The Last Legacy (Season 1): Episodes 1-10 Read Online Free
Author: Taylor Lavati
Tags: Science Fiction | Post-Apocalyptic
Jean. But I refused to walk around alone. I couldn’t kill something. Could I outrun them?
I had so many fucking questions and zero answers.
Over the next two days, I saw more dead people walking with red eyes. I locked myself in my bedroom and blocked off the windows. I couldn’t handle seeing them anymore. But the boards didn’t stop the screaming and the moaning. The cries cut into my heart—I hated the constant torture. I didn’t want to know what was going on anymore.
A cacophony of explosions rocketed me backwards. There hadn’t been bombings in days now. I hit the maple bookshelf in the dusty corner of my bedroom as I fell back in shock—more my own fault than the actual explosion. My head erupted in searing pain. I cradled my head and pulled my knees into my chest as waves of panic tore through me. I lay there in a ball as the world around me was destroyed—again.
It sounded like a shotgun fired a round near my front door, too close to be from the road. I pushed myself against the bookshelf to hide. The world fell silent. I was paranoid by this point, always expecting an armless man or a crying woman to magically appear in front of me. The monsters would bang on my walls at night sometimes, begging for shelter, but I never opened up.
I almost came out of my ball in the corner of the room, but then sirens wailed in the distance. What sounded like cop cars zoomed through the streets, blaring then fading, like like they went right past my home. Their red and blue lights seeped through the cracks in my boarded windows.
I ran into my living room and found my useless cellphone on the coffee table. If there were cop cars, that must mean that the government was up again—we were winning whatever war this was. I powered on the phone and switched to the radio app. It was mostly static, but one word stood out—anarchy. I powered down my phone, conserving the 10% battery I had left, and walked back to the front window.
I smelled burning human flesh nearby—similar to the smell from the second day as I stepped into the streets. It was a bitter, vile smell, like fat on a grill. I wished I could forget it, but knew it would stay with me for a long time. I couldn’t react. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and tried to count to one hundred without the sounds of screaming forcing me to stop.
As I hit the lucky number one hundred, I peeked through my lashes. Nothing had changed. My house hadn’t succumbed to the mayhem just yet. The crappy one-story home with a rickety front porch had managed to survive another round.
I sat up, rubbing the back of my head, and went into the living room. It had been a struggle to get all the windows boarded since I refused to venture past the kitchen. But I had enough tables and chairs and cardboard boxes to make it work.
Rust coated the bars on Jean’s wrecked fence from years of neglect. Our entire neighborhood still screamed white trash, only now it had taken on a new meaning with ash and rubble coating the cracked streets. The frequent smell of marijuana smoke was now replaced with burning tar.
Before the destruction, I’d spent more nights than not trying to tune out the sounds of dubstep through the paper thin walls. Five guys lived in the house to the right of mine. They’d never stopped partying despite being in their mid-forties.
They’d get out their white beach chairs and park them right on their front lawn. They’d sit with their beer bellies popped out, crack open their blue cooler, and drink until the sun came up. I constantly went to work singing Skrillex lyrics that refused to stop haunting me.
My head would throb from lack of sleep for the first few hours at my desk, only to be replaced by a new headache—one I liked to call the Heimenstein special since only he could grate on my nerves so much so to bring me to physical discomfort.
Now, I wished that I could go back to my biggest worry being those noisy neighbors and my asshole
I had so many fucking questions and zero answers.
Over the next two days, I saw more dead people walking with red eyes. I locked myself in my bedroom and blocked off the windows. I couldn’t handle seeing them anymore. But the boards didn’t stop the screaming and the moaning. The cries cut into my heart—I hated the constant torture. I didn’t want to know what was going on anymore.
A cacophony of explosions rocketed me backwards. There hadn’t been bombings in days now. I hit the maple bookshelf in the dusty corner of my bedroom as I fell back in shock—more my own fault than the actual explosion. My head erupted in searing pain. I cradled my head and pulled my knees into my chest as waves of panic tore through me. I lay there in a ball as the world around me was destroyed—again.
It sounded like a shotgun fired a round near my front door, too close to be from the road. I pushed myself against the bookshelf to hide. The world fell silent. I was paranoid by this point, always expecting an armless man or a crying woman to magically appear in front of me. The monsters would bang on my walls at night sometimes, begging for shelter, but I never opened up.
I almost came out of my ball in the corner of the room, but then sirens wailed in the distance. What sounded like cop cars zoomed through the streets, blaring then fading, like like they went right past my home. Their red and blue lights seeped through the cracks in my boarded windows.
I ran into my living room and found my useless cellphone on the coffee table. If there were cop cars, that must mean that the government was up again—we were winning whatever war this was. I powered on the phone and switched to the radio app. It was mostly static, but one word stood out—anarchy. I powered down my phone, conserving the 10% battery I had left, and walked back to the front window.
I smelled burning human flesh nearby—similar to the smell from the second day as I stepped into the streets. It was a bitter, vile smell, like fat on a grill. I wished I could forget it, but knew it would stay with me for a long time. I couldn’t react. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and tried to count to one hundred without the sounds of screaming forcing me to stop.
As I hit the lucky number one hundred, I peeked through my lashes. Nothing had changed. My house hadn’t succumbed to the mayhem just yet. The crappy one-story home with a rickety front porch had managed to survive another round.
I sat up, rubbing the back of my head, and went into the living room. It had been a struggle to get all the windows boarded since I refused to venture past the kitchen. But I had enough tables and chairs and cardboard boxes to make it work.
Rust coated the bars on Jean’s wrecked fence from years of neglect. Our entire neighborhood still screamed white trash, only now it had taken on a new meaning with ash and rubble coating the cracked streets. The frequent smell of marijuana smoke was now replaced with burning tar.
Before the destruction, I’d spent more nights than not trying to tune out the sounds of dubstep through the paper thin walls. Five guys lived in the house to the right of mine. They’d never stopped partying despite being in their mid-forties.
They’d get out their white beach chairs and park them right on their front lawn. They’d sit with their beer bellies popped out, crack open their blue cooler, and drink until the sun came up. I constantly went to work singing Skrillex lyrics that refused to stop haunting me.
My head would throb from lack of sleep for the first few hours at my desk, only to be replaced by a new headache—one I liked to call the Heimenstein special since only he could grate on my nerves so much so to bring me to physical discomfort.
Now, I wished that I could go back to my biggest worry being those noisy neighbors and my asshole
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