The world had gone from gold to grey in the matter of a couple of years. They’d tried to stop it, of course, before the government was so torn apart; most of the damage didn’t happen until the last bits of the Great Disaster, decades later. The governments banded together in order to fix the horror descending the world, but their attempts to patch the hole in the sky had gone terribly awry. The chemicals they'd used were simply rained down over the already barren land, after which, all the leading scientists were replaced with younger, bolder thinkers who weren’t so prone to revisiting old ideas. That method had been tried years ago, and had failed as miserably as it had in this instance.
The acid rains had created a whole new slew of problems, mostly in Russia, where the hole was first torn. The few lands still fertile enough to grow some semblance of genuine produce promptly died, and all attempts at growing food were moved inside to experimental facilities, in which exotic looking fruits were raised on chemicals and plastic. Crime bosses now abandoned their powders and weapons that have become so commonplace, and traded in fresh food and organized raids against chemical greenhouse facilities. Riots were carried through the streets of world capitals with the people who couldn’t afford black market prices and lacked the skills to steal. The White House tumbled in a blanket of red and shouting men who traded picketing signs for torches and gasoline. National monuments fell across the globe like long grasses in the summer. Society collapsed, and yet: there were survivors. I was one of them.
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The dog bared its teeth, long and sharp, and, it looked, still encrusted with a bit of last night’s dinner. A snarl escaped through its clenched black lips. I held my knife close against my body, still in my sleeve, not yet sure if I had to use it. Underneath the protection of my light flak jacket, my arm cramped.
Shifting my weight, I just barely moved closer to the alley wall; the dog's bright eyes followed me as it mirrored my movements and drew closer. I flipped up my knife and allowed a sharp shaft of light to reflect off of it into its face, which suddenly lost its mean gleam. It looked at the long knife, and back at my collected face. It gave another indecisive whimper, for a moment sounding like the dogs of the old world, and then ducked its head and ran out of the alleyway. I sighed in relief; I hated having to spill blood, especially this early in the morning.
I went back to the dumpster further down the alleyway, where I had originally been going before stumbling upon the dog. I occasionally was able to find supplies stashed away in back alleys. Some people still avoided places like this, holding onto their old values and habits. I had no such inhibitions. Survival was survival, and supplies were supplies.
Preparing for my search, I placed my knife back into its sheathe. Then, taking one last, long breath, I pushed past the stench, rolled up my sleeves, and began. It was probably about twenty minutes before I found a closed trashbag that carried any potential. It was dark blue, and barely differed from the regular black bags: just distinctive enough for someone to use if they were to try finding it again. It was a trick all experienced survivalists used now, and they were the only ones worth searching. I opened it to find a small blade and some shirts. I almost missed the strap that I could tie my knife onto my leg with, but once I did, I couldn’t have been happier. I even felt my face crack as I grinned, unused muscles rusty as I stretched in an unfamiliar manner. My other one had been snapped in a chase the previous week, and the third knife attached to my arms was awkward. It was perfect.
I mumbled to myself, “Score!” and gathered it all up into my pack, slinging it onto my shoulder right before something hit me in the head and brought me to my knees.
I snapped my head up to see a furious man with a wooden plank. He threw down the plank and grabbed at a sheath on his belt. I jumped to my feet, dropped my pack, and slipped my arm into my left sleeve, tugging free a knife. We both crouched, knives held at an angle. We bared our teeth at one another, and I heard a low growl from between his clenched lips: “What the fuck you think you doin’, huh lady? Fuckin’ scavenger, feeding off us all, trying to take what’s mine...”
Well that explained it. Shit.
This is where the fact that this is a rough draft causes some problems. We know basically nothing about the MC right now. We can't even be sure if it's a guy or a girl. We don't know if they have family, we don't know if they've lost anyone during the mass of people dying thing, we don't know where they live, how old they are or what they're doing exactly. Obviously, because this is a rough draft, I don't expect to know all of this yet. I don't expect you to tell us the MC's life story either though. 
There were a few sentences like this around the piece, but they're pretty easy things to notice. When you read over it, you should be able to spot them easily. Besides, I didn't notice that many of them. Most of them were typos too, so you'll be fine. 
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