Oxygen is the new currency. Those who have it, survive. Those who don't, die.
Following a cataclysmic event, which killed over 99% of the world's living organisms, life on Earth nothing more than a hopeless struggle to survive. The planet is dying a...
A desolate wasteland, a shattered civilization, a routine run — a lone rider raced through a deserted city, hoping to reach his destination before nightfall.
A thick and ever-present orange smog obstructed his view as he meandered through the empty streets of the once prosperous city. Bouncing around the rough terrain, the rider shifted his weight as he accelerated beyond 200 km/h. The bike hardly made a sound.
An unpiloted drone trailed behind as the rider cut through hollowed out buildings and tunnels, taking the shortest route possible to the drop point.
Flying a hundred feet above, the drone made its descent, getting closer to the rider. The high-pitched buzzing sound of the drone ricocheted off the sterile buildings like an echo chamber.
As it hovered directly above the bike, a flashing light appeared in the rider's helmet display, and a small compartment on the back of the bike automatically opened up, allowing the drone to dock and become stowed away.
The drone had been scanning the landscape the and projecting the data in real-time. The heads-up display within his helmet kept him informed of his surroundings, an absolute lifeline on these sorts of missions. The temperature remained steady at 40 degrees Celsius. A west wind was picking up, impairing the already limited visibility. There were no signs of life anywhere. Oxygen levels – barely registered.
In the distance, the rider saw movement, which was unusual in these parts. The momentary distraction was enough to take his eyes off the road for a split second. Directly in front of him was an up-heaved slab of concrete that approached too fast for him to avoid. He attempted to swerve around the hazard, but the tires hit the lifted piece of road like a ramp, sending the bike airborne and slightly off kilter.
When the wheels touched down, the rider's balance was off, throwing him to one side of the bike. The bike's suspension compressed, which made regaining control even more challenging. Just up ahead was a low hanging obstacle in the middle of the road. The suspension recoiled at the same time the rider needed to duck underneath a fallen streetlamp. He quickly hunkered low on his bike, but it was not enough. The top of his helmet clipped the streetlamp, peeling him off the back. The bike ghost-rided for 30 to 40 feet before toppling over and skidding to a stop.
The rider lay motionless on his back with his eyes closed. He eventually awoke to the alarming sound that nobody ever wanted to hear — a signal that his oxygen was running low.
His eyes opened slowly and he rolled onto his side, wincing in pain. Struggling to regain consciousness, he ignored the warning. He never travelled with anything less than a full day's worth of oxygen so he figured the alarm must be a glitch.
The rider, dressed in all black armour, returned to his feet unscathed from the crash. With a scattered brain, he pulled himself together — first ensuring he had no broken bones, then checking his equipment for damage — two things he could not afford to go wrong in these parts. Next, he checked the time and realized he had been unconscious for a little over a minute.
He knew these roads all too well, but the roadblock was new. Perhaps it was placed there on purpose — a trap for unsuspecting travellers. The rider withdrew his gun and cautiously walked back to his bike. Being so exposed made him nervous. There were known and unknown evils lurking in these parts, and there were just too many places to hide for him to feel safe. With a stiff neck and a slight limp, he scanned the immediate area for any threats.
The alarm once again blared with urgency, demanding his immediate attention. "Oxygen levels low," a robotic female voice permeated throughout his helmet. "Restock your oxygen levels. Less than one hour remaining."
Taking a deep breath, the rider removed the oxygen canister from his helmet and noticed it had been damaged in the crash. Nearly a day's worth of the precious liquid oxygen had spilled out and had become absorbed by the porous road.
He quickly replaced the canister and exhaled before taking another breath. With only an hour supply of oxygen and being more than an hour from his destination, time was of the essence. He made a small adjustment to his helmet to restrict the airflow and walked briskly back to his bike, ensuring he kept his heart rate low. With a little luck, he may just make it, but it would be cutting it close. Nevertheless, limiting his oxygen intake only added to his already throbbing head.
Typically a rider only travelled with one canister, taking any more was just asking for trouble. There were just too many bandits and dangers along the way so they didn't want to make themselves unnecessary targets. With one full canister costing more than most people can afford in a month, it was imperative to just take what one needed.
Picking his bike off the ground, several forms were identified in his helmet. Two hiding up ahead, two more sneaking up behind him, and at least one more in an adjacent building.
The rider calmly mounted his bike and deployed the drone. The back hatch of the bike opened up and the drone rocketed skyward, blasting out several smoke grenades. The exploding canisters created the perfect smoke screen, encompassing the bike in all directions. Not even the most advanced sensors could penetrate through the dense cloud.
The rider took off, punching through the smoke like a stealth panther not making a sound. Abandoned cars, broken down and rusted, littered the congested streets, but the rider knew the way. He had travelled this route a thousand times. With limited visibility, he relied on his experience, swerving in and out of the hazard-filled roads toward the city limits. From there, was nothing but straight highway.
The hazy sun slowly retreated turning the sky from a dark butterscotch to black. The moon and stars hadn't been visible in decades.
A persistent flashing light in the upper corner indicated his oxygen level, which was dropping rapidly. The temporary adrenaline dump demanded more oxygen than he had to spare, so he tried his best to control his breathing. He was not sure who or what was trying to get him back there, but he was happy that was behind him. He had a delivery to make and more importantly, he needed to save his own life. He couldn't afford any more setbacks. It was a race against the clock.
"Oxygen levels low," the voice spoke again. "You have less than one minute remaining."
Heavy on the throttle, the bike reached its top speed and charged into the city like a streak of light. Battling through a severe concussion and sipping oxygen for the past hour, the rider was on the verge of passing out at any second. His body desperately craved the life-dependent element as several parts of his body tingled and went numb.
With the drop point in sight, the rider pulled up to the facility in the nick of time. A coughing fit nearly incapacitated him as he gasped for breath. Dismounting his bike like a wounded soldier, the biometric scan at the entrance of the building granted him access. Collapsing to the floor, the rider pulled off his helmet just before he completely suffocated. He inhaled a deep breath, and then another. The facility's oxygen, the cheap synthetic kind that would give a person a headache, filled his lungs and kept him alive.
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