She Who Calls the Shots

By Olivia Neale

I slipped my left foot into one high heel, hopping on the other while I swung out an arm to grab my purse, steadied myself, and wrenched open the door. Thirteen minutes to get to the subway, seven minutes to my stop, six minutes to get coffee, and four minutes to run to work. Perfect.

Walking at a pace that would rival an Olympic speed-walker, I expertly sidestepped a crater-sized pothole. It took me several more steps before I stopped, then backtracked to stare at the tattered flag that was smoldering in it. I didn’t recognize the insignia, but there was little left of the crest anyway. As I continued on, sunlight glinted off steel scaffolding that now covered the facades of most buildings, and more than a few had been demolished. Had all these construction projects surfaced overnight?

I tucked a few flyaways behind my ear and scowled at the humidity for undoing the work of half an hour—and half a can of hairspray—but at least the heat wave had scared away the traffic. None of the usual crowds of summer tourists were clogging the subway or streets, so I made good time getting to Froth & Foam. I swung open the door to greet the morning crew but was met only with the low hum of the refrigerator.

“Hello?” I called out, sure Saylor would appear any moment, carrying a fresh tray of muffins from the kitchen. I waited, looking around nervously. The artsy, vine-filled café had been renovated, but I wasn’t sure I’d call it an improvement. The walls were now paneled with overlapping metal, thick pieces of tarp covering the windows.

The city felt like a different world, and a growing part of me wondered if it was.

Sounds of shuffling drifted from the back, and I prepared my best I don’t hate you. I just hate mornings smile when a whispered “Get out there” caught my ear. An aproned barista stumbled forward. His voice cracked when he tried to talk, and he cleared his throat before muttering a terse “What do you want?”

“Iced Americano with an extra shot of espresso, please.”

He gawked at me like I’d just asked him to walk to Brazil and harvest the coffee beans himself. “I can’t do that here. Don’t even know what that is. Where do you think you are?”

“Look, I have a meeting in twenty minutes,” I showed him my phone’s calendar reminder, “See? May 18th, 9 a.m.” Just so he knew I’d be missed if I met my demise.

The kid laughed uneasily. “Well, you’re either way early or late. It’s August.”

Leaden terror sank in, but there was a sliver of hope left, and I decided to bargain my last shred of pretense for it. “What year is this?”

“2524.”

This can’t be real. My pulse thundered in my ears, and I put my hands on the counter to steady myself. “I could really use that Americano.” I sighed. “Tell me, where could someone get a coffee around here?”

He stared at me, his mouth agape until the words started pouring out of him. “Definitely not here. We don’t sell that kind of thing. Don’t you know that’s dangerous? Caffeine is addictive. Been outlawed for nearly two hundred years. No one sells it anymore…”

I zoned out while he droned on. Ok, this might be real. I need to plan my next steps. With all his talk, this kid had to have chugged a double shot of espresso before coming out front. Eventually, I returned to reality with no more than wisps of plans that wouldn’t survive whatever dystopia I’d stepped into, and the kid was still talking.

“I don’t know why you would think we sell that. I mean, sure, the décor is a little grungy for my taste, but—”

“Okay, that’s enough.” A girl stepped out of the back, hands in her hoodie pockets. “I should have just dealt with this myself. Who sent you here?” If dystopian chic was an aesthetic, she would be the poster child. A long scar ran from her cheekbone to her jaw, and a haircut just as jagged accentuated her sharp features.

“I-I don’t know,” I started. “I just opened my door this morning and—”

“No, under whose orders are you here?” She leveled a withering glare at me. I gulped. Was her fuse running out as fast as my hope?

“No one’s. I just want my morning cup of joe.” It was supposed to sound confident, but at this point, I was close to tears.

Understanding flashed across her face, and she nodded. “Just a moment.” She turned and yelled into the back, “She’s here for Big Joe!”

The man who emerged lived up to the name. He carried a massive burlap bag of coffee beans that he swung to the floor. His leather jacket moved with him as he straightened, revealing a holstered, very real gun.

This was it. This is how I would die—in some cruel, cold world where coffee was a crime. I squared my shoulders to face my fate, trying my best to conjure the expression of a much tougher woman.

“How do you take your coffee?” he asked gruffly.

Now someone cared about my order? “T-Two creams, one sugar,” I choked out.

“Hm,” he mused, scrutinizing all 5’4.5” of me. “You’re shorter than he described, but you know the counter-code, so come on back.”

Counter-code? Eve, what have you gotten yourself into? The back room’s stock was vast enough to make even a decaf drinker stare in amazement. French presses, burr grinders, espresso machines, hefty bags of beans—you name it, it was here. Big Joe took me on the tour of the outfit and halfway through, even remembered to introduce himself to me, his new boss.

It was a rough start, but as it turns out, running an illegal coffee syndicate is significantly easier than running a meeting of burnt-out businessmen.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Olivia Neale is an avid writer and reader of a myriad of genres, speculative fiction and mysteries being closest to her heart. When not writing, she can be found sipping an Americano, wandering among trees, or spending time with friends and family. She believes in the power of stories, not because they save us, but because they point us to the only One who can.

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