There's Still Time

by ReluctantPsychic.

The rifle in his hands felt heavy, laden with the weight that always seemed to lay upon his shoulders. Not much longer though, and this would all be over. No more Armageddon, no more nightmares. At least that's what he kept telling himself. "Not much longer and this'll be finished, nothing to worry about." he muttered into the darkness. Change one detail, and all of life changes That's how it worked, and this was no different..

Crouched down, Johnny Smith shifted slightly, the damaged hip and leg gave a groan of pain and protest as he moved, and he bit down hard on his lip to stop the moan of pain from leaving his lips, and giving his position away. Swallowing it down, he shifted once more. The hall below him was slowly beginning to fill with people. "This is it.. No going back now." he murmered to himself, inching the rifle slightly out of his view, to eye the people below..

This was the only way to do things, he was sure of it. No one knew of his plans, not his friends, not even his lover.. They would only try and talk him out of it. But there were other things his friends also weren't aware of. The ticking time-bomb in his head for example. A tumour they called it. "There's still time.." His own words echoed through his mind, sure there was still time left, but not much for him. As morbid as that sounded, it was the truth. "How ya doin' Cleaves Mill?!" the raucious voice called down below, breaking the psychic from his own trail of thought. There he was, Greg Stillson, the target. Johnny's eyes narrowed slightly, and his grip around the rifle tightened. The chorus of people gave excited squeals in answer, and Stillson grinned a big, wide, toothy grin as he wondered towards the podium.

No time like the presant. Johnny nodded to his own thoughts in silence, and slowly rising, lowered the rifle towards his target, he could see Stillson clearly, and his finger dropped to the trigger, laying there a moment. A shout errupted from the crowd below, someone had spotted him, and the glint from the metalic weapon in his hands. Bang, bang! Two shots thrust from the long muzzle of the gun as John's finger squeezed the trigger. Another scream, and Greg Stillson was blown backwards, blood pooling from the two bullet holes in his chest, and he'd stopped moving.

Squeezing again, Johnny fired off another round, missing and cursing as the slugs slammed into the wood of the podium, splintering it to a million pieces, another scream rang out, and with a gasp, Johnny felt himself flying backwards, his shoulder and neck felt like they were on fire, and he was vaguely aware of the blood pissing from his wounds. "Shit." his weak voice rang out, and he stumbled forwards, dropping the rifle, and clutching at the wounds on his body. Another shot, and he was tumbling over the rails, falling, and flailing as he hit the floor below, bones breaking and snapping.. And then ... Darkness..

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A scream pierced the dark night, and Johnny sat bolt upright in bed, sweat pouring down his face and neck as he clutched at the bedsheets... A dream? It had all been a dream? Pale blue eyes widened, and he reached one hand around the back of his neck, rubbing slowly there as his racing heart slowed.. A dream, that's all it had been, he hadn't really crossed than thin line between psychic and psychotic, and he certainly didn't have a tumour. Breathing a short, uneven breath of relief, Johnny turned to his side, snuggling up to the body besides him, and clinging.. Whatever the future held.. It wouldn't be that.
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