Tbh it wasn't really that bad considering I was like 12, but it's still decently bad. There's hardly any flow, I don't think I even checked the grammar at times, and the character just feels bland. I spent time being descriptive on small things like dust, when I should've been more focused on the character's emotions tbh. Also, my old one just felt a little rigid; I had some sentence length variations, but I don't think semi-colons existed to me back then. Also, you really have no idea what's going on, or how the place looks, and some things just didn't even make that much sense in the older one like why there'd be a couch in some tiny, unidentified building. In my new one, I pretty much just tried to fix all that and make it a little more colourful. I screen shotted my older version, which I'll attach at the bottom of the post in the form of images. Anywho, here's my fixed up new version.
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It'd been a week since Kris had barricaded himself in the small storage house by the road. There was enough canned food on the rusted metal shelves for him to last another week or two, in exchange for his personal wellbeing. It wasn't that the food was outdated, but rather, he wouldn't be surprised if whatever chemicals they used to preserve the fruits and meat inside those tin canisters was really just watered down bleach. Even so, he'd piled up whatever remained into his worn out backpack.
Heavy footfalls echoed around the wooden walls, feet dragging tiredly as the boy approached the crudely boarded up window. Autumn was fast approaching, if the chilly draft ing through the gaps was any indication.
No one's coming...
If someone had planned to pick him up, he should already have been long gone. Yet, there he was, peering anxiously through the cracks in the wall, grey eyes darting around and searching for any signs of movement. No one was coming, none that he could see through the little crack at least.
I need to go soon, or even now; this nasty shit isn't going to last me much longer, and this wooden thing won't do much when snow starts falling. While I'd rather starve or freeze than get mauled to death, I'd rather just not die at all.
Gloved fingers slipped under the wooden plank propped up haphazardly against the door, prying it off and sending loose rusted nails clattering loudly against the concrete ground below. Then, with a steady hand, he slowly twisted the knob open and glanced out.
"Tsk!"
If the sunlight from before was bright, then it was absolutely blinding now; the surge of light caused him to narrow his eyes painfully, one hand going up to shield himself from the piercing assault.
"Why's it so br—" He felt his breath hitch mid murmur, his vision slowly adjusting. He hadn't seen it earlier through the thin slit he'd peered out from, but something was approaching, a dark blob lumbering slowly in his direction. No. Not slowly— Was it help? Hang on, no human moved like that—!
"Fuck!" He hissed, pulling back instantly and sending the door crashing back against the frame. He twisted his head around, searching the area frantically. Even as he looked away, he could see it begin to break into a drunken sprint through the gaps in the planks, limbs flailing and mouth gaping, revealing slack jaws and a vicious desire to feed.
"Groaaaggh!"
The plank was gone—there went his plan to leave—. He needed another obstruction, another barricade of sorts. The shelves! He broke into action, dragging over one of the heavy metal frames as quickly as he could, the screeching of metal grating against the ground overpowering the aggravated groaning nearing from outside. Just as the rack was settled in front of the door, the ear-splitting thud of a body throwing itself against the door sounded out, sending another shudder coursing through his body.
"Grrrnnnnngh!"
The wood creaked, but held. It wasn't enough; one rack wasn't enough. He needed more; the man glanced around again, before repeating the process of dragging heavy items over to the door once more: a stout cabinet, empty metal crates, and a second rack. Even after all that, there was no sense of security for him; if anything, the fact that everything was concentrated on one side of the room now made him more aware of the lack of reinforcements against the remaining three walls.
THUMP THUMP.
Shaking, he backed up into the corner opposite to the wall, legs giving way and buckling onto the cold dirt-covered floor. But what could he do? Nothing. Nothing but cower on the ground and wait for it to stop. He pulled his coat closer to himself, gripping the rough fabric tightly as he continued to stare at the shuddering door, other hand squeezing the bat next time him as if it were a lifeline—and it was. If that giant undead managed to somehow break in, the bat would determine whether he survived, or otherwise.
His heart felt like it would leap out of his chest as the next sound reached his ears; splintering. The wood was splintering.
"Please god... please... fuck...!" He pleaded desperately, shooting up to his feet and pressing himself even further back against the wall, both hands grasping the bat with enough force to crush it if it were anything weaker than steel. Searing hot adrenaline pumped rapidly through his blood. He couldn't hear anything except for each slowly snapping fibre that was his final defence between him and the creature outside, and the pounding against his ears.
And then silence.
One. Two. Three. He counted three minutes, and the silence still remained. Had it given up? Or was it simply waiting outside with that disgusting, gaping smile, waiting for him to go up and check before barging through and— No, they weren't intelligent. He was being needlessly paranoid. Kris snapped out of his fearful trance and slowly fell to the ground, legs no longer able to handle the stress of keeping his shivering body upright. He was panting; sweaty hands refused to let go of the bat even in the silence, paranoia keeping his eyes wide and pulse racing.
This had been his first encounter with an actual zombie. All the other times, he'd managed to sneak around them, but now, trapped in this small wooden prison, there would be no avoiding them. He had to leave—If only he could just get outside and mount his bike, he could be gone. But the windows hardly let him do a proper scan of the surrounding area; how was he supposed to leave, not knowing whether or not he was walking into a death trap laying in wait? He let out a shaky breath.
And if just opening the door sent one of them charging at me, how am I supposed to be able to bike away through a forest?
It was hopeless. He couldn't... he...
"Just... What am I supposed to do...?" He buried his head in his arms helplessly as the words spilled out. And then he began to sob.
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