A/N- this was supposed to be a series, but the first chap. was better. Here's my disclaimer, as well as my begging for reviews. Anway, read and enjoy.

John Connor leaned back against the cool strength of the headboard, a drink in one hand and the other resting on his lap. He crossed his ankles and closed his eyes. The drink slid down his throat like poison, sitting leaden in his stomach like a coiled snake. Beside him, Catherine lay half-curled on the bed, one hand flung limply off the side. Her glassy eyes stared off at nothing, the gun on the floor still smoking faintly. The rounded curve of her belly strained against the torn cloth of her over-sized t-shirt, and she rested lifelessly on the dirty sheets.

Maybe, John mused. Maybe another week or so. I would've been a daddy.

Not anymore, though. It was too late.

Sitting here, next to a body that a few hours ago had been a living, breathing girl, was strange. He could still see here. Less than an hour ago she'd been sitting in the chair against the far wall, feet propped up on the grimy mattress, eating ice cream out of the carton. He could see her smoky ghost now, laughing at whatever he'd said that had been so funny.

Whatever he'd said that had made them forget, just for a moment, what they were meant to do. Had made them feel like a regular old couple.

Now the carton sat in the chair, ice cream melted in the heat. Thin white rivulets ran down the green fabric of the seat, dripping steadily onto the rug. The dented spoon was sitting on the floor, hidden in meadows of the shag carpeting.

The blood, wet and crimson stuck to his leg. It had lost the heat of her body, and now it was cold. Almost slimy. Like something that had been flayed open, and now he was sitting in it.

John could already hear the screams and explosions from outside. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, letting it catch the dying rays of suns, casting glittering light on the surface. He stared at the bad art on the opposite was, and suddenly his whole life seemed like one long, sick joke. It was all crashing down around him, like some sort of turbulent, apathetic punch line.

He suddenly recalled the first time he'd felt the baby kick. Catherine, glowing with pride, tawny hair curling behind her ears. John remembered kneeling in front of her, an ear pressed against the taut skin of her pale belly.

"Gonna be a troublemaker, huh?" She grinned. "Just like papa."

He felt tears burning the back of his eyes, and blinked them away rapidly. He felt the heat of the flames, felt the ground tremble. Outside his door, a baby was crying, and someone was screaming a prayer in Spanish. John closed his eyes and finished his drink and set the glass on the table. He stood carefully, brushing himself off and getting dressed. He closed Catherine's blank eyes, kissing her forehead one last time before raising the sheet and covering her bloodied face. He opened the door and stepped into Hell.

People were running through the dusty streets, trailed by ghostly black fingers of smoke. Buildings lay in ruins, shattered by bombs and speckled with gunshots and blood. Flames licked up towards the heavens. John walked against the massive crowd, dodging frantic, injured people hauling suitcases and children. He headed for the shattered foundation of the monstrous church. His boots crunched over the broken stained glass and chunks of stone. He walked through the fire, looking up to the sky now dark with nuclear warfare.

Judgment day was supposed to be the day the sinners were left behind while the saints were embraced by the omnipotent lord.

There was no judgment in this. They were all going to die and it was all his fault. He was supposed to be Atlas, the weight of the world thrust upon his shoulders. Called upon to be the messiah of the human race. And here he was, falling apart.

He stood as tall as his mother had taught him. Stay strong and keep your back straight, and walk through Hell. Take it like a man, and don't let them see your fear.

Maybe today wasn't such a good day to die. He had lost it all, and he'd failed all he had been born to do. But Sarah Connor never backed down, and dammit neither would her son.

John Connor walked through God's House, and waited for judgment to pass.