Black clouds shimmer in the moonlight as I run through the overgrown roads. My cold bloody hands grip the black handgun. “Help..me..” says a faint noise. I turn and point my gun and slowly walk closer “Who are you!?” I shout “I'm not not infected. Please” he Nervously exclaims. I see a kid covered in ash, missing a hand.
Hi Fraser, you always have a wonderful way of phrasing things. You create a clear picture in the readers mind. I would love to know what happens next!
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