Short of Breath

Hugo glanced sideways around the corner of the hallway intersection. Distant shouts and metallic thumps echoed down the cylindrical passageway, creating an eerie half-silence in the previously bustling newsroom. Gulping in another mouthful of air from his oxygen tank, Hugo ducked back under the desk he had been using as a hiding spot. For several hours, he had been evading the wandering mobs that had formed as a result of the invasion. Everyone was after the same thing: oxygen.

Hugo's home city, Finapolis, relied on oxygen-producing machines to survive, just like every other city on the planet Earth. Huge structures of concrete, metal, and glass coated the surface of the planet, enclosing homes, roads, businesses, whole cities. Outside the constructions, little plant or animal life remained; if a human managed to find a legitimate reason to leave the city, air tanks and protective suits were required. The majority of the population had never stepped outdoors at all.

Unfortunately, the near extinction of vegetation on the planet Earth had turned innocent civilians into sitting ducks in the hands of those who recklessly sought power. Hugo hadn't heard much, but he knew someone had attacked and destroyed the city's generators, cutting off the oxygen supply. Armed men and crazed denizens blocked the exits to the city, killing any who tried to escape and snatching the oxygen tanks for themselves. Mobs were storming the streets, searching for anyone unlucky enough to be caught in the open with a tank.

Clank.

Was that me? Hugo gulped. He quietly drew in a deep breath and held it, pressing himself into the ground. Each pulse of his heart sent a jolt down the length of his body, and he was convinced the oxygen tank would start banging against the desk with every throb. All seemed quiet in the near vicinity, though the distant clamor of the mob remained.

He needed some kind of plan. Just sitting there could only end in one of two deaths: either his discovery by the mob or the depletion of his air tank. Hugo wasn't sure which he preferred. His only option, therefore, was to leave the desk at the right moment and attempt an escape from the city. For the moment, while all of the exits were being guarded, a better hideaway was necessary.

Through the impenetrable glass wall of the office, Hugo could see the nearest exit. About a mile to the east, the glass casing of the city swooped down towards the ground, like some kind of giant thumb squishing an insect. Doubtless there were terrorists guarding the end of that thumb. If Hugo could find a convenient place to hide near the exit tunnel, perhaps he could make a break for it at the right moment.

Cautiously he climbed out from underneath the desk, scanning the area. Overturned chairs and smashed computers littered the floor. Getting away noiselessly could be a problem, but as far as he could tell, no one was around. The clicking of valves inside his tank suddenly seemed painfully loud in comparison to the surroundings, and he tried to limit his already strained breathing. Had it gotten more difficult to breathe in the last few minutes? It seemed like the oxygen was entering his lungs unwillingly, as if it knew it was hurtling towards extinction.

Hugo unstrapped the contraption from his back and checked the gauge at the top of the tank. The bar inside had dropped nearly to the bottom of the red warning zone.

This is it... Hugo thought, hurriedly reattaching the tank to his back. Without delay, he made his way across the room, crunching across broken glass and fragments of plastic. Every shard of glass sent individual screams echoing down the hallway, betraying Hugo's presence. Fear crept through his body, slowly but surely attaching its thousands of tendrils into the recesses of his mind. His muscles began to ache. Each stride took longer to complete than the preceding.

Finally, his legs froze. The harder he struggled to lift his foot, the deeper it planted itself in the ground. The shards of glass began to snicker at his indecision. Part of him strained towards the possibility of freedom, ignoring the probability of violent death; the other part wanted to crawl back under the desk and die in relative peace.

It was too late. His next breath resulted in a sharp intake of nothingness. He had felt air moving into his lungs, but he still felt empty. Another suck at the mouthpiece wielded the same outcome. Hugo frantically tore the device off his back and read the gauge at the top. Completely empty.

A dull pain flooded Hugo's abdomen. This was the end, then? He dropped to his hands and knees, yielding to the sharp glass, letting the air tube drop from his mouth. With every forward effort, his energy seemed to drain twice as much. His head began to tingle, and he slumped to the floor, resting his chin against the coarse office carpet. Black haze choked the edges of his vision, and one last thought trickled through his brain before the suffocating grasp of death dragged him away:

If only my teachers back in high school hadn't killed so many trees...