The church had been transformed into a gore-spattered shooting gallery, its pews lined with deflated daemon corpses still oozing with bighted ichor. After all the screaming and gunfire, the chapel was deathly quiet, spare the thud of an empty magazine meeting the blood-soaked floor.
"...And you will know my name is The Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." Sister Julia breathily finished the prayer, sliding a fresh magazine of holy water infused 9x19mm into her berretta. The pious pistolero readjusted her habit and gave an endearing smirk, though I could tell that the church's current state weighed heavily upon her.
"That was fucking close." I muttered, feeding the last few shells of 00 buck into my shotgun.
The young nun chided, "Language. We are still in the house of The Lord." She glanced at me, then to desecrated crucifix that decorated the wall behind her. Even in a world overrun by demons, Sister Julia refused to believe that God had abandoned humanity. Perhaps her zeal had been even further affirmed by the existence of demons; surely God must've existed as well.
"Unfortunately, I must agree. The Lord has thrown a harder gauntlet than we anticipated," Sister Julia affirmed, stowing her pistol and retrieving a satchel containing what remained of our supplies. "We must leave this temple and do The Lord's bidding elsewhere." How such a beautiful woman could live and die by her zealous Catholicism in the apocalypse escaped me. She kept her habits pressed and as clean as possible, even if marred by a few tears and singes, and kept her hair tightly bound beneath tattered black habit. But her features were so lovely that she hardly needed any help from makeup or cosmetics to look divine. Her smooth skin, almond eyes, and rosebud mouth made her appear almost angelic—and yet her steel-trap mind was all business.