The door sprang open causing the never-been-oiled hinges to squeal rather then squeak and Marty jumped. Doc was standing on the other side, and for a split moment he did not notice his visitor. As his eyes brightened, a grand smile covered his face. Marty stood statue still, not yet recovered from his shock.
“Marty!” Doc exclaimed, reaching out a hand and grabbing his friend by the shoulder. “We must get started immediately.” Doc pulled at Marty’s shoulder, lifting the soles of his sneakers away from the ground and throwing him inside the vast mansion. Marty grunted in mild disapproval, but said nothing.
He reached the door to Doc’s basement, and hesitated. Doc would already be down there preparing to reveal whatever had him so overexcited, and as pre-usual Marty was curious, but reserved. He readied himself for anything, then went down.
A smell, one not noticed from the top of the stairs, was tough enough to gag a maggot. Marty covered his nose and mouth until he found it bearable, but the endurance one can find in the mixed aroma of burned rice, boiling trash juice, and a hint of musky laundry he could not fathom. He did get used to it, but not by way of time and adaptation, but because the ceiling downstairs was well raised, and the stench seemed to be an invisible cloud hanging just over head, determined to remain still and collect strength.
The basement was in shambles. Normally, the entire mansion would be cluttered with minor litter, -- discarded notes, unusable or non-recyclable computer parts, and so on -- but the basement and shed were laboratories for Doc’s work, and usually immaculate in sterility. The place Marty was standing in was far from all realms of norm. Dirty underwear, quick meal containers, and several used toothbrushes covered most of the floor.
He lifted his foot after stepping on something with a crunching sound, and found a bag of half eaten chips with a piece of paper stuffed inside. He picked up the bag, and while removing the paper for better inspection he said, “Love what you’ve done with the place Doc,” but received no response from his friend as he read what he found. A page of dates -- years only -- from 1980, to 2155, some circled. Confused, he dropped the items to the floor, and kicked them aside. “Well get our decorators together for lunch someday,” he said while he took in his surroundings.
His friend was working at a long read oak table once used for dining, now used for several computer towers and monitors. His back was turned, and he was bouncing back and forth between keyboards, each of a different color. Every time he switched keyboards, his gaze changed monitors. The white keyboard seemed to be operating the commands on the cattycornered monitor on the left that was keeping company with a silver bowling ball with glowing red finger holds. Doc doesn’t bowl, Marty thought, Does he? Finally there was the black keyboard that operated all four monitors along the back, and the grey that changed the black from one to the other.
To the right of the table, a white-board and black-board sat with random scribbles he could not define. The foot of the chalkboard was propping up a gun of some sort. It was a new weapon in Doc’s collection if Marty was not mistaken. He tried to hone his site in on the weapon, but his stare was stolen by what lay behind it. A long white operating table, covered in red.
He swung his head to the left, stifling the sounds of his gagging with the back of his hand. He took a deep breath and held. Once he was sure he wasn’t going to add to the mess on the floor, he opened his eyes.
In the left corner lay a haphazard pile of computer towers and parts shadowed by a large steel cabinet. Twice the width and depth of a coffin, and approximately seven and a half feet in height, the cabinet brought goose bumps to the surface of his skin.
This cant be Doc’s basement, he thought. Doc’s a scientist sure, but not a mad-scientist. He spun around quick enough to make his vision swim, and his arms pinwheel. Facing the stairs now, he saw on his right was a glass box large enough to sustain four men standing or lying down comfortably. The floor inside of it was pock marked with circular divots of varying depths with speckles of burnt something’s at their bottoms, and all the size of a standard basket ball.
Beside it, a home made dummy with a blank stare looked back at him. He recognized the material instantly from television as ballistics gel. Surrounding the dummies prop stand were remnants of its predecessors limbs and torso and all of them bore deep burn scars in fist sized circles, some driving strait through the limb leaving a tube of black ash. Beyond the stairs, further left, sat another table with a folly of items he could not to survey from the position he was in.
At the end of the room, beyond all the confusion, Doc had set himself up with a makeshift apartment. Kitchen to the right, -- filthy and breeding flies -- bedroom ( if it could be called that ) to the left -- unclean clothes and sheets galore -- the exit to the stables out back wedged in-between.
He swung around once more, and found his grey haired friend smiling at a computer screen. His spin was timed perfectly as Doc pressed the enter key on the black keyboard twice, then circled around in his office chair. His smile turned to a grimace of mild confusion when he witnessed his friend, cross legged and wobbly footed, eyes saucer wide, arms out for balance, staring at him in fear. “Marty, what’s wrong?” he said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
Timid, and unaware of the volume of his voice, Marty yelled, “What the fuck is going on here Doc?” Doc waved a dismissive hand through the air with his smile returning. When Marty continued, his vocals strengthened. “You call me over after close to a year, and your house looks like a scene from a scary movie.”
“Calm down Marty,” Doc said, “this place is nothing of the sort. All of that over there,” he pointed to the operating table, “is bovine in origin. Not human, and therefore, not to be feared.”
Marty didn’t move. Couldn’t move. Putting a face to the blood helped nothing. Doc could see that, but barreled onward anyway.
“Marty I’m sorry to drag you into all of this, but I’m afraid you’re the person I trust most, and I need your help with something of great importance.”
Marty straitened himself out, then asked what Doc needed him to do with a troubled quiver coming from somewhere in his throat.
Doc pushed himself in his chair a few inches to the right along the computer riddled table, pushing trash to and fro, then pointed at something on the left. Marty followed his fingers lead. The thing he had earlier mistaken for a silver bowling ball, was actually a skull of high polished steal, and glowing red eyes with an unmistakable stare.
“Whoa, nice prop Doc,” Marty said, reaching for the scull. Doc smacked his hand hard, and Marty withdrew with a yelp.
“That,” Doc said, “is no movie prop.”
“Whatever you say Doc,” Marty returned. He peered around the large table looking for something to sit on and produced a folding aluminum chair from a shadowy area. Marty opened it, turned it backward, and sat. “So why do you keep it down here in the dungeon?”
“I can prove it.”
“How?” he asked, then laughed.
“Quite simple,” Doc said, reaching for Marty’s arm. Marty shied away slightly, but Doc’s hand snapped outward catching it. “I just need your watch Marty,” he said, removing Marty’s digital watch with the ease of a big city pickpocket.
He turned to his computer station, sliding one of the keyboards back, and removing a multi tool from the breast pocket of his lab coat. He set Marty’s watch down, opened the tool, and began removing the wrist band.
“Doc,” Marty interrupted, “Level with me real quick. What’s all this about?”
Doc shook his head, still smiling, then said, “If you remember, a few months ago, a kind friend told me to sit back and relax with a few movies, rather then over exert myself with time travel experiments. That friend,” he looked up for a moment, “put a great deal of emphasis on a particular franchise because he thought it would entertain, as well as enlighten, without knowing --”
“-- Your talking about The Termin --”
“-- how real they are,” he looked back down at his work. The watch was prepared for his demonstration. “And please, no further interruptions.” Doc rolled his chair to the other side of his drawing boards. Marty got out of his chair, waded through the trash and stopped when he reached his waiting friend.
To Be Continued…
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