. It took a few precious moments to connect the noise with the pain in his throat.
And in those few precious moments, the goons in the van spotted him.
Wilson recognized their general appearance—minions of the local crime boss, the sleaze known as the Shadow Man. Why, why, why didn't Professor Carter try to steal from someone who wasn't local? Libyans, perhaps?
The goon pointed the gun at him—Wilson braced for the end—
It didn't come.
The gun jammed.
Wilson took the opportunity and dove for the first open cover.
The DeLorean.
He spared one final pained glance back at Professor Carter's lifeless form before pulling the door shut and practically standing on the gas.
The car took off like a shot.
The sedan followed.
Wilson wasn't sure about the get-up-and-go of a DeLorean, but he was certain the sedan was catching up with no problem. He hooked the car around a hairpin turn, causing them to overshoot and decelerate.
"All right then," he muttered. "Let's see you do ninety," he added, with a bit more eloquence included.
He gunned the engine and tore off, eyes only for the exit ramp.
The sedan was right after him.
He swore, glancing down at the speedometer—sixty, seventy—
Eighty—
Eighty-eight—
And then a tremendous flash of light—a pure white-out—
And he drove right into a barn.
