Chapter 4
Friday, April 18th, 1986
Hill Valley
3: 14 P. M.
Marty shivered in the darkness of Jack's warehouse. He had never been more scared in his life. Here he was, at the complete mercy of a madman with no conscience at all. Jack seemed to take supreme delight in finding new ways to make him scream. Yesterday he had used one of his strange machines on him. It had turned out Jack was a afficionado of medieval torture machines, collecting and 'improving' them. His treat had been a version of the rack, altered to cut the person as he was pulled apart. Happily, Jack had tired of his game before he had been too seriously hurt. Unlike the day before, when Jack had laid his back open with a whip he had acquired from somewhere.
Jack also like to practice a very cruel form of psychological torture. He made nasty jokes about his and Doc's relationship, hitting on every crucial nerve. His favorite subject was one Marty had heard a thousand times before: "What's a 64-year-old man doing with a 17-year-old boy?". However, Jack added his own twist by giving him rather graphic descriptions of what he felt must be going on between the teen and his brother. They made the teen want to vomit, especially given Jack's descriptive skills. He could make Marty 'see' exactly what he was talking about. He seemed to love seeing Marty break down and cry, begging him to stop saying such horrible things. Then he'd taunt him about being a weakling who needed to feel pain. Every way he could tease him, he took advantage of, from "the Doc thing" to Marty's reaction to being called chicken. The teen rarely had a moment's peace from his pain.
He tried to curl up to preserve body heat, but yelped as the burred chains reminded him that was a bad idea. He went limp instead, trying to forget where he was. He tried to imagine his family, and Jennifer, and Doc. . . .
Doc. That was the worst. Having your tormentor look just like your best friend. He couldn't imagine Doc without feeling cold and dead inside. Especially not smiling. He always ended up looking like Jack in his mind's eye. He shoved the mental images away and tried to think of something else.
Unfortunately, Jack decided to come in at that very moment. He was holding a glass of a strange, slightly opaque liquid. "Hello, Martin," he said cheerfully.
"Hello Dr. Brown," Marty muttered. He had learned that if he didn't address Jack in that manner, Jack would hurt him worse.
"I imagine you're thirsty at this morning's escapades." He was referring to having Marty stand under a hot light for 3 hours. "Here. I brought you something to drink." He knelt down in front of the teen and held out the glass.
Marty regarded it suspiciously. Jack would never do anything nice for him. It had to be a trap. "What is it?"
"Just something I had lying around the lab," Jack smiled, still holding it out. "Go on, drink it. You know it's the only liquid you're likely to get today."
Marty shook his head, holding his mouth closed. He'd rather be thirsty than submit to him. Jack was unfazed. He simply reached out and pinched Marty's nose until he was forced to open his mouth to breathe, then tipped the contents of the glass in.
The teen found that whatever the stuff had been, it was quite effective in causing him agony. His throat abruptly seized up, and he doubled over in pain. He twisted and tore violently in his fetters, scraping his wrists raw, his eyes bulging. His attempts to swallow and breathe failed utterly, due to a bubble of air caught deep in his throat. As his body became oxygen-starved, the shapes and colors he saw began to blur and run together. "I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die. . . ."
Finally, when his struggles began to weaken, Jack slapped him on the back a few times. Marty coughed, burped, and passed out. The last thing he heard was Jack cooing, "There, that wasn't so bad."
At the same time. . . .
"How are you holding up, George?" Emily asked gently, giving him some coffee.
"Just barely," George McFly admitted, nodding his thanks. "I can barely sleep at night, knowing my youngest son is somewhere out there. It's terrible. I know the police are doing all they can, but sometimes I just want to scream at them for not finding him." He looked at Doc, who looked just as exhausted as he did. "It looks like it's been taking a pretty bad toll on you too, Doc Brown."
Doc sighed. "I can't sleep at night. At all. I keep having terrible nightmares about what could be happening to him."
Lorraine sniffled. "My poor baby. . . . Oh, I hope he's all right, where ever he is. I wish the kidnappers would call us with the ransom. No sum is too big for my little Marty."
"He seems like a very nice boy," Emily nodded sadly, sitting down with the group. "The kind who would easily make friends. Why would someone want to kidnap him?"
"Because they know I'm his father," George replied, sounding disgusted with himself. "Any intelligent criminal knows I make plenty of money from my stories and books. They could expect a very extravagant ransom." He sipped his coffee, his hands shaking a little. "Damn it, why won't they call? I'll pay anything to get my kid back. Anything."
Doc was about to say something when his throat abruptly closed up. A wave of intense, horrible pain washed over him, making him collapse on the floor. He thrashed and beat the floor, trying in desperation to breathe. Emily leapt to her feet in horror. "Emmett! Oh, god, not again!"
"Doc! Good God, what's wrong with him!?" Lorraine gasped, joining Emily by his side.
"I don't know," Emily cried, feeling completely helpless. "It started the same day Marty was kidnaped. He has these strange - fits. One moment, he'll be completely fine, the next writhing on the floor in agony. I can't help him either, he just screams at me to leave him alone. It's like he thinks I'm the one hurting him. I don't understand it. I just don't understand it."
Doc suddenly burped and lay still on the floor. Off in the distance, he thought he heard a voice coo wickedly, "There, that wasn't so bad."
"Go to hell, you bastard," Doc whispered, not really aware of what he was saying. There was a final spasm of pain. Then his mind was his own again. He rolled over a little to see everyone looking at him concernedly. "It happened again," he said flatly.
"Are you all right, Doc?" George asked, standing over him.
"Yes, the pain fades rapidly from these episodes." He slowly got to his feet, holding his stomach. "I don't understand it. There is nothing in my physiology to imply that I would be subject to sudden and unknown seizures. They don't even feel like proper seizures. They feel like I'm being tortured."
Emily shook her head. "Emmett, you need help."
Doc groaned. "Emily, not again! We talked about this yesterday! I am not seeing a psychiatrist!"
"Why not?" Emily snapped. "You said yourself that you're perfectly healthy! There's no reason for you to be having seizures if you're healthy! Therefore, they have to be caused by your mind somehow."
"How?" Doc demanded. "The most strenuous mental task I've done lately is worry about Marty! I don't have the energy to do anything else. And besides, if I go to see a shrink, it will simply reinforce my image in the community! True, often I don't care what those toads-" the McFlys looked at each other in surprise. "-think of me, but I prefer not to take measures to make them gossip all the more about me!"
"Screw them! You need professional help! And I'm not taking 'no' for an answer."
"Oh yes you are! Yesterday you said this same thing, that I was going crazy! I'm notcrazy! Damn it, can't I be worried about the fate of my best friend without everyone making a big deal over it!"
"It isn't that! It's these horrible seizures! And these nightmares! Honestly Emmett, you have to be the most pigheaded human being on the planet! Whether I get your permission or not, I'm calling a doctor, and you will see him!"
Doc glared at her, then sighed. "You always had to be right," he grumbled, dropping into a chair. "Fine. Call my doctor. He's got training in psychology. Dr. James Caldwell. And he'll be willing to come here too."
Emily picked up the phone. "Jesus, Emmett," she muttered, shaking her head, " you have so much trouble accepting help sometimes. I - Emmett?"
Doc had suddenly gone very limp in his chair. He looked like he was trying to keep from crying. "I'm sorry, Emmy," he said softly. "I'm usually not this belligerent. You're right. I think those seizures might be caused by my worrying. I don't know how, but they could. It's the sleep deprivation talking, not me. Get my doctor. Maybe he can at least prescribe some sleeping pills for me so I won't have nightmares." He looked at the McFlys, embarrassed. "And I'm sorry for making a scene in front of you."
"It's all right," Lorraine said, sitting beside him. "If you ever need anyone to talk to, we're right here. After all, we're all in the same boat."
"Thank you," Doc smiled weakly.
Emily returned to the group, patting her brother on the shoulder. "He's on his way, Emmett. And it's all right. I know you're not like Jack."
"Jack?" George asked, curious. "Who's Jack? An old classmate? A colleague?"
Doc shook his head, shuddering. "My brother. The worst monster humankind has ever known."
"Now, Emmett, that's rather harsh," Emily gently scolded. "The fact that Jack was a manipulative bully I won't deny, but a monster? Emmett, he's your twin!"
The McFlys looked at each other in shock. "A twin brother? Why didn't you ever tell us?"
"Bad memories," Doc confessed. "Jack is the ultimate cliche of the 'evil twin'. He lives for torturing others and causing others pain. When we were children, my father's animals and myself were his favorite targets. He was fascinated by the tortures of the Inquisition. He built a rack for a history project!"
"He was a little odd," Emily admitted. "He was able to charm everyone and anyone into liking him, then bully them unmercifully. I'd stop short at 'evil twin'."
"I wouldn't," Doc grumbled darkly. "You were never hurt by him. He usually just beat me up, but sometimes he'd have more - interesting thoughts." He looked around his home. "Thank God for this garage. If it hadn't been here, I might not be here today. It was my escape from everything. Who knows how I might have turned out if I hadn't been able to come here." He looked at his company. "I'm not really comfortable talking about him and his ways. That's why you never knew."
They talked about other subjects for a while until there was a knock at the door, signaling Dr. Caldwell's arrival. Emily answered the door, leaving Doc to rest. Dr. Caldwell came in, looking very concerned. "Hello Dr. Brown, Mrs. Smyth, Mr. and Mrs. McFly," he said, shaking hands with George. "I'm very sorry about your son. Any news?"
"None so far," George said, sitting back down.
Dr. Caldwell nodded and looked at Doc. He shook his head. "You look exhausted."
"I feel exhausted," Doc said. "I haven't been sleeping well since this whole mess started. I keep having nightmares."
"How much sleep are you getting?"
Doc shrugged. "Estimation tells me around 2-3 hours a night. I can't sleep for more than 30 minutes without having a nightmare. Correction: without having the nightmare."
"The nightmare?" Dr. Caldwell asked, sitting down beside him.
"One that keeps repeating over and over again every time I lie down," Doc grumbled. "I'm - excuse me, is it all right if we discuss this in private? It involves Marty, and I don't want to disturb the McFlys any more than they already are."
"Of course, Dr. Brown." Dr. Caldwell and Doc headed for the one truly private place in the garage - Doc's bathroom. Doc sat down on the toilet and continued his narrative. "I'm in a room, filled with torture equipment. I see Marty on a table, restrained by clamps on his wrists and ankles." Doc shuddered. "He looks absolutely horrible. Suffering from multiple lacerations and bruising all over. He tries to get up, but can't - the restraints keep him down. I think they may be burred on the inside - if he pulls on his arms too hard, they bleed.
"Then I hear this sharp scraping sound, and turn to see someone, in shadow, sharpening a knife. I get the feeling that he/she is evil and going to harm Marty. I try to rescue him, but there's an invisible wall blocking me. I can't get to him, no matter how hard I try. I can only watch as the other person plunges the knife into his throat. . . ."
Doc began to cry. Dr. Caldwell looked at him in surprise for a moment. He knew how self-controlled Doc usually was. It took a big emotional shock to make him shed tears. He waited patiently, offering a little support to the scientist.
Doc finally got it out of his system. "Sorry," he apologized.
"There's no need to be sorry, Dr. Brown," Dr. Caldwell said. "If I was having nightmares like that, I'd cry too. Do you have any ideas on what could be causing these nightmares?"
"Worry is my main suspect," Doc said, slumping back in the chair. "I can't help it. Marty is my best friend. We're very close. George often remarks sarcastically I'm practically his father."
"How about those fits your sister mentioned over the phone?"
"Those are unpredictable. It's like one moment, I'm simply going about my business, the next, I'm suffering torture. I don't feel like myself during those moments. It feels like I'm in someone's else's life. The pain fades quickly after each seizure, however."
"Hmm." Dr. Caldwell performed a brief checkup. "You seem to be in good health except for sleep deprivation. I'll write you a prescription for some sleeping pills."
"Thank you." Doc waited as he scribbled down the info for the druggist and tore it off his pad. "What about the seizures?"
"I'm afraid I can't help you there. Just make sure you're never on a hard floor, falling down on one might hurt you."
Doc weakly smiled. "Thanks for the help. Do you think that I should see a formal psychiatrist?"
"Maybe. I'd think about it at least." Dr. Caldwell patted him on the shoulder. "Take care of yourself, Dr. Brown."
"I'll try." They rejoined the group, Doc desperately hoping the pills would work. He couldn't take another night of nightmares. Not when he was living one.
Meanwhile. . . .
Marty regained consciousness after a half-hour. For a moment, he thought he heard people talking around him, trying to comfort him. Then the voices faded into a dreamland.
Jack came back in, grinning evilly. "Ah, we're awake now, hmm? Did you like your little drink?"
Marty just glared at him defiantly. He had learned the first day answering that sort of question earned you more abuse. Jack sniggered. "Of course, that's not all I had planned for today." He walked over to a wooden frame and dragged it over. "However, circumstances make it so I can't torture you in person. You understand." He snapped open the stock, then undid Marty's chains. Marty, in desperation, tried to hit him, but fell over inside. Jack laughed. "Still feisty! I like it."
He yanked Marty to his feet and locked him into the pillory. As usual, it had certain Jackified touches. The insides of the holes were burred, as usual. And instead of being attached to just a normal piece of wood, it was attached to an old treadmill. Smiling, Jack turned it on high and made Marty run on it. "I'll be back in an hour." He left, leaving Marty to jog in place while constricted. Marty cursed his idiocy for thinking that guy had been Doc.
In a half-hour, his legs got too tired to run. Marty gave up and let the tread scrape them. It didn't matter anymore. He wasn't getting out of this place alive. With a sigh, he prayed for the time when he'd get to get some sleep. He hoped he didn't have any nightmares. It was bad enough he was living one.