Short Story: Drop Point Queso

A near-future dystopian story. Long-listed for the gritLit Short Story Competition.

The follow short story was submitted to Taco Bell Quarterly and also was long-listed for the 2024 gritLit Festival short story contest. I was saving it to possibly submit elsewhere, but naw. Here you go.

Drop Point Queso

Photo by Christoph von Gellhorn on Unsplash

Blowing sand stings my windburned cheeks as I check the time on my watch and compare it to the long shadow cast by a mile marker at the side of the empty highway and the saguaro cactus growing beside it. The handoff needs to happen before sunset. The Riveters are moving on from this territory as soon as they have the cover of darkness, and I have to get their precious cargo to the drop point before they leave.

The last thing I want is to be stuck with a writhing bundle of joy in perpetuity; I’m ill-equipped to deal with fugitive infants in a long-term capacity.

The quiet hum of engines in the distance pierces the desert silence. Could be a regular patrol. Or could be that the old fart running that last gas station sold me out. If the DICCs know where I am and what I’ve got, the matte grey hoods of their Cybertrucks will be cresting those dunes on the horizon any minute now.

Enough of this waxing poetic about the scenery. I need to get moving.

I tighten the payload strapped to my chest and a small fist stretches out from behind the woven fabric cocooning the Assigned-Female-At-Birth infant against the blistering sun. I slam down my boot to kick-start my ride and rev the throttle. The baby is so bundled in that they don’t even stir at the cacophony that is my geriatric motorcycle.

Born to a parent outside the Consortium, this kid might very well be the last free AFAB carried to term on the continent. The kid, who I’ve dubbed Smalls in my head because they’re…well…small, has no chance of surviving without leaving Consortium territory. It’s a pretty important duty I’m upholding here.

Aren’t I heroic and honourable?

It’s only an afterthought that I won’t get paid if I miss this drop.

Mostly.

I drop into gear and take off down the fractured asphalt. The orange sun is sinking fast. The air should be cooling now, but adrenaline is keeping my armpits nice and damp anyway.

I check my mirrors every thirty seconds. Religiously. Like a prayer. To the gods of evading the law and staying free another day. I’m so preoccupied with looking behind us in fact, that I almost overshoot where the highway forks, skidding to a stop before Smalls and I are bucked from my bike and into a nice cozy looking patch of cholla cacti. Guess I missed the signpost for the turn. Whoops. I check the GPS on my watch for which way to turn, and Smalls starts crying. And smelling. So bad.

It’s okay, kid. That stop almost made me shit my pants, too, but I’m wondering what the hell they were feeding you in that safehouse.

I check the horizon for a DICC patrol again. Still clear, so I pull my bike behind the bush of cacti and pull the supplies from my saddle bag. I unwrap Smalls and lay them on an admittedly filthy blanket.

It’s better than getting sand or scorpions in your vagina. Trust me on this one, kid.

It’s not that I’ve never changed a diaper before, but I’m far from a practiced hand. As soon as I free Smalls from the confines of their nappy, they wriggle around, making said filthy blanket immensely filthier.

Listen. I know I shouldn’t litter. I know that preserving the tiny patches of nature we have left is important. But there is no way I’m putting this mess back into my saddle bag. So after I strap Smalls safely back to my chest, I dig a quick hole with my camping spade and bury the diaper. And the cloths I cleaned up with. And the blanket. I’m sure it’ll decompose in like a hundred years, right?

Before I start the engine, I check the horizon again because I’m paranoid. Hey, you don’t survive as long as I have out here without being at least a little paranoid. I can’t see anything, but that low hum of engines is back. The sun is dangerously close to kissing the horizon. I start the bike and we peel down the highway.

We pass two more mile markers and a half-decomposed horse carcass without a squadron of Cybertrucks glinting in my mirrors. Over the next crest, the old city comes into view.

Thank all that is sinful, we’re almost there.

Smalls must sense a change in my breathing and wakes again, signaling hunger by wailing in that delightful way only newborns can. The sound like a mini velociraptor squirming against my chest.

Shit.

I take one hand off the handlebar to pat Smalls’ tiny back and make what I hope are soothing noises. “Shush, kiddo. Let’s try to keep you a secret a little longer, shall we?”

Dust blowing across the highway gives way to city warehouses in an industrial area. The sun is now barely cresting the low buildings of this desert town. I blast through an empty red light; this neighbourhood appears dead, and I’m burning daylight.

The Cybertrucks are so quiet, I don’t register them peeling out of the ancient Golf Pro Shop parking lot at first, but then I catch their completely unnecessary high beams in my mirrors.

My bad.

Hold tight, Smalls.

I speed up and drop a gear, spraying street dust into a cloaking cloud behind me. Because DICCs like to get all theatrical, I hear the rebarbative opening vocals of Kid Rock’s Bawitdaba pumping from more than one of the luxury vehicles behind me.

I get enough of a lead that they’ll lose the sound of my bike over their musical choices, then take two quick turns, pull into a darkening parking garage, and cut my engine. I don’t have much time left to hide here, but if I can’t shake this fleet of agents from the Department of Investigating Conformity Crimes, getting to the drop point will expose the Riveters there. I may be a free agent, but when push comes to shove—very little shove if I’m being honest—I’ll work against the DICCs at every opportunity. I am a free woman after all: public enemy number one.

The sound of the terrible excuse for rock’n’roll fades around the blocks of buildings, and I carefully pull back onto the street.

The sky is almost dark. Fuck. I check the GPS again. We’re almost there.

Three more turns, and I see it. The drop point. The pink and purple bell hanging out front is a neon beacon of hope.

I pull the bike to the side of the building in case any Cybertrucks patrol by. Smalls is getting cranky, but there’s only a sliver of sun left on the horizon, so I make a dash for the door, holding Smalls close so no brains get jostled with my hurried movement.

As best I can, I wrap my leathers to hide the package from sight in case I have bad intel. Smalls is still whimpering, but I can’t stop now. I slap on my Confident Face and stride to the counter.

The masc-presenting clerk peeks at me from below his branded uniform visor and says, “What can I get for you today?”

I say, as I’ve been mentally practicing since I got the job two days ago, “Fries supreme please, but hold the queso.”

If my intel is bad, the clerk will merely look at me like I’m deranged. Who in their right mind would hold the queso? I still, preparing to make a run for it if need be.

The clerk’s welcoming grin becomes a determined line. “It’ll be a few minutes if you need to use the washroom first.” He tilts his head to the hallway at the back of the dining area.

I head down the hallway, passing the washrooms and pushing open the door labeled “Staff Only.” On the other side, a femme person greets me with the barrel of her gun.

I hold up one hand and use the other to slowly peel back my jacket and reveal a vigorously squirming Smalls. The femme snaps the gun barrel up, and the briefest moment of terror crosses her face. I’m hoping it’s because she had a gun pointed at a baby and not because she’s surprised to see me trying to sneak into the staff room.

She regains her cool much faster than I would have. “This the AFAB?”

I nod. “I’ve been calling them Smalls.”

She considers me, then shrugs. “Make sense. You made it just in time.” Behind her, several people are closing crates and zipping up duffels. She holds up a black card stamped only with the logo of a small bank. A burner card. I roll back the left sleeve of my leather jacket, revealing my watch, which she taps with the card. After a beep, she lifts the card and shoves it into her back pocket while I check the updated balance in my account.

“Thanks. I guess this is yours now.” I unwrap Smalls, taking one last look at their anime-like face with the squishy cheeks and the giant eyes, and pass the bundle over.

“The Riveters thank you for your service.” The gun-toting femme cocks an eyebrow at me. “You could come with us, you know.”

I shake my head ruefully. “The DICCs saw my bike. I’ll lead them back out into the desert to keep them off your tail.” I wink, brush my fingers across Smalls’ forehead, and head out of the Taco Bell.

I spin on my heel and head back inside, sidling up to the counter. Visor-man seems surprised to see me back as I hold my watch over the register. “Actually, can I get that fries supreme with extra queso and to go?”