Flash Fiction–200 words at a time–Part Two

Here’s the next instalment of Chuck Wendig’s 200 Words At A Time challenge.

I chose the 200 words written by Athena, so the first 200 of this are hers, the next 200 are mine.

Blurred, crystalline shapes whined into view.

Rebecca blinked, but otherwise kept still while she assessed the damage. The glass had exploded inward, which bothered her less because it had knocked her down, and more because exploded inward was a contradiction. She didn’t like that.

Her habit had protected her ears and God had protected her eyes. Her hands hadn’t been so well looked after.

She put a cautious, bleeding hand on a pile of glass cubes, another on bare concrete, and started to push herself up. For the first and – she hoped – only time, she was glad Mother Superior insisted on those ugly, thick-soled shoes. Her stilettos never would have gained traction.

A hand appeared in front of her. She took it without questioning its origin. It was strong, warm, masculine. She was happy to allow the man to help her stand, to accept her glasses as he handed them back. For a second, Rebecca let herself believe she might escape. She put her glasses on.

She started, which startled the man. His one hand hung awkwardly in the air, as if he was still waiting for her to take her glasses; the other rested on his gun.

—————————————————————————

“You should go, sister” he said. “You can get out the back. I think it’s still clear.” His voice was deep, pitched so low she almost didn’t hear what he said. She looked around, saw where her bag had landed in the blast, and retrieved it. The man had lowered his hand, but still looked at her.

“Thank you,” she said, and ran out the back into a deserted alley. The city was strangely silent, she thought, then realized that the blast had nearly deafened her. That was why she could barely hear the man. She stopped, backed against a brick wall next to a dumpster, and reached into her bag. She found the Walther PPK’s grip, ran her thumb across its engraved Lorraine cross, and said a short prayer. She tucked the bag behind the dumpster, took a deep breath and sprinted out of the alley and toward the storefront.

Drawing up short of the corner she heard isolated bursts of gunfire. This, she thought, was not what she expected when she entered her postulancy. Still, all things work together for the good to those who love God and are called according to His purpose. Good old Romans.