“All right! What’s going on here?”
To George McFly, the grating sound of tyrannical Gerald Strickland’s voice was simultaneously welcome and infuriating. Having been kept prisoner in the High Valley High gymnasium men’s room for close to twenty minutes, he had no desire to continue in his present state; on the other hand, the perverse action of his tormentors did provide him with a built-in excuse not to carry out Marty’s plan. Even more important was that the excuse was acceptable to George himself. When he had entered the men’s room, there was still time to play his part; now it was unlikely he would have to do so.
“Nothing, sir,” one of George’s captors replied fearfully.
“I smell cigarette smoke. Does anybody here have cigarettes?”
“No…sir.”
“I’ll give you one chance to hand over the packs now. If I search you and find cigarettes, it’ll be a lot harder on you.”
In his cubicle, George heard the sound of material being torn and thrown in the trash can.
“That’s better,” Strickland said. “Now clear out of here.” George gently pushed open the door of the stall and stepped out. Strickland eyed him coldly.
“What’s been going on here, McFly?” he asked.
“Nothing, sir.”
>
“Bull droppings. I saw you go in here twenty minutes ago. Why were you here that long?”
“Nothing important, sir. We were just fooling around. You know…”
“Well, never mind. The dance is just about over. You’d better get back to your—never mind, I don’t suppose you have a date.”
He made a motion toward the door. George took the cue and darted out of the men’s room. As he moved through the hallway outside of the gymnasium, he saw that the dance floor was almost completely crowded and the lights very low, indicating that the final number was about to begin. Although he doubted that Marty was still manhandling Lorraine in the parking lot, George decided to make a dutiful appearance and explain the reason for his delay.
Walking briskly onto the parking lot, he headed for the spot where Marty had parked the Packard. At first, his eyes caught no sign of a struggle but just as he sighed with relief he realized he was in the wrong lane. Doubling back, he walked toward the correct area, approaching the Packard from the rear.
“Damn,” he whispered.
The scenario was still in progress, just as if time had stopped for more than twenty minutes so that he could accomplish his mission.
Taking a deep breath, he began to run toward the car.
Through the windows he could see arms and even what he judged to be legs flailing. Lorraine was screaming as the male figure pressed his body against hers and groped wildly with his hands.
“Holy cow,” George muttered. “It looks like Marty is going all out.”
Arriving at the car, he adjusted his pants and took a couple of steps, John Wayne-style. Then, reaching out to grab the door handle, he jerked it open as roughly as possible, thrust his head into the car and said in a loud, forceful voice: “Hey, you! Get your damn hands off—”
The face of the attacker twisted in his direction and George immediately recognized it.
“I think you got the wrong car, McFly,” Biff said.
“George! Help me!” Lorraine cried.
For a moment, George stared in dumbfounded amazement. A hurricane of partially formed thoughts rushed through his mind. Was Marty behind this? Was there a slim possibility Biff was in on it, too? Should he run? Or was it too late to back out now? He stared into the angry eyes of Biff Tannen, searching for clues, but saw only hostility. And—yes! there was a flicker of fear there, too. He had been caught in a potentially damaging situation that cried out for immediate action. George McFly must be frightened away and later intimidated into silence. If he ran and brought help—
“Just close the door and walk away, McFly,” Biff said evenly.
George didn’t move. A part of him had already reached the verge of panic, but another part of him simply would not allow his feet to move. He saw a quick flash of that scene in grade school five years ago when he had been unable to come to the aid of his friend Billy Stockhausen. Since that moment, he had feared physical combat, had learned to anticipate it and avoid it. But there was no avoiding this crisis unless he just turned and ran. The look of utter fear on Lorraine’s face prevented that.
“Are you deaf, McFly?” Biff demanded, his voice losing all restraint. “I told you to close the door and beat it! Now do it!”
George took a deep breath.