Two hours, twenty minutes, and fifteen seconds.
That's how much time he had in the oxygen tank he brought with him, according to the rusty stopwatch dangling from his wrist — a relic he'd salvaged from the museum. He knew exactly how long these tanks lasted. Before the bombs fell, he'd worked as an underwater welder. Oxygen management was second nature to him.
The tanks came from a diving shop — conveniently located near his home. Why anyone thought to put one in a train station, he'd never know. But he wasn't complaining.
Now, standing just below the surface, the tunnels behind him, he climbed the last few stairs and met the cold, dead world.
The storm struck him immediately.
Blinding wind and dust battered his visor. Moments ago, he could hear his breathing — now it was lost beneath the screaming of the wind.
Despite it being summer, the air was freezing. The sun hadn't pierced the clouded sky in decades.
He looked around for the rope he had tied years ago against a collapsed street lamp and found it. Navigation was just as important as his oxygen for survival. Lose your sense of direction and you wouldn't just get lost — you would perish. Soryu trudged on whilst holding on to his fashioned "Blizz line," as people who used to live in Antarctica liked to call it. Eventually, the only thing left he could see was the rope in front of him. He was at an intersection in the road, or at least what he thought was an intersection. The sidewalk cut off where he was standing, and the only thing Soryu could see beyond it was black asphalt — most likely a road. He had, of course, already explored as far as he could go to the left of the intersection, and the right. However, he had yet to explore anything straight ahead.
Soryu felt the pain in his head flare up again. It felt like needles were prodding his brain. He could only take so much more. He needed to hurry up, and so with a shaky hand, he picked up the rope where he left it and tied it to his belt before continuing forward.
"When was the last time I washed this damn jacket?" Soryu wondered to himself as he fought against the harsh weather threatening to topple him over. He moved forward, tugging on his rope to make sure it didn't get cut by any debris that may have been caught by the powerful winds. It took him 20 minutes of trudging through hell on earth until he saw something 10 feet away from him: a semi-truck of sorts. The dust storms seemed to have eroded the company branding of the truck and all the paint that once made it so pristine. Soryu looked at the back of the truck and noticed that the door wasn't opened. Whatever, he could check it out later if he wanted to. His rope was running out — about maybe 50 feet left, give or take — and so he had to soon make the tough choice of abandoning his line or going back. Hopefully, it didn't have to come to that. If he could just find something, anything, that could satiate his nicotine lust, he could even suffice for chewing tobacco if worst came to worst. Then, a few feet later, he saw a pristine window — quite rare due to the conditions he was presented with on the surface. Behind the dust-stained glass were the faded words: "Help wanted: Cashier." A store. And what kind, perhaps? Soryu fumbled for his pocket watch and nearly dropped it before he gazed upon the time it reflected.
1 hour, 45 minutes, 54 seconds.
It had been 35 minutes. He had made excellent use of his time, assuming he could find something in the store. He came to the door, untied the rope from his belt, and retied it onto the door handle before entering the store. The interior of the store was dusty and dirty from the countless years of abandonment. The ceiling tiles were moist from the countless leaky pipes strewn throughout the building. The floor was cluttered with trash and debris, and most of the shelves were empty for some apparent reason, even though he was most likely the last person left alive in Tokyo.
"Hm, how strange. It's almost like this place was looted."
Whatever. No matter. It seemed like this was a small convenience store — perfect for his cigarette escapade. He looked around at the shelves, occasionally glancing at the time left on his stopwatch before resuming his search. He found some candy bars, chips, and even a can of peaches, which he promptly stuffed into his bag. But no cigarettes.
"Damn, son of a-!"
He felt a rage consume him as he realized almost all of this was for nothing. Soryu banged his fist against a shelf, then stormed over to the checkout. He heaved the heavy cash register off the counter, raised it above his head, and threw it toward the window. Glass exploded and shattered into a million tiny pieces, each of which was so light it was picked up by the wind outside and never seen again. The cash register was swallowed by the dust storm outside. Soryu, exhausted and breathless, slumped onto the floor, put his head in his hands, and sat before regaining his composure.
Maybe there were painkillers. That was something, at least.
After another couple of minutes of desperate searching, he found a small, nearly full bottle of Benadryl. Not ideal — but it would dull the pain. Maybe even help him sleep.
After retying the rope to his belt, he slowly made his way back. But then the pain came back even worse than the last time. He fell to his knees, put both his hands to his head, and groaned in pain before collecting himself and letting it pass. Soon, he stood back up and came upon the truck once more.
"Screw it. I need a breather," he said to himself, despite knowing he was talking to no one, and he couldn't even hear himself. Soryu fiddled with the door of the trailer before pulling on it, but it did not give way.
No, that couldn't be right. Why would it be locked? Soryu thought to himself as he tugged on the door handle again. Still no luck. Guess he had to go with option number two and his trusty friend, the hammer. After banging on the lock for five minutes, he was finally able to open the door and shut it behind him, sheltering himself from the elements outside.
The inside of the truck was dark, but surprisingly dry and sealed from the outside. Though Soryu thought the air was most likely safe, he didn't want to take any chances. He took out his pocket watch and looked at how much time he had left.
1 hour, 20 minutes, 2 seconds.
Plenty of time for him to get back. After resting for a good five minutes, he decided now would be as good a time as any to look inside the truck to see what valuables were contained within. Though batteries were not super rare, they were still a precious resource compared to a flame-lit lantern. Oil was, if not more plentiful, longer-lasting. He took out a small penlight and looked around the interior of the trailer. Inside were many boxes wrapped in plastic, unopened.
He had no idea what the boxes contained, so he took out his hammer and used the claw to tear open the wrap. He took out a box, guided his fingers to the tape that held it shut, and ripped it open. He peered inside and shined his flashlight into it. Inside seemed to be a bag of some kind. Upon further inspection, it was a bag of tobacco.
"Considering the circumstances, I'm surprisingly calm. Let's see if your friends contain the same surprise you did," he said before shoving the bag into his backpack and taking out another box.