Written: June 2003 - December 2003
Word Count: Approx. 6000 words
Background Notes: Since "The Hill Valley Chronicles" are still being written as I post this, this section may expand intermittently.
The first cut is from "HVC#1: The Accident." I'm not sure why I decided to cut it... unless it was because I thought it better for Clara to go with Doc to retrieve the wreckage.
This second cut is from "HVC#2: Three's a Crowd." I had originally concieved Marty waking alone during the storm and all that. Then I realized halfway into this that it would be better with Doc there -- more stuff to bounce off of. Honestly, I don't know why I even thought Marty should be solo in retrospect. Shrug. Most of this I was able to salvage for what became the final draft of HVC#2.
The third cut is also from HVC#2, and I opted to rewrite it because I liked the idea of Doc waking Marty to share in the 100 year pre-anniversary of the Oct 26th time travel success. As you can see, some of this is salvaged in the final draft. I also opted to have the time travelers visit Sacramento instead of San Francisco, after witnessing the Gold Rush Day thing over Labor Day 2003 in that city.
More cuts to come after I finish HVC#3....
...Once left alone, without anything -- or, rather, anyone -- to distract him, Doc put his mind to the problem of the DeLorean wreckage. The best thing to do would be to get it out of sight -- and the sooner the better, before it chanced to fall into the wrong hands or provoked some sticky questions.
Unfortunately, the site was guarded by the local law -- and he lacked any powers of invisibility. But how long was it going to be under watch? Surely not all night; there was not anything to steal from the locomotive. If I rode out there late tonight, after midnight, maybe I could get the most essential pieces away from the site.... The only sticky area of such an idea was lying unconscious a dozen feet away. Doc looked at Marty, somewhat guiltily, then pushed the emotion away. It wouldn’t take long, and he could simply leave a note if the teen happened to wake in his absense.
The scientist headed for the front of the old livery stable, intending to take a quick look outside and gauge the...
Marty McFly opened his eyes at the sound of thunder splitting the air. His heart was already racing as he sat up, throughly disoriented for a moment. Thick darkness surrounded him, broken only by darker shadows of objects and furniture. The thunder crackled and echoed through the air, not quite fading entirely before a new bolt lit up his surroundings for a moment -- and solved some of the puzzle for Marty as to his current whereabouts.
“Shit,” he murmured, rubbing his forehead. His skin felt damp and clammy; the air around him was sticky and hot. Small wonder if there was a storm going on, now. It had been unusually hot and dry all week; something like this had to be inevitable.
The thunder from the latest bolt hit his eardrums a moment later, shaking the ground underneath him. Marty got up and headed to one of the open windows across the room, bumping into furniture more than once. It amazed him, still, how positively dark it could get in a place like this. Of course, when streetlights weren’t around, and electric light was a dream, what did he expect?
Lighting once more lit up the landscape as Marty reached the window. The seventeen-year-old let out a low whistle, seeing more spectacular bolts streaking across the far horizon, too distant to be heard. He wasn’t at the window more than a minute before he heard a roar begin, and felt a cooling breeze on his face.
Christ, it’s pouring!
Indeed, in the span of ten seconds the air went from dry to saturated, rain pounding so hard on the roof that the sound almost drowned out the thunder. Marty stood at the window for a minute, dazed, before he realized he’d better shut the windows that were all opened.
“Doc?” he called out, certain his friend had to be awake from all the racket. “Hey, Doc, can you get a light?”
There was no response from the scientist. Marty swore softly under his breath, annoyed, then fumbled his way back to his cot, recalling that there was an oil lamp and box of matches in that vicinity. Lightning was kind enough to flash a couple times to give him a clearer idea on his immediate surroundings, though the subsequent cannon-like echoes of thunder almost made it not worth it.
A few minutes more of feeling his way around with the matches, and Marty had one of the lamps lit. Already growing more adapt with the current technology, he turned the wick as far up as it could go, trying to squeeze out as much illumination as possible, and held it up to check on Doc.
But the large double bed across the room was empty.
Marty felt completely confused, and a little uneasy, at first -- and then his memory caught up with him and he realized this was perfectly normal. Doc had taken off on Friday afternoon to help chaperone an overnight camping trip with the town schoolkids. Marty knew he did it mostly to spend time with Clara -- though supposidly the lesson the kids were going to learn involved some environmental or biological sciences. Doc wasn’t supposed to be due back until late Saturday afternoon -- though Marty had to wonder if that was still going to be so with this storm, now. That was another thing lousy about 1885 -- no real weather forecast. The best it offered now was just a bunch of supersticious hooey from oldtimers in the town. Of course, it wasn’t as if the weather forecast was all that accurate back home.
Annoyed that he had to deal with this alone, Marty quickly hurried around the livery stable, slamming shut all open windows in a fruitless effort to keep things dry inside. Fruitless in that the ceiling above had about a zillion cracks, and he could hear and feel the rainwater dripping inside already. He wondered how Doc had lived through a winter in this place without dying of pneumonia.
“Stupid,” Marty muttered under his breath, juggling the heavy lamp in one hand as he struggled to move a stuck window catch with the other. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
Once all the windows were closed -- just in time, since the wind had picked up and was now merrily blowing the sheets of rain inside -- Marty returned to his bed. The celing above here, like most of the barn, offered about as much protection from the elements as a sieve. Scowling, Marty looked around for a place in the barn that had more shingles than not, and thought that the area near Doc’s bed looked more sheltered than most. Which would figure. He set the lamp down, then picked up the rickety cot and moved it into the protected vicinity. Still, the cot was pretty damp by the time he finished the job, having recieved a good soaking during the time the teen was moving around to close all the windows. So, since Doc wasn’t using his bed, Marty decided there was nothing to stop him from taking advantage of it. He lay on top of the dry covers -- but did not close his eyes.
Although he had been sleeping -- kind of -- when the storm had arrived, he was now wide awake. It shouldn’t have surprised him in the least, considering the storm and his semi-damp, uncomfortable state. But even if those factors had been removed, he still would have found sleep difficult. Ever since Doc had told him that he was pretty much stuck here until a new time machine could be built, he had been having bouts of insomnia. Long after Doc retired -- and that was saying something, since the scientist was possessed with a seemingly boundless supply of energy that allowed him to rise near dawn and go to bed quite late more nights than not -- Marty would still be lying in his bed, staring up at the dark ceiling, wishing himself to be anywhere but here. He wasn’t in denial -- he knew he was pretty screwed -- but he was finding it hard to deal with the circumstances life had thrown at him and move forward.
Seeing the DeLorean had really let him know they were stuck. About a week and a half ago Doc had finally gone out to the wreckage site to take it home, bringing Marty with him. The headaches from the concussion the teen had sustained in the accident were finally gone more than not, and he had wanted a chance to see the place where his life had derailed with the train. Part of him, he had to admit, was hoping maybe it would jog his memory, which still had a very large blank spot from the moment he had left town with Doc to hijack the train. Unfortunately, that didn’t change at all when they had arrived with the wagon to tow the car back. He didn’t have a twinge of recollection, not even the faintest sensation of deja vu. Instead, Marty was aghast when he saw the condition of the time machine.
“Jesus,” he said, walking around the perimeter of the car. “The train sure did a number on it!”
“Yes,” Doc had agreed, with absolutely no argument. “You’re lucky you were thrown free, and that the car wasn’t crushed at the front. I think you can gather why fixing this one up to return home is pretty much a lost cause.” He handed Marty the set of car keys and nodded to the vehicle. “Why don’t you open it up and have a look.”
Marty really didn’t want to do that -- he knew it would depress him -- but he accepted the chore. Inside, the time circuits and flux capacitor were both missing, gaping holes and loose wires marking their former locations. (Doc had removed them as soon as he could, while Marty had still been unconscious from the accident.) Junk that had been securely mounted in the car before now dangled loosely. Behind the seats was a mixture of broken electronics, shards of glass, and the ever-resilient hoverboard, which still apparently worked. The ceiling of the car was buckled and bent; Marty was amazed the doors could even open, still.
It had taken the better part of the day to get the car towed back to Doc’s place, and stowed in an empty horse stall under some blankets. Doc still didn’t seem too sure about what he was going to do with the remains, but Marty was sure he’d figure something out.
He’d better figure something out on how we’re gonna get home! Marty thought, frowning as another clap of thunder disturbed the air. He shifted, uncomfortable in his faintly damp clothes -- and realized on top of everything else he had to use the bathroom. Or, in 1885-speak, the outhouse, privy, what have you. It was outside, perhaps two dozen feet from the back of the building. Which would be extremely uncomfortable to navigate in the current weather; he would come back soaked to the core. Doc didn’t have any umbrellas or rain slickers lying around that he knew of.
Marty closed his eyes, grimacing. Reason #5 why this time period sucks, he thought. No indoor restrooms.
It was simply one of many, many things he hated here. Every day brought a new annoyance or inconvienence to his attention. Having to go outside everytime you needed to use the bathroom was definitely in the top ten. Others included the lack of clean, clear water -- everything here came from wells, and was tinged some dirt-colored shade; the lack of electricty; and the lack of washing machines and dishwashers. Here, everything had to be done by hand, which made it both time consuming and yielded at-times questionable results. Earlier in the week, Doc had recruited Clara for her help in teaching Marty how to launder his clothes with just soap and a metallic washing board.
“It’s not as difficult as you might think,” the schoolteacher explained cheerfully as she knelt before the tub of water, a shirt of Marty’s in one hand, and the bar of soap in the other. “Simply soak the garment, brace it against the washboard as you scrub it vigourously with the soap--” She demonstrated, taking almost a minute to do the chore. “--Rinse it, wring it out, and then hang to dry.”
Marty had tried, but laundry was never his strong suit. His mother had banned him from doing the chore at home after he had tried it once and tinted all of his whites a sickly pink color, creating the need to get new ones. By the time he finished washing the few articles he owned, his arms ached all the way into his shoulders, and his fingers were scaled from the hot water and stinging from the strong chemicals in the soap. He had also soaked the clothes on his back in the process, creating the need to change because he was cleaning the others. He didn’t enjoy the irony.
Doc, Marty had noticed, seemed to have no problem washing his own clothes, and even seemed to be working on the world’s first washing machine. The teen wished him well on that project, knowing that he would benefit equally from it.
Bathing, in general, was also problematic. Doc had rigged a kind of way to heat up water, but the result wasn’t easy to control; sometimes it would be icy, sometimes it would be scalding. There was no shower installed, simply a bath, which made getting cleaned up something of a production. At home, Marty could be showered and changed in about ten minutes. Here, it took ten minutes to fill the tub, probably ten minutes to clean up, and then maybe ten minutes to drain the sucker and get dressed again. And the clothes here weren’t as comfortable as the ones back home, especially on hot days. There were more layers with the underwear alone.
He guessed he should be glad Doc even had a bath, though; the bath house down the street was testament that many homes were without. And Marty knew he definitely preferred Doc’s private tub to one that was in full view of a public street.
Shaving, too, was something of a chore -- and a dangerous one at that. Marty wasn’t the world’s most hairiest person -- back home he really only needed to shave maybe every other day, if that. But it was something he did need to do at some point, since he really wasn’t into the whole facial hair thing. Electric razors were, of course, a thing of the future. And disposable razors with nice, plastic safety blades were not around yet either. The only thing available now were large straight razors, which required some deft manuvering, shaving cream, and a mirror. Doc had tried to show him how to shave during his first full week following the accident, and Marty had practically slit his throat by mistake. Even now, about a week later, his face had a number of small nicks and cuts on them, which didn’t appreciate having the blade dragged over them every couple days. Or the lather that they had now; the first brand that he had used had given him a red, itchy rash.
Marty closed his eyes now, trying to ignore the pressure in his bladder. He really, really didn’t want to go out in the storm -- but the sound of the rain wasn’t helping matters for him, either. It was never a good idea to have to listen to water when you had to go....
He opened his eyes after a moment, remembering something from the in-depth tour Doc had given him of his place last week. “There’s no indoor plumbing in here, of course,” he said, the statement more than a little obvious by that point. “The first flush toilets don’t really make their way into some of the more wealthy homes of Hill Valley until the next decade, and then are hooked into septic systems. A city sewer system isn’t created until the twentieth century. The outhouse is about the best you can do at this point.”
“So you never, not in the entire time you’ve been here, made a toilet?” Marty asked, surprised.
“Plumbing was never my area of interest,” Doc said. “I managed to get the bath in here, figured out a way to get some hot water, and not exhaust myself pumping water. But I had other things to work on besides digging a septic system and trying to find or make a flush toilet -- like figuring out how to be a blacksmith, and attempting to repair a time machine.”
“So you’ve got to go outside every time you need to go?”
“You’ve been doing that since you got here.”
“Yeah, but that’s when I thought we’d be here for a week, tops....”
Doc sighed. “Well, if you’re that inconvienenced, I do have a couple chamber pots under the bed,” he said, waving towards his bed nearby. “But they still require a trip to the outhouse to dispose of the waste.”
Marty made a face, liking the idea of using what was pretty much a bedpan even less than the smelly outhouses. “I’d rather take my chances outside.”
Now, however, he was painfully aware of why people even had such things as chamber pots. And suddenly it seemed much more appealing.... He knew what he had to do, was going to do, but he still didn’t quite like it.
“Oh, man,” Marty groaned softly, closing his eyes. “At least Doc’s not here tonight....”
He sat up as another flash of light from outside brightened the air around him, wanting to get this thing over with now that he was kind of forced into it. The rain wasn’t diminishing in the least; if anything, it seemed to be coming down even harder. The storm was starting to remind him of the one in ‘55 that helped send the DeLorean back to the future. If it was even half as powerful, this was going to go on for a while.
Marty knelt down on the floor next to the bed, peering into the shadows somewhat uneasily. He saw the white gleam of the bowl-like device a moment later, a couple feet away. He sighed, mentally cursing this time period for what was probably the two millionth time since his arrival in it, then reached out and dragged it across the dusty floorboards. Marty eyed it a moment, not quite sure how to go about using it. The sides were high, and kind of curved in and narrowed a little before curving out again. Like a really really wide vase, almost.
I don’t even wanna know if this has been used before by anyone....
A thunderclap sounded overhead again, this one sounding no more than a second after lightning flashed. No, he was definitely going to have to do this in here....
Life had fallen into a tedious and predictable pattern lately for Marty. Get up at dawn, then slave over a hot forge all day, helping Doc with any number of little tasks -- shaping metal, shoeing horses, repairing wagons, and so on. Most of Marty’s jobs were in the assistant realm, passing tools, holding things, fetching supplies, that sort of thing. He didn’t really mind, or care; as if he knew much about blacksmithing! It constantly surprised him, however, that Doc knew as much as he did. Marty wondered if he would share in some of the basic knowledge much better after being around ten months himself. But that thought depressed him; he could hardly deal with the fact that he had to be around 1885 another day.
After it got dark out, and Doc closed up shop for the day, the inventor would prepare a basic meal on the stove. Then, driven by bordom, cold (because the weather was definitely in a fall state of mind, and the livery stable had virtually no insulation to speak of), and a physical exhaustion that still caught him off guard, Marty would usually go to bed.
Not that he was sleeping all that well. The insomnia that he had been suffering from in September wasn’t quite present anymore. The running around all day was probably helpful in that regard. But he didn’t ever wake feeling refreshed anymore -- he felt as if he had spent the entire night tossing and turning, running from monsters in his dreams. Whether or not he was indeed having nightmares, he couldn’t say; Marty wasn’t remembering anything about dreams, but he was sure that if he was having any, they weren’t good. When awareness would trickle in after another night, before he even opened his eyes, Marty would feel a sick sort of dread in the pit of his stomach. Almost like whatever rest he had gotten had left a bad aftertaste in his body.
Or maybe it was just the times he was in. He wondered if or when he would ever stop feeling that dull ache of disappointment when he opened his eyes and found himself still stuck in purgatory in the past.
On Sunday morning, near the end of October, he was eating his breakfast in a half-numbed state of mind, tired and not in the best of moods at the prospect of enduring a church service in the morning. He caught Doc watching him a couple times, looking as if he was about to speak but saying nothing. The inventor had worn such looks on his face more than once in the last couple weeks, and Marty chalked it up to his forthcoming proposal to Clara. Nerves, maybe. Doc could be a little intense sometimes.
But the scientist finally broke the silence this time.
“Marty?”
“Hmmm?”
“How have you been feeling lately?”
Marty finished chewing the piece of half burned toast -- Doc’s breakfast maker still seemed to overcook things more often than not -- and swallowed. He stared at the scientist a moment, wondering what brought this on. “What do you mean?”
Doc carried his plate over to the table and set it down, sitting across from the teen. “Essentially what I said.”
Marty was still confused. “You mean how am I feeling physically? I’m not getting sick -- even if this place is drafty as hell.”
“No, I’m speaking more of your psychological health. You’re still having trouble adjusting?”
Marty snorted, looking into the dark depths of his cup of coffee. “No, I’ve got that under control now,” he said, slightly sarcastic.
Doc blinked twice. “You seem preoccupied lately.”
Marty shrugged, not having a clue what Doc was leading up to. “I’d rather be home now,” he said. “That’s pretty much it.”
He picked up a piece of bacon and popped it into his mouth, hoping that Doc would take the hint and drop the subject. He didn’t, of course.
“Is that all?” he asked. When Marty chose not to answer -- chewing on his food, instead, hoping to prolong it enough so Doc would move on with his Q&A -- the inventor added, “Are you aware that you’ve been talking in your sleep?”
Marty stopped chewing a second, staring at Doc, wondering if he was serious. He certainly looked like he was. The teen swallowed the food. “No,” he said cautiously, suddenly nervous. “What have I been saying?”
“Repetition of the same general words,” Doc said. “’No,’ for example, seems to be a particular favorite. I’ve also heard you murmur things about home, Jennifer, my name a few times... and Clara’s.”
Marty felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise up. For a quick second he had the oddest sense of deja vu, could almost but not quite remember the dreams he’d been having every night. Then it was gone, and he simply felt... exposed. He picked up another piece of bacon, trying to conceal his discomfort. His appetite had suddenly fled, but he took a bite of the food regardless. “Oh,” Marty said around the food.
“I know I’ve asked you this before,” Doc began, sound tentative, “but how do you feel about Clara?”
“Yeah, Doc, you have asked me this before,” Marty agreed, edgy. “And I told you before what I thought.” He was sick of the question.
Doc gave him another intense stare, the kind that seemed to Marty as if he was trying to read his mind. “If you dislike her, I won’t be offended,” he said softly.
Marty tossed the remaining piece of bacon on his plate, not able to fake his way through the rest of the meal. “I don’t hate her, Doc,” he said flatly -- which was the truth.
Doc didn’t say anything to that, waiting. When Marty offered no more, he finally broke the silence.
“I was going to go to San Francisco in a few days,” he said, the topic change coming from nowhere. “Did you want to accompany me?”
Marty was intrigued. “Why are you going out there?”
“I need to find an engagement ring for Clara,” Doc explained, suddenly looking nervous. “The trip would take three days -- it’s a good six or seven hour journey on the train one way.”
And back home it was just a few hours by car, Marty thought, a fresh wave of homesickness socking him. “Yeah,” he said, “that sounds fun. Clara’s not coming, I guess?”
“No,” Doc confirmed. “She is not.”
Marty was quietly pleased with the news -- and as Doc stood to bring his half-empty plate to the sink, he had a stunning realization.
This will probably be the last time me and Doc do something without her around. Because days later, the inventor would propose -- and then, from there on, Doc would be part of a matched set.
Marty’s mouth went dry, though this realization was nothing new. He took a sip of his coffee, then opened his mouth to sak Doc about that, about what would happen to them, to him, then.
“Hello?”
The words froze shy of his lips, catching in his throat, at the sound of Clara’s voice. He looked at Doc, at the startled but happy expression on his face at the sight of his girlfriend. Marty closed his mouth as the inventor went over to greet Clara with a kiss. His questions would have to wait -- again.
The train to San Francisco left Hill Valley at 8 A.M. Marty felt a little funny as he and Doc gave their tickets to the porter and boarded the passenger car. He wasn’t aware that his nerves, or whatever they were, were so obvious until Doc made a comment about it after they took their seats. (On padded benches -- with no headrests or arm rests.)
“Are you all right?” he asked. “You look a little pale.”
Marty shrugged, rubbing his forehead. “Is this the same train that we, uh... borrowed a few weeks ago?” He spoke quietly, lest anyone overhear. Not that that would be a problem, since people were chattering and getting settled, still.
“Not the same locomotive engine,” Doc said, also keeping his voice pitched low. “Whether or not there are the same passenger cars, I cannot say. But I do believe it’s a similar route. Clara told me she bought a ticket to San Francisco on the train we did, ah, borrow.” He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it down. It didn’t make any difference. Rain fell in cold misty layers beyond the window glass. Marty was glad they’d be in a hotel for a couple of days. He wondered how Doc had managed to avoid coming down with pnuemonia or something the previous winter, living in the leaky stable as he had.
“I guess this is the first time I’ve been on one of these things since the accident,” Marty said, looking about the passenger car. Above their heads were shelves of cord to stow luggage. The walls were paneled by a dark wood, and brass gas lamps were fastened every three windows. All the windows had individual shades, which could be closed with a tug of a cord. Marty guessed this was pretty comfortable travel for the times, but he had a feeling that by the time they reached their destination, he would be more than happy to depart.
“How fast will we be going?” he asked. Marty recalled, vaguely, speaking to the engineer when he and Doc were investigating ways to get the DeLorean up to eighty-eight. But that had been extreme speeds, looking at whether or not it was even feasible to get a steam train up to that speed. Not normal traveling speeds.
“I think anywhere from forty to forty-five,” Doc said.
That seemed ungodly slow to Marty. “Is that it? Even freeways start at fifty-five....”
“Yes, but automobiles don’t weigh nearly as much as a steam locomotive and train passenger cars,” Doc said softly. “And these vehicles are powered by steam, not gasoline, making it more difficult to achieve a prolongued high speed.”
“But you were going to get the train up to eighty-eight, right? Without gas?” Marty’s memories of that day, September seventh, were hazy at best, completely missing and blank at worst. He couldn’t remember anything, really, after the showdown with Buford Tannen. He thought -- or assumed, maybe -- that Doc had some way to get the train up to that kind of high speed, but....
“Yes,” Doc said. “The presto logs -- remember? I use those in the forge, normally, but those would’ve worked fine if the engine hadn’t derailed.”
If, Marty thought, hating that little word. Outside there was the brief blast of a whistle, and a vibration that Marty felt through the seats. Marty felt his heart give a fluttery little skip. He reached out and wrapped his fingers around the armrest next to the wall, tightening them into a strong grip. Doc noticed the manuver and gave him a brief smile, patting his arm.
“We’ll be fine,” he said, lowering his voice once more. “I imagine that if this train met with an unfortunate end, it would have been reported in the news media.”
“Yeah, but would you even notice something like that?” Marty muttered under his breath, annoyed at himself for being so anxious about the train ride. He wasn’t normally like this. “So since gas isn’t around now, does that mean you gotta use steam in the new machine?”
“That’s the most logical and likely source,” Doc said. “There isn’t much else available now that can cause the amount of power necessary to reach that speed.”
They lurched forward without warning, startling Marty, who found himself gripping the armrest all over again. He held his body tense as they car began it’s forward motion, slowly. As they picked up speed, and nothing happened, he exhaled slowly, turning his eyes from the window to look at the inventor next to him. To Doc’s credit, he wasn’t gawking at his friend’s reaction. Instead, he was reading the day’s edition of the Hill Valley Telegraph. Marty had noticed he had bought one of those right before they boarded the train, commenting that the ride would be a long one. The teen hadn’t realized just how long until now -- he mentally calculated their average speed, and the distance that they were from San Francisco and winced. That would be almost four hours of traveling.
And that’s if we don’t make any stops....
Which, Marty realized, was probably a foolish fantasy. “Doc, are we going to be stopping a lot?” he asked. “At other towns?”
Doc took a minute to answer. “On the journey out?” he asked, his eyes not leaving the page of the newspaper. “Oh, yes. We won’t reach San Francisco until late afternoon -- if there are no delays.”
Marty sighed, resting his forehead on the cool windowglass. “Perfect,” he muttered.
* * *
By the time they pulled into the train depo in San Francisco, it was almost five P.M. Doc was pleasently surprised that they arrived before sunset; he’d expected more delays than simply the stops at all the towns between Hill Valley and their destination. Of course, there were enough stops at small town train stations that Doc found himself, more than once, wondering if they would even arrive in San Francisco that day. His sentiments were echoed much more vocally by Marty, who seemed to find it inconcievible that a trip of 140 miles could take so long. The teen shuddered as they finally left the passenger car, stepping out into the cool, foggy air of the bay area.
“Is the return trip going to be as bad?” he asked.
“It would be unusual if it wasn’t,” Doc said. “But I warned you....”
Marty lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. They walked through the train station, bustling with a fair amount of activity even at this evening hour. Doc had not visited the city since his arrival in 1885, but he had a fair idea on what to expect from a general historical knowlege of the area and period. Marty, however, seemed to have no such prior education. When they left the train station and stepped onto the street, he blinked a few times, looking shocked.
“It’s.... What happened to the cirty?”
Doc glanced up and down the street. He took in the buildings, the unpaved and muddied streets, the horses and carriages, the long dresses and suits. He realized, with a touch of amazement, that things didn’t look very unusual or “wrong” to him. But to Marty, who still saw everything through future-tanited glasses, comparing everything around him to the way they would be in one hundred years....
“It’s 1885,” he said. “Not 1985.”
“I know, I know, but....” Marty was gawking so much he nearly walked right into some fresh horse manure. Doc hastily grabbed his arm and pulled him out of the path. Marty didn’t even notice. “Hill Valley kind of looked like Hill Valley, you know? But I don’t recognize anything here!”
“That’s not entirely surprising,” Doc said. “The 1906 Earthquake and subsequent fire destroyed large portions of the city. The city now bears little resemblence to the San Francisco we know now. And this is 1885 -- this is much more a frontier town, not a cosmopolitain mecca of sophistication or culture.”