The Last Barista In The World

It’s dark just after dawn; the sky bleeds rusty shadows over what remains of her hometown, drawing ghostly reliefs of buildings, streets, figures. They move toward her, to the light, out of the surrounding gloom; hands out, eyes hungry. It never ends.

“Mornin’.” She says to the first figure; a balding construction worker whose left cheek is gnarled from radiation. “What can I getcha?”

“Uh, jumbo cappo with two sugars, thanks, love.”

“You got a cup?”

And so begins another day after the end of the world.

If she thinks about it - not that she has much time to think - latte, two sugars! Mel? - the weirdest part is it doesn’t even feel weird.

Before all of it, the waiting - that was strange, those few weeks. The news reports, the announcements; all this confusion leaking down from the northern hemisphere, cautions and fact issued in the form of memes, hearsay, Facebook; addresses from the government suddenly becoming more urgent - stay in your homes, avoid areas subject to radiation, do not engage with the infected.

Real successful that campaign was. They even built barricades around cities’ borders, hemming them all in like some kind of medieval fortress, as if people from their own state were invading barbarians.

But people remained determined to live life as normal. The barricades did little more than limit travel; the whole city of Coffs Harbour now exists inside a concrete quiche dish with a slightly diminished view of the sky, but even in the middle of the threat of global nuclear shutdown, everyone within the quiche dish took this in their stride, and kept on with their usual lives without leaving the city.

Even with the restrictions marshals and the border patrols tracking curfew, checking entries, maintaining radiation-safe protocols - even if the threat of being fined for one of those things could make you ineligible for a grant tablet; little USB-shaped welfare bundles issued to nonessential staff to keep people home.

People still went to the beach; flaunting allegations the radiation from up north had made it into the ocean and was following the currents to their shores; people were still down at the harbour, jetty jumping and building sandcastles as the world ended.

Jessie was there the day of the Collapse, actually. That might’ve been the last time she saw something close to blue sky. The crashing waves had covered the sound of the water hissing, starting to bubble, the heat was attributed to the good old unbearable Australian summer, the darkness around the horizon must have been a storm coming - it had been so humid, after all.

And then the whole world bucked; there was a sound like a firecracker and engine brakes squealing and a tree falling and lightning rending rock, and with it a shockwave that nearly destroyed even the barricades.

She doesn’t know how she made it home. Stupid thing to have been out there, so close to it happening. Stupid kids. It’s a wonder they survived at all, let alone made it to Nan’s house, got everyone together, got below.

And then the next morning she discovered the cell towers must still be working, because she was woken at quarter-to-six on the basement floor with Nan and Poppy and Jack spread out around her, the dogs and Isaac beside, to a text from her boss asking if she could come cover the open shift.

What do you say to that, after the end of the world? Seriously?

Jessie said sure. And has done ever since.

The world might have ended, but it’s not over; humanity gets on with it - it just doesn’t get far without coffee, apparently.

“Flat white, no sugar?” Jessie palms the thermos to a woman in a back mask, followed by a grimy plastic tray. “Cash or trade?”

The woman hesitates.

“Oh. Uh, card, if I can?” She holds up a weathered rectangle uncertainly.

Jessie casts an unconvinced gaze to the sorry little Square as it gurgles on the charger nearby.

“…I mean, I can give it a go, but-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” The woman determines, pocketing the card and taking to a large purse. “They’re trying to phase it out anyway, aren’t they? Can you believe it? I was still in primary school when they were trying to get rid of cash! Who carries card anymore? Uh - how much do I owe you?”

Jessie, turned back to the steamer to keep the line moving, indicates the front of the tuck shop, and the menu sign there affixed. “Six-fifty for a medium.”

The woman makes a noise at her wallet and digs out a few coins, counting them as she rifles.

“I’ve got three-ten - oh, no, three-fifteen. Can I do a split?”

“Sure. What’ve ya got? Batteries, lighters, tools,” Jessie glances at the sparking Square, “I’d love a charger.”

“Oh!” The woman excitedly retrieves a little red case with a latch. “I don’t even know when I put this in here - would this do?” She pops it open, showing off a metal nail file, a needle, clippers, scissors.

Jessie makes note of the condition and shrugs as she finishes pouring.

“For three-fifty’s worth, yeah. Gimme one second.”

A drawer opens under the counter and from it comes the transactions book; a well-worn little black notebook from long before the Collapse, now purposed with hand-drawn margins and columns for the date, and several hundred bizarre entries. Jessie strikes down the woman’s name - Jules Hapforth - her order, and the payment settled. It slots eclectically in under the other two trades of the morning so far: Luke Hastings, lrg tea - 6x AAA batteries, and Michelle Simmon, med cap, med flat white, med soy chai - 2x jumper cables, 1x cigarette lighter.

“Thank you, I’m so sorry.” Jules says, pushing the lid onto her thermos. “I’ll bring cash with me tomorrow - I should remember it by now, who even still takes card?”

“It’s all good, Jules, see you tomorrow. Large cappuccino, hazelnut?!”

The morning blurs in the haze of radiation smog and beaten keep cups a Monday usually does. A few of her regulars make their clockwork appearances: James and Matt, the border techies; Rachel, for her decaf mocha with three, and the morning’s gossip; Maddie, Emma, and Jill, from the dental surgery, in succession; Other Matt, who Jessie still thinks of as ‘soy latte guy’ even though ‘gold cyborg guy’ is way more specific; Dan from the school; Dave the bus driver; Bruce the restrictions marshal; the guy in the 40s gas mask and his dog for a hot chocolate; Ryan the school dux, for a caramel cappuccino with increasing extra shots.

Conversation is fast and predictable, which is how Jessie likes it. She takes a few more trades down in the black book, meets a little girl in a handmade unicorn mask with a robotic hand, has to tap the ‘All Weapons To Be Left On The Counter’ sign - not all in the same order, but the same ten minutes.

When the quiet comes it couldn’t be more appreciated, and Jessie just stands at the sink for a moment, getting her bearings as the machine purges. There are counters to be cleaned, jugs to be rinsed. She’ll have to work out what to do with three bottles of super glue - they look good for trading, but they could come in bloody handy, you never know.

“Good morning, beautiful girl.” Comes a tinny, automated voice. Jessie doesn’t even turn from the sink to say, “Hey, Qwerty, I won’t be a second.”

“No rush, no rush. I’ve got all day.”

Jessie shakes her hands dry and collects her jugs for the next rush. “Thanks, buddy. Latte with hazelnut?” The grinder snarls to life and Jessie lets it run into the group head, gesturing for Qwerty’s cup.

“That’s the one, Jessie - you have such a good memory.”

Qwerty’s a big fella; nearly six foot with a kind face, even if half of it is perpetually obscured by cheerful masks, and the neck and cheeks either side are rutted with radiation scars, and his actual speaking voice is replaced with the Google talking-text function.

Jessie’s not sure how that works, actually, since she never sees him type anything, and there’s no lag in the response time. The end of the world has yielded some creative augmentations.

He’s her favourite customer, though. Been coming in at exactly nine-fifty every morning since April, always manages to just miss the rush, and always makes sure to have a nice chat, see how she’s going.

“I like your shirt today.”

Jessie has to look down at herself to remember what the cupboard capitulated this morning. A giant Japanese lizard terrorising a faded city - fitting.

“Customer gave it to me.” She says brightly. That was only a few months into the Collapse; the day she realised some people will literally trade you the shirt off their back for a coffee.

She drags the jug down, drawing a neat line in the froth and bringing the lumpy flower art together. It’s not the neatest - but hey, it’s the only coffee in the quiche dish, so that makes it the best.

Qwerty stays a while, and she finds herself with a very rare window to enjoy their chat as she restocks.

It’s shaping up, over all, to be pretty alright day - until somewhere near three, when the guy comes in.

Another rush has just finished, the sky is getting dark. Jessie’s preparing to pack up, when there’s the faint click-clack of plastic being placed on concrete, and she turns to find a man standing at the counter, holding a small glass cup, and obediently having lain a sizeable holster out of reach, but in clear sight.

Jessie’s never seen him before. That’s bad. Coffs Harbour is shut to anyone who doesn’t live here, has been since well before the Collapse, and no one gets through without special government dispensation.

This bloke is too dodgy and dirty to be government anything.

Even worse, he drinks half strength with three sugars. Whatever his deal is, Jessie wants nothing of it.

She doesn’t engage, makes his offensive drink, and palms it over to him as quickly as possible. The man doesn’t seem bothered, keeping his head down, even though his folded hands stay close to the holster.

“Six.” Jessie says flatly. “Cash or trade?”

“Trade.” The voice is higher than she expected, smooth. Plastic clatters again, this time into the tray. It takes a second to work out what he’s given her - USBs really don’t have a lot of use… - but once it registers she recoils, slamming her hand over the tray to hide it.

“Do you know how much that’s worth?!” She demands. She meets his eyes for the first time - they’re brown, and not apparently concerned.

“Is it enough?” Nothing about his demeanour suggests he doesn’t know.

“It’s a cup of coffee, buddy, this is worth twenty-grand!” The grant tablet has its own gravity under her hand, the damning $20,000 emblazoned on its orange face burned into her memory. She’s never seen one worth so much. What did he do to get this?

“I don’t want it.” The man says.

“Neither do I! I could get killed! I’m not accepting this.”

“Is it not enough?” The man asks again neutrally. Jessie sputters.

“No-!”

“Expensive coffee.” He mutters.

“This is enough for a year’s worth of coffee, mate!”

“I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow, then.” The man says. “Call it a tab.”

The holster disappears under his jacket and the cup into his other hand, and he walks off.

“Hey! Oi!” Jessie leans over the counter but the surrounding shadows swallowed him instantly; wherever he’s going, he blends in seamlessly. “I’m not accepting this!”

“You make a great coffee!” Echoes from somewhere in the darkness.

“Rrrgh!”

The roller door slams over the counter.