Trapped has been revamped, thanks to all the suggestions from those on the BttF.com message board :) Besides the improvements suggested by my fellow Future Fans, I also moved the time of day the action starts forward three hours. Why? Well, I didn't think a football game would end at 12:00 in the afternoon (as another fan pointed out in another message). Thus, the time was changed to 3:21 to accomodate. The revision also added about 300 words. And I'm still open to make changes!

This Interlude (my first and only, thus far) was inspired by a topic on the BttF message board. This story takes place  in part 2 between the time Marty calls Doc to get him out of Biff's garage and the time Doc shows up. I wasn't exactly sure what was going to happen to get from point A to point B when I first sat down to write the opening scene, but I knew that I wanted to incorporate old Biff and Doc into it to advance the plot (and explain why both had been dawdling about all day that Saturday). For the BttF script aficionado, you'll notice a couple of scenes, one from the fourth draft of Back to the Future and the other from the revised draft of BttF part II (the only two scripts in my library, by the way). Also, I scripted a short deleted scene from the DVDs because, well, it all fit smoothly into the story. Can't say that I wasn't at all influenced by some of Kristen Sheley's vignettes. She did the whole mingling of scripts into fill-in-the-gap stories long before me. The tale clocks in at about 6,300 words and eleven pages.

Marty pushed against the garage doors. They didn't open. He pushed again, this time a bit harder. Nothing. Now he slammed his shoulder into the doors, ramming them once, then a second time. They wouldn't open. Frustrated, the teenager turned away from the doors and elbowed the wood behind him. Then he stepped forward, peering up at the oh-so-tiny set of three windows, bright rays of afternoon light shining through.

"I'm trapped," Marty muttered to himself, and reached into the pocket of the leather jacket he had purchased earlier in the day and whipped out the walkie-talkie Doc had given him that morning. "Doc! Doc, come in, Doc!" he called into the transponder.

"Marty, what's the report?" Doc's raspy voice came over the line.

Marty craned his neck to look at the windows, but they were much too high to see anything. "Biff's gone," he reported, leaping into the air in an attempt to get a better view out the windows. No luck. "He's got the book, the old man's gone, too," Marty continued, circling around Biff's car. "I'm locked in Biff's garage. You gotta fly the DeLorean over here and get me the hell outta here. The address is 1809 Mason Street."

Doc's response came over the walkie-talkie: "I can't take the DeLorean out in daylight. But don't worry, Marty. Somehow I'll get over there."

Marty didn't like the sound of that. It had taken Marty nearly a half hour to walk the two miles into town that morning, then another half hour to Biff's house. He didn't like the idea of leaving Biff alone with the almanac for one second longer, let alone an hour. There had to be another way. "Hello, Doc? Wait a minute, Doc." No answer. "Hey, Doc! Doc!"

Doc didn't reply. Irritated, Marty shoved in the long antenna of his walkie-talkie. "Perfect," he sighed sarcastically, dropping his head onto his arm and slamming it against the trunk of Biff's car. A moment later, he looked up and began scanning the garage, hoping to find some side-door he could escape from. There was none that he could see. There didn't seem to be any way out besides through the large double doors at the entrance. All the windows were too small for Marty to fit through, even considering his rather runty height.

It appeared he'd be stuck there for the next hour or so. At least, Marty thought positively, it's only an hour. What could possibly happen in an hour?

 Nothing had gone right since Doc had signed off with Marty. After jotting the address Marty had given him down in his little brown book found in the DeLorean's glove box, Doc had done his best to cover the DeLorean with some shrub stems, just in case someone ventured behind the Lyon Estates billboard. Then, making sure to grab his walkie-talkie and the rest of the 1950's bills from his "Emergency Cash" briefcase, Doc slipped on his dark peacoat and began the two mile hike into town.

He stayed away from the town square, more specifically the clock tower, where he knew his other self was finishing with the wire work that afternoon for the slightly younger Marty's transit to the future later that night. He definitely didn't want to get involved in any of that mess. He kept to the street sides on the outskirts of town, hoping to keep out of anyone's eye-sight. First thing he had to do was get himself some sort of disguise so he wouldn't be seen for who he truly was, a thirty-year older version of 1955 Doc Brown. That certainly had some potential for a paradox or two, if someone noticed both Doc's at once.

He remembered there was a clothing outlet not too far out of town, maybe fifteen minutes on foot, where he had sent Marty to get his 1950's clothes. He found it easily, having quite a sharp memory for seemingly inconsequential details. He never did take the time to learn his own phone number in both the 50's and the 80's (how likely would it be that he'd have to call himself?), but he knew where every store in town was and could reach any of them by more than one route (though he never took the time to learn the names of each street).

Bill's Clothing Emporium was the place's name, and he found it within a few minutes of reaching the street where he remembered it being located. Doc quickly stepped inside to search for a suitable costume for his brief journey to liberate Marty. The little bell on the door announced his entrance. Scanning the room for all but ten seconds, Doc finally settled on buying a simple hat. Placing it atop his head, the scientist looked himself over in a long mirror, folding his jacket closed and dipping the tip of the hat down to shadow his face. It would have to do, Doc decided. He didn't have time for anything more ornate. He moved to the front counter and purchased the brushed duck hat from Bill, then stepped back outside onto the street, placing the hat on his head without even thinking to pluck the price tag off.

Doc glanced at his wristwatch, which he had reset to correspond with the time of the day he was now in. It was after four o' clock, nearly an hour after Marty had called. It was time to get moving and find him. Doc quickened his speed, walking hurriedly down the walk. Now all he had to do was find Mason Street.

 Marty drummed his fingers against the frame of Biff's 1946 Ford impatiently. He had tried contacting Doc a few more times since the last time they'd spoken to no avail. He wasn't responding. Now Marty stood and began pacing, looking around the room. For what must have been the hundredth time, Marty went to the garage doors and peered through one of the tiny windows at the driveway beyond, hoping to see Doc, or even Biff returning to unlock the doors and free of this stuffy garage!

But still nothing. Marty again reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his walkie talkie. He held the device up to his mouth and called into it: "Doc? Doc, are you there?" He waited a few moments. "Doc?" Static replied.

"Damn!" Marty muttered under his breath, again returning the walkie-talkie to his pocket. What the hell was he doing? He should have been there by now. It felt like he had been waiting all day! An hour had to have passed by now. Marty again began circling around the exterior of the garage. He just couldn't understand it.

What the hell was keeping Doc?

 Doc made his way down Oak Street which was just outside of Hill Valley, trying his best to remember where Mason Street was located. Soon the street led to open acreage, and the few shops that littered the side of the pavement now began to disperse. After a while of walking, his mind completely preoccupied with trying to remember just how to get to Mason, Doc paused and looked around. Suddenly the road had become deserted, civilization nowhere to be seen. He turned and looked around. The scant shops that had been lining the street were a good distance off now. When had that happened? Doc turned to look straight ahead again. In 1985 this street would lead directly to the Hill Valley Cineplex, but now, in 1955, he wasn't sure where it would take him. He'd forgotten where he was for a moment and it probably had cost him some most precious time. He should have been more attentive.

Doc turned around to backtrack, fearing he'd get lost in the unfamiliar (or unremembered) territory. Then he noticed something out of the corner of his eye: A lone figure, slouched over and hobbling by assistance of a cane cutting across Oak Street a good distance back, emerging from behind a little store. He disappeared behind another building, then reemerged, walking slowly across the vast field on an angle away from Doc. He wore the tackiest checkered pants the scientist had seen and a long sleeved red shirt.

"Great Scott!" Doc mumbled under his breath and took a step back.

He knew who the figure was immediately. It was old Biff from the year 2015. The old man turned around and glanced over his shoulder. Doc's eyes went wide with shock as he looked directly in the scientist's direction and the old man did a double take, lest his eyes deceive him. Doc instantly retracted, backing away down the street toward the nearest buildings a few yards away and ducked into an alleyway.

Too late. Biff, squinting his eyes in suspicion, moved forward toward the street. "Brown," the geezer muttered to himself as he crossed the street. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Doc melded into the shadows as Biff passed the alley, the old timer looking straight ahead for the scientist. He shuffled down the street a distance and it led to a residential area, family houses on every corner. Old Biff looked around, struggling to discover where the scientist had disappeared to.

He looked down the street, then turned and looked in the opposite direction. Doc Brown was nowhere to be seen. As he scanned the area, searching for any sign of the time traveler, he heard a car horn blow from behind him. Biff turned around and saw a Packard convertible stopped in front of him, trying to pass down the street.

Biff recognized the young man who was driving. Marty McFly. He was wearing blue jeans and a fuchsia colored button-up shirt. Biff clenched his hands into fists, infuriated. How could Doc Brown and McFly have found out everything that he had told his younger self? He didn't seem to know who Biff was, though, now gesturing for the old man to move aside. Biff took a step back off of the street, dazed, and stepped onto the sidewalk. He watched as the car continued down the pavement and pulled up to the side of the street a few feet away, just outside a house, then backed into the driveway. As he climbed out of the car to go around to the front door, a teenaged boy of the time crossed the street and intersected Marty's path.

"Hey, you're Calvin Klein, right?" the kid asked.

"Uh, yeah," Marty answered, looking from side to side impatiently.

"I heard how you got Biff Tannen the other day," the 1955 teenager said, patting Marty on the back. Old Biff remembered the butt-head from school. He used to pick on the twerp all the time. "That was great! 'Bout time someone put that jerk in his place."

"Hey, thanks," Marty said, slipping away from the teenager. "I gotta go."

The teenager let him continue, taking a step to the side without argument.

Old Biff watched with wondering discernment. "Calvin Klein?" Biff mouthed to himself. Then he moved forward, following Marty's path. The teenager knocked on the front door of the house and a middle-aged woman answered. He was invited inside a moment later.

Doc fully stepped out of the shadows now, eyeing Biff fretfully. That had been Marty's younger self, the one who had been trapped in 1955 the day before. If old Biff somehow interfered with young Marty's actions it could cause a paradox of cataclysmic proportions! Doc reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his walkie-talkie. He'd better tell Marty about this new turn of developments.

"Marty," Doc spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Marty, there's been temporary hinderance."

"Doc!" Marty's voice came over the line, his voice cracking as he shouted. "Where the hell are you?"

Doc looked around for a street sign and saw one a few yards off. He squinted to read it. "I'm on Redwood Drive," he reported.

"Redwood?" Marty said. "Jesus, Doc, you're a hell of a long way from Mason! That's where my dad lives! What the hell is going on anyway?"

"Your dad?" Doc asked, now picking up his pace to follow Biff. "Marty, I just spotted old Biff and he came into contact with your younger self."

"My younger self?"

"Yeah," Doc replied. "He's tailing you. I'm going to follow Biff to see what he does."

"Doc, what about Biff?" Marty demanded.

"Biff?" Doc asked, completely confused. Hadn't he just told Marty that he was following Biff?

"Yeah," Marty answered. "Young Biff! The one with the almanac! Doc, you have to get me the hell out of here so I can find him!"

Doc paused for a moment, contemplating which situation required his assistance more. A half-second later he hastened to follow old Biff again. "I'm sorry, Marty, but old Biff interfering with your younger self could have a far worse effect on the space-time continuum than young Biff and the almanac. I'll have to deal with this event first."

How could anything be worse than that horrible reality they had seen back in 1985? "But Doc --" Marty began.

Doc pushed his antennae down and slid the walkie-talkie into his pocket. He didn't have the time to argue now. Biff had just turned a corner toward the house where Marty had parked Doc's Packard, presumably the home of Marty's father, George McFly. Doc hustled after him.

Doc followed Biff around to the backyard, through the front gate. Here he paused next to his old Packard to view Biff, who stood at the edge of the lawn, behind the house, watching the events happening in George's lawn. Doc took a few steps back and craned his neck to see into the lawn. There was Marty's younger self in the backyard with his father-to-be.

"--you punch me in the stomach," Marty said in mid-sentence, his hand on George's back, the teenager illustrating the events of the coming night, "I'm out for the count, right? And you and Lorraine live happily ever after."

"Oh, you make it sound so easy," George grinned bashfully. "I just ... I wish I wasn't so scared."

"George, there's nothing to be scared of," Marty insisted. "All it takes is a little self confidence." Marty paused. Then, placing his hand on George's shoulder, he said: "You know, if you put your mind to it, you can accomplish anything."

Doc tilted his head in wonder and amusement. Was that why Marty's father had always told him the exact same aphorism Doc had adopted and attempted to teach Marty all his life? Amazing how the circle of events had happened. But Doc pushed his thoughts away from this and turned his attention back to the yard and, more specifically, Biff.

"All right," Marty took a few steps away from his father. "Tell you what, George. Give me a shot. Right here," Marty pointed to his stomach.
"Give me your best shot right here."

"No," George objected. "I'm not going to hit you in the stomach."

"Come on, George," Marty prodded. "Come on, right here, come on."

George relented. He took a step toward Marty and jabbed his fist ever so lightly into Marty's abdomen. From the look of things, a light breeze would have done more damage. "There!" George cried, hoping Marty would let up now that he had finally 'hit' him. "That was good! She'll believe that! I know she will. I'm fine."

George took a step away from Marty and returned to the clothesline. "Tell you what, George," Marty said, following after his father. "Practice on this," Marty bent down and picked up the duffel bag of clothes he had brought along and swung it over his shoulder. Then he took the strap and hung it over the T-shaped pole that held up the clothesline in George's backyard.

George paused from his laundry duties and stood to look at the duffel bag now made punching bag. "Okay," George approached the bag. He readied himself, spread his legs, pulled his arm back, and threw a punch into the sack. It hardly swayed an inch.

"Come on, George!" Marty coaxed. "You can do better than that! Put a little emotion into it. A little hostility, a little anger."

George clenched his fists together and scrunched his face. He began turning red and it looked as if he was about to explode. He tossed another punch,this one having as little effect on the bag as the first punch. "No," Marty shook his head. "Anger, George, anger!"

George looked at his sweaty palms. "Maybe if I used my left ..."

"No, George," Marty turned his father back toward the bag. "Just concentrate on the anger. Anger." Marty emphasized.

George threw another punch. Marty sighed at how pathetic it was. How was he going to convince his mother that George was someone that could protect her when he couldn't even throw a decent punch? Marty was going to have to do one hell of an acting job. "Well," Marty finally spoke, rubbing the back of his head nervously, "I think you're starting to get the hang of it. Just keep practicing. I'll see you later." Marty turned to leave. "Remember," he looked back at George and made a fist: "Anger, George. Anger."

Marty turned and hurried away from the lawn. Doc immediately ducked away from the building and returned to the sidewalk. Biff remained where he was, and stepped in front of Marty's path. The teenager didn't seemed too concerned with the old codger, probably assuming he was some relative of his father's whom he had never met. Instead, he pushed past Biff only offering a mumbled "Excuse me." Doc watched from the pavement, quickly calculating all of his options. He was reluctant to stop old Biff. If he interfered, Biff might not bring the DeLorean back to the future, especially if he thought his mission was in jeopardy. He didn't want Biff to know he was following him, not unless it was completely necessary.

As Marty went to the Packard in the driveway, Biff held up his cane and shouted: "Hey!" Marty didn't look back. "Hey! McFly! Hey!"
Marty pulled open the driver's side door. A second later he stopped, realizing that something didn't add up considering what he had just heard. Marty turned slowly to look over his shoulder. He stared at the old man who now hobbled up to him. "What'd you call me?" Marty asked.

Biff moved right in front of him. Doc stayed near the houses and the shadows, observing everything that was happening carefully. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, McFly," Biff grinned and raised his cane above his head. "But you're not going to get away with it!"

Marty squinted at the old man. "Who the hell are you?"

Biff didn't bother to reply, instead striking the top his cane down hard on Marty's head. Marty grasped his scalp, feeling the damage the old man had done. He was still pretty strong for a seventy-eight year old. Marty's head was spinning and, as a final blow, Biff swung his staff up and struck Marty across the face. The teenager was toppled backward by this blow and collapsed on the street, the back of his head striking the pavement with a thud! that knocked Marty out instantly. Smiling to himself, Biff stuck the cane under his arm and picked up Marty by his shoulders and began dragging him across the sidewalk.

Was it time for Doc to intervene yet? He knew that if Marty's younger self didn't make it to the dance that night that there would be a major paradox. But revealing himself to Biff could have a similar effect if it caused Biff to not bring the DeLorean back to 2015. He glanced at his watch. It was few minutes until five o' clock. He still had some time, but he didn't want to wait too long. At around eight o' clock that night Marty was supposed to write the letter that would save Doc's life. Whatever happened, Marty had to be in the town square at that time, not just for Doc's sake, but for the sake of the entire universe!

As he slinked forward to follow Biff, Doc came to the inevitable conclusion that it was going to be a very long day.

 Marty was going stir crazy! He paced around the interior of Biff's garage, constantly running his hands through his hair. This was nuts! They had shown up that day to get the almanac from Biff and the only thing Marty had accomplished was getting some exercise by doing laps around Biff's carport. He paused to look up at the windows near the roof of the garage again and leaped to look out them. He couldn't see anything.

He went back to the garage doors and peered out one of the windows. Nothing. It was getting dark now, the sun having already begun its descent toward the ground. Time had been ticking by slowly. It felt like he had spent a week in that cramped garage! But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe Doc wasn't taking as long as Marty thought he was. Then again, Doc had warned Marty of how imperative it was to get the almanac away from Biff as soon as possible. If he looked at the book and made a mental note of any one game's final score it could still considerably alter history. Marty wasn't sure how large of an effect that would have, but he knew that Doc was right. The longer Biff had the book, the less likely it became that they could repair their reality.

Marty heaved his shoulder into the garage doors again. They hardly moved. He rubbed his aching shoulder gently. He wasn't going to get out. Not unless someone let him out. Marty reached for his walkie-talkie again. He had to know what Doc was doing!

He had to get out of there!

 Doc kept a good few paces behind Biff. The old codger moved slowly, dragging the inert body of Marty's past self with him. He stopped every few minutes and dropped the teenager to take a breath and rest. It was slow moving, taking this into account. Doc had more than once been tempted to run up and grab Marty's other self to pull him to safety during one of these intervals. But he knew that would do no good. Biff would spot him instantly and refuse to leave 1955 until he was sure Marty and Doc were gone.

That would be most problematic.

Doc glanced at his watch. It was almost six o' clock. The sun had already set, night taking command of the sky, and for the past hour Doc had been following Biff. He had made little progress, perhaps traveling a mile at the most. Doc didn't want to wait much longer. If Biff didn't leave Marty and return to the DeLorean to head back to the future soon, Doc would have to put a stop to the old man's foolish games.

But for now, Doc continued to follow him. Biff picked up Marty by the shoulders again and began to drag him across the sidewalk pavement. As he took a slow step forward to follow, Doc heard a smothered call from inside his coat pocket. He ignored it, placing his hand over the object in his pocket to muffle the sound. Marty had been trying to contact him ever since the incident with old Biff had occurred. Doc chose to ignore the teenager's requests for fear that Biff would hear him respond and Doc's cover would be blown.

It looked like Biff was going to take a break again. As he stopped to drop Marty, Biff took a look around. He seemed to notice one of the buildings. His eyes going wide, the old timer dragged Marty toward the house and into the driveway. Here he propped the teenager against the back bumper of the Sedan parked outside the garage and began to circle around the driveway, his thoughts lost in reminiscence. He stepped up to the garage and looked up longingly at the basketball hoop fixed at the top. Then, after a few moments of staring blankly around, he returned to the car, a slight grin on his face, and leaned up against the vehicle, dabbing his damp forehead with a rag from his pocket. Doc kept himself hidden near a tree next to the neighboring house, continuing to spy on Biff.

As Biff took some time to relax, the back door to the house behind him was thrown open and three figures came out, laughing jovially and moving toward the car in the driveway. The first one, a boy with a short hair cut, came out spinning a key ring around his forefinger. He stopped mid-stride when he spotted Biff and looked at the old man angrily, grinding his teeth behind his lips. The boy behind him, who had a match clenched between his teeth, took the match out from his mouth and stared, too. The final boy wore a pair of 3-D glasses. He lifted these away from his nose to look at the man, making sure the glasses he was wearing weren't playing tricks with his eyes.

Skinhead took a step toward the old man. "Hey, geezer! Get off my car, huh?"

Biff turned, noticing the boys for the first time. He moved away from the car and smiled. He recognized his old clique instantly. "This isn't your car, butt-head!" It belonged to his father, Biff remembered. He had been the only one of the group who had actually owned his own form of transportation back in those days.

"And how would you know?" Match said as Skinhead circled around to face Biff, the other two boys following behind.

"Hey," Skinhead said, staring Biff up and down. He grabbed hold of Biff's shirt and said: "Check out his clothes! Wild threads, grampa!"

Biff lifted his cane and swatted Skinhead's hand away, waving the staff at the boys. "You boys just get outta here!"

"Get a load of the cane!" 3-D laughed, grabbing for Biff's cane. The old man resisted, but 3-D finally took a hold of it and snatched it from his grasp. "Hello?" the teenager laughed, striking Biff lightly on the head with the knuckle-shaped brazen top, imitating their leader. "Anybody home?"

"You give that back!" Biff commanded, reaching out for the cane.

3-D pulled the cane away and instead gave Biff another knock on the head for good measure, this one a bit harder. Biff moaned with pain and this seemed to make the group laugh even harder. "Damn fools!" Biff grabbed for the cane again and this time got a hold of it. 3-D let him take it without resistance.

"Beat it, grampa," Match said finally, "before you get hurt."

Biff hesitated. He glanced down toward Marty's body, wondering what he should do. The boys noticed this and, too, looked down. "Hey!" Skinhead said and went around to the back of his car. He kneeled down and stared at the unconscious teenager. "It's that Calvin Klein guy!"

3-D joined him, again removing his glasses to get a better look. "Hey, it is!" the boy confirmed.
Match shoved old Biff aside and went to join his cronies. Old Biff watched as one of he boys slapped Marty once across the face to see if he was awake. Deciding that the teenager was taken care of and, most likely would no longer be a threat to his plans, Biff looked up at the sky, saw that the sun had now completely disappeared beyond the horizon, and hastened to find where it was he had parked the DeLorean and return to his soon to be more successful future.

As Biff hobbled away from the house, Doc stood erect and took a step toward the three goons. At least he didn't have old Biff to worry about. Now all he had to do was get Marty away from those hooligans!

"What should we do with him?" Match stood and began looking around.

"Hey!" Skinhead stood as well. "Check it out! It's Biff!"

He pointed toward the street a few yards away. Biff was walking toward the house. He wore a colorful button-up short sleeved shirt and blue jeans. "Hey, let's get him!" 3-D called. "He'll want to take care of this!"

"Yeah!" Match cried, laughing hysterically. Then all three boys ran away from the garage toward Biff.

Doc didn't hesitate any longer. He rushed into the driveway and picked Marty's younger self up, slipping his hands under Marty's arms and dragging him across the pavement. He didn't stop until they were at the other end of the neighboring house. Here he pulled Marty out of the street and into the shadows where they wouldn't be seen.

The three boys returned a moment later, Biff in tow. "All right," Biff demanded. "What'd you guys want to show me?"

The three boys looked around questioningly. Calvin Klein had disappeared! "He's gone!" Skinhead murmured. "Where'd he go?"

"Who?" Biff demanded.

"Calvin Klein," 3-D answered. "He was just here!"

"Calvin Klein?" Biff demanded, his face reddening. "You saw him?"

"Yeah," Match answered.

Biff looked around. "Well, he ain't here now. You guys going to that dance tonight?"

"What for?" 3-D asked.

"Because," Biff replied, "that son of a bitch is gonna be there and I've got five presents for him." Biff raised his hand and lowered each of his five fingers one at a time, counting each one off as he balled his hand into a fist: "One. Two. Three. Four. Five!" He raised his fist and shook it at his cohorts.

"Yeah?" Skinhead asked excitedly. "Sure, we'll be there then, Biff!"

"All right," Biff nodded and began walking away from the house. "I'll meet you there!"

"Where you going?" Match called after him as he departed.

Biff turned around and looked back. "I'm gonna go get dressed!" Biff tugged on his shirt collar. "I wanna look my best when I pound that son of a bitch's face in!"

The conversation ended, Biff stepped onto the sidewalk and began walking back the way he had come. Doc peered around the house corner, struggling to keep Marty off the ground. He could just see the top of the red almanac peeking out from Tannen's back pants pocket. But he couldn't follow him now! He had to get Marty's younger self to safety, and then there was still his Marty to worry about!

Once Biff's three goons had gone back inside to change clothes for the dance, Doc hurriedly dragged Marty away from the neighborhood and back toward George McFly's home on Redwood Drive. He'd have to get his Packard from the driveway first, then he would drive Marty to the town square and drop him off, after he made sure he was completely aroused.

Doc wasn't surprised Biff had stopped so many times. Marty didn't weigh much considering his height, but it was still terribly exhausting hauling his lifeless form around. Doc had to pause a couple of times himself. Finally, though, less than an hour later, he had made it back to George's house. Pulling open the passenger's door, Doc slid Marty into the passenger's seat, then went around to the driver's side door and climbed in behind the steering wheel. Taking another look at his watch and seeing it was after 6:30, Doc found the keys to the car in Marty's pants pocket, started the engine, and pulled out onto the street, speeding toward the center of Hill Valley.

Fifteen minutes later he pulled the car up to the side of Hill Street. The lightning experiment was set up by now, though Doc's younger self nor the DeLorean were anywhere to be seen. If the scientist remembered correctly, he had returned home to secure the time machine on a dolly that would later be hooked up to the Packard and towed to the clock tower. Marty was supposed to meet him back at his house.

Doc climbed out of the car and slid Marty into the driver's seat. He bent over the teenager's form and began gently slapping his face in an attempt to arouse him. He didn't stir.

"Come on, Marty!" Doc begged. He glanced up at the clock tower. It was two minutes until seven o' clock. "Marty!" Doc pleaded in a whisper. "Marty!"

Finally, the teenager began to come to awareness. He moved his head from side to side, his eyes still closed. "Huh?" Marty muttered.

Doc stood suddenly and quickly left the teenager's side. He didn't think it would be a good idea if he saw him then. It might cause some problems. As Doc disappeared into an alley, Marty sat up slowly. He touched the top of his aching head and looked around curiously.

"Where am I?" the teenager asked aloud. He felt around and now noticed he was in Doc's 1948 Packard. "What the hell?" The loud bing bong! chime from the clock tower interrupted his curious musings. His eyes jolted up to the clock-piece. It was seven o' clock! Where had he been all day? The last thing he remembered, he had been explaining to George what he was to do that night at the dance. He was supposed to pick up his mother at eight-thirty! Without delay, Marty started the car and pulled out of the town square, driving toward Doc's mansion a few miles away. Whatever had happened that day didn't matter. He had to get moving or else he wouldn't live to see another day! Or rather, he wouldn't be born to see any day!

As the Packard disappeared from the square, Doc stepped out of the shadows, sighing with relief. That mess was solved anyway. But there was still something else that had to be done. He had to get Marty out of Biff's garage! And there wasn't much time before the dance began! He would never make it there on time, not on foot and not before Biff arrived and found the teenager himself. Doc began to survey the buildings around him and noticed, a few yards off, a bicycle shop. He moved quickly.

He hustled to the front door of Schwinn Bikes and entered. Glancing around, the scientist quickly picked out a bicycle, the cheapest one he could fine. It was a red and blue bike with tassels hanging out either end of the handlebars. He used the last of his fifties money to purchase it and returned to the street, hauling the bike along in his arms. He set it down and climbed on. It had been a while since he had ridden one, but he was going to have to move fast if he was going to get to Marty before Biff left for the dance. He pushed off and placed his feet on the pedals. He was wobbly at first, but soon he began to get the hang of it again. He pedalled fast, hoping that he'd make it to Mason Street before Biff did.

 Marty had heard Biff return home an hour earlier. He had tried to contact Doc again, but he still wasn't responding! What had he been doing all day? Now Marty heard a noise from inside the house. He went around to a window which looked out to Biff's home and watched as Biff banged through the back door, a white tie now wrapped around his neck and carrying a gray wind-breaker in one hand, dressed as formerly as Biff Tannen knew for the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. Biff paused, looking rather disturbed, and called back to the house: "I told you grandma, I'm going to the dance!"

"The dance," Marty murmured to himself. Immediately he left the window and jumped into the back seat of Biff's car. Wherever Doc had been all day, it didn't matter. Biff was back.

A moment later, Biff threw open the double doors and flicked on the garage light. He climbed into his car, setting the elusive almanac Marty had been trying so hard to get his hands on all day on the dashboard. Marty peered up from the back seat to see what Biff was doing. He ducked down instantly as Biff put his arm over the top of the passenger's seat and looked back over his shoulder to pull out of the garage.

Biff pulled his car out of the driveway and onto Mason Street. He passed an elderly man on a bicycle who was riding in the middle of the road. Doc swerved around Biff's car to avoid being hit. The scientist had been staring at his brown address book, not paying attention to the car that had just pulled out in front of him. Luckily, he was able to steer around it. Now that he had successfully found Mason Street, it was only a matter of finding Biff's house. He glanced up from the address book to a house toward his left. No, that wasn't it. He looked to the house on the right. Yes, that was it! 1809!

Doc turned into the house's driveway and coasted toward the garage. Odd. The garage doors were set wide open and the entire carport was empty, void of car and teenager. Doc climbed off the bike and looked around inside. "Marty?" he whispered. "Marty? Marty!"

He turned the bike around and headed back toward the street, looking back and forth. "Marty! Marty!" The price tag that was still attached to his hat flipped in front of his eyes. "Damn!" Doc cried with aggravation, ripping the tag off of his hat. After all that, Marty wasn't even there! "Where is that kid?"

The scientist looked around one last time, then, frustrated and exhausted, sped off to begin his search anew.