Can you give me some tips on my writing?

tent camping with kids in georgia image

Catherine

It started like it always did in the stories, a disease that wiped out the majority of the nation and people taking control of government for the wrong reasons. What was America was completely different. I looked around the hot living room, nothing special, a stack of books here, a clock there and the dirty sofa I was sprawled across. The house wasn't ours. That was obvious by the pictures of a doting couple scattered across the walls, they were probably dead. I picked up a wedding picture; 'Frank and Anna Fiddler forever' was scrawled around it in pretty cursive. Where was your forever now? I thought setting it aside.
âTrider? Where are you?â My father called from the hall.
âIn here, Dad.â
He stepped in and leaned against the doorframe. He was a tall man with a narrowâbut strongâframe and short, dark hair. âWe need to go, a refugee was spotted in deadwig. Teenage male. Tall. Skinny.â Refugees were people hiding from the cruel government.
âMale?â
âYeah, different. Usually the refugees are women.â He reached for the gun sitting on the table and strapped it on his belt before throwing me the other gun. âLetâs go.â
I slid into the passenger seat and propped my booted feet on the dashboard earning a look from my father. âSorry,â I muttered and crossed them instead.
âIs that our campsite?â My father asked as he squinted his eyes to see the little navy blue tent.
âYes.â
My father parked the jeep in front of the camp and began talking to Johnny, a thick, tall man while Johnnyâs brother Kent argued with Georgia. I couldnât help but notice that her face was turning as red as her hair. I tell what the argument was about, something to do with the radio in their car. A mosquito buzzed in my ear and I swatted at it before entering the tent. It was November, there be any , but after the Disease everything became hotter. The tent was dark and I could make out two figures, Rosie and David. David was the strawberry-blond, blue-eyed son of Johnny. Rosie was a six-year-old refugee we had found three months ago. She never spoke, and never trusted us.
âAny progress?â I asked without much concern.
âNo,â he leaned against a pole supporting the tent and crossed his arms tightly. His hair had gotten long enough to curl on the ends.
I peeked out of the tent to see Georgia give up the argument and storm back to her truck. She got in and slammed the door loudly while Kent smirked in amusement.
âDavid! Trider!â Johnny called.
âCâmon,â I muttered to David. Kent passed us and slipped quietly into the tent, he must be watching Rosie. I hopped into the passenger seat and David in the back. My father shoved the key in the ignition slammed on the gas. Instead of riding with his father, he chose to ride with us. His father and Georgia usually tracked the refugee, David found that boring.
There was static and then the Georgiaâs voice came through the radio. âHello? Can you hear me, Steven?â She asked my father.
âYes, we can hear you. Have you spotted him yet?â
âSteven, we just left the campsite. How could we have spotted him?â
âJust wanting to know . . .â He trailed off and swerved to avoid hitting a boulder.
âWait! Maybe! I seeâoh, never mind. That was a deer.â
âWe canât just drive around all day looking for some kid whoâs probably already fried his brain from the sun,â David said from the backseat after almost an hour had passed.
âWeâve got the time.â
âDo we?â David snapped at my father. âI thought Iâd have a nice life and look where I am.â
âSurrounded by people who love you?â My father asked sarcastically, âWhat a torture.â
âNo!â David barked. âLiving in fear, feeling like Iâm one step closer to what I want most before having it ripped away from me!â
âDavid, be thankful you arenât in the camps.â He said the word so quietly I almost didnât hear. The camps were where the government sent its captures, mostly children or women. The Clanâwhich was usâfound refugees and offered them shelter and food.
âI am. I am thankful, sir.â
David often bickered with the adults of the Clan. Georgia never really did like him, and Kent only tolerated him because David was his nephew. And Johnny basically had to love him, it was his son. Davidâs mother had a mental breakdown when her sister and mother died in the Disease, she went insane and no one really knew what happened next.
I chose to ignore the argument, like usual. When I argue, I end up hitting the other person. It happened many times before. The sun was beginning to set when we spotted something.
âGeorgia?â My father said to the radio. âWe see him! Heâs leaving Flynn and heading towards Sonling.
âOn our way. Stay safe, you guys.â
Johnnyâs static-filled voice cut the silence. âDavid, keep your gun with you at all times.â
âYes, sir,â David replied.
We parked the car and got out, heading towards the wooded area of the desert. âHeâs right,â My dad said. âTrider, David, only shoot if you have too.â
Just some tips on how to make it flow better, how to build character background, this is the first couple paragraphs to a story based in a post-apocalyptic wasteland. Anything that you can think of to help and please point out the errors and what's wrong. Thanks.

Answer
comma splices to fix
throwing a loaded gun is a great way to kill someone accidentally
you introduce too many character names too quickly
Don't tell so much background. Let it seep in through context.

Are there any cheap tent sites (for overnight camping) NEAR or IN downtown Savannah, Georgia?

<3

... Other than Skidaway Island, Tybee Island's River's End Campground, and Fort McAllister State Historic Park.

Answer
411 or phonebook, get KOA 1~800 number, they have wierd little campsites in the middle of everywhere. Not kidding. It's kinda spooky.

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