Apocalypse Forbidden Game

The wind grew fiercer, the distant sky darkening, with harsh red gleams flickering within the clouds. In no more than two hours, the sandstorm would completely engulf this place.

Zheng Nanfang pulled up his hood, wrapped his face with a coarse scarf, and strapped a battered pair of goggles over his eyes. Through the scratched lenses, he gazed at the man and woman lying on the ground.

The pair appeared agitated, thrashing violently, the chains binding them clanking loudly with every movement.

The man struggled with particular desperation, his wrists rubbed raw and bleeding, oblivious to the pain.

Zheng Nanfang crouched down and tore the tape from the man’s mouth; several teeth were stuck to the adhesive.

The rough motion seemed to aggravate the man, who coughed and spat blood, mumbling incoherently.

“I can’t understand you,” Zheng Nanfang shook his head, as if soothing a wounded animal, reaching out to ruffle the man’s striking mohawk. He spoke loudly, “The sandstorm is almost here and I have to go. I’ll be borrowing your vehicle. Thank you, goodbye.”

The man with the mohawk grew even more frenzied, thrashing about. The woman, bound to him, grew restless too; her long, athletic legs, clad in fishnet stockings, writhed ceaselessly, her boots gouging deep ruts in the yellow earth.

Zheng Nanfang grew uneasy—the sandstorm was closing in, visibility worsening by the second.

“Take me with you, I beg you.”

At last, the mohawk man managed to form a coherent plea. His eyes, rimmed with heavy eyeliner, brimmed with despera