Dust

While squatted, he reached in, pulling out two $10,000 labeled bands of cash from the Fjallraven Kanken backpack. With his thumb, he flipped through the bills before tossing them both to the side. He shook his head as his lips pinched together and dug deeper into the bag, shifting the contents, searching for anything of value.

He found a book: Stardust by Neil Gaiman, an 18 oz. metal water bottle and a full pack of alcohol wipes but fell to disappointment when he discovered they had dried out.

He thought to himself, this bag had to have been taken into a bunker to be in such good condition. The bag had to have been brought back out, afterward.

From a distance, he heard the roar of a familiar engine and imagined it’s tires kicking up dirt as it accelerated. He rushed, grabbing the water bottle and dried wipes before remembering the small front pocket. Inside was a small, hardcover, black Moleskine notebook in fair condition. He opened to the first page.

In case of loss, please return to: with a phone number, a written reward amount of $100 and a short gift message behind the inner cover.

He tilted his head to the side as he flipped through the pages to find love poems and quotations with dates underneath dating back to the beginning year.

“Shit, this gotta be important if they willin’ to pay a hundred bucks just for these shitty poems,” he murmurs to himself.

A car door shuts from outside the abandoned garage. He hurried, moving clumsily, dropping the book before scrambling for it then concealing it in his left inner jacket pocket. He didn’t know why he hid it from him but he did.

The door bursts open. A man nearly twice his size steps through the doorframe with an M9 Beretta pistol displayed flamboyantly on his hip.

“Joseph, you better have found something good,”

“Uh, um, I found a metal, metal water bottle and wipes, dry but a little bit of water and they’d still be okay,” said Jojo.

“With what fucking water, Joseph? Are we just gonna waltz into a fucking grocery store, grab a 24-pack of water and walk out??” the man said, voice filled with sarcastic asperity. A smirk formed on James’ face.

Jojo was growing tired of being James’ personal punching bag. Since they met, James’ abuse toward Jojo had lit a fire in him, but Jojo was simply not strong or smart enough to overtake the 280 pound mass of muscle.

“I mean, you don’t have to be so fucking rude, James,” Jojo replied. “it can be useful, and we can always trade for it. We can trade the bottle for it.” Jojo reasoned. “You’re always such a fucking dick,”

James turned, glaring at Jojo.

“Joseph, and how are you gonna carry the GODDAMN water?”

Jojo stared blankly.

James, irritated, about-faced and walked back out the doorway. He sighed.

“Come on Joseph, there're more places to search before heading into town, I’m sure we can find something to trade at the next shop,” James said.

“Get in the car unless you want to walk, we’re running low on fuel.”

Jojo hopped to his feet, with James’ back turned, he patted his left chest pocket then followed him to the car.

———————————————————————————————————

The sky was nothing but clouds and the ground was nothing but dust. The world had turned from green and blue to shades of brown and tan, and other shades of skin.

There was very little color left in the world and the shop was no different. The shop appeared old, older than it was, and it smelled of grease and sweat. The luxuries such as the shampoos, the soaps, even the chapsticks were the hardest to come by, and definitely the more expensive.

“Mathias! Do you how do?!” Tristan asks enthusiastically as he barged into the shop the same way he has every day since meeting him.

“You mean, ‘How do you do’?” Mathias replied, in the same monotone voice, with the same blank face, sitting in the same chair with the same shotgun he had every day for the past six years.

“Do you how do?” Tristan repeats, knowingly irritating Mathias.

Mathias’s patience was cut short as he blurted out, stopping Tristan from his next words.

“Look, boy, no one has come in with your black notebook. It’s been seven? eight years since it happened. She’s gone, Tristan, so is that book, you have to move on, boy, this has been going on for too long. This facade, this front of happiness, it’s delusion. At first, in the beginning, I was trying to be helpful, helping you cope the way that you wanted, but eventually you’ve got to give up, Tristan. You gotta let go, for your own sake. Be at peace with it,” Mathias pleaded.

Tristan’s lips perched as his eyes stare at the corner of a painting on Mathias’ wall. He heard Mathias’ words, but he refused to listen to them. The thought of giving up, losing his only memory of her, was worse than death to him. It was the only thing that kept him going. She was gone, he couldn't get her back but he could still try for the book. He had to find it. He had to have the book back.

She didn’t survive the first year. Few people did, but when she passed, he searched far and wide for that backpack, for that black notebook. Seven years later, he still hunted for that tiny 3x5 inch book that could be in anyone’s back pocket.

He browsed the short selection of dusty books that he already had read multiple times.

“I’m guessing no one still hasn’t traded in a copy of Stardust either, would they?”

“I’m sorry, Tristan. Still no.” Mathias replied regretfully.

“No worries, no worries. But if you do—”

“I will, Tristan. I will.” He said before Tristan could finish his sentence.

Tristan gave him a nod and headed for the exit.

“Hey, Tristan,” Mathias called before he reached the door.

He turned his body toward Mathias, facing him with open ears.

“If someone has that book, and you find the person who does… please be careful. I’m not sure what’d you’d do if someone else actually has it, but please, be careful.”

Tristan’s cheeks raised to his ears, always hiding his pain, his anguish, his PTSD behind his youthful smile that never convinced Mathias.

“I will, Mathias,” pulling his jacket upward that concealed his blade and Glock 19. “Thank you.” Tristan took a step in reverse and with a swift pivot was out the door.

—————————————————————————————————————

Soon after exiting Mathias’ barter shop, at a distance two men walked opposing him. A larger figure on the right and a smaller man on the left. He grew more cautious as the space between them dissolved. Once close enough, the larger man’s eyes never broke from Tristan’s. As their paths intersected, the larger man’s shoulder occupied the same space as Tristan’s, forcing him away as Tristan felt the man’s strength.

The man continued in silence without hesitation after shouldering Tristan. He silently turned, glaring at the back of the larger man’s head for a few moments with inverted eyebrows, watching him walk as the dust kicked up underneath his boots.

He sensed something off about the men. Despite the larger man’s stature, Tristan felt the need to stay close to the area. He reversed back, keeping his distance but maintaining sight of them.

He watched them enter Mathias’ barter shop and took cover beneath the windows. Tristan stuck his ear out, attempting to listen to the conversation but couldn’t hear much standing on the opposite side of the glass. His hand found its home on the grip of his pistol and his index finger straight along the receiver. He watched their movement, their body language, hoping they would turn and leave, but they didn’t. Muffled voices continued as he peeked into the shop, watching the situation unfold.

—————————————————————————————————————

“I’m sorry, I have nothing like that at the moment,” Mathias said.

“How don’t you have any ammunition? I haven’t even told you for what gun, yet.” James reacted, showing slight intimidation.

“Well, that’s because I don’t have any ammunition, at all. And even if I did, I wouldn’t just trade with you guys, I’ve never seen you a day in my life.”

“Oh no, that’s not nice. That’s not how you should speak to your customers,” James spat.

Mathias discreetly attempted to bring his shotgun closer to himself that he should have already when they entered his shop.

“You gonna do something with that, mister?” Jojo said, as he pulled out a pistol of his own, attempting to project dominance and machismo.

James pulled out his M9 Baretta and swiftly aimed at Mathias’ forehead.

“These 9mm rounds will break the surface of your skin before you could even aim that shotgun, so be wise with your next decisions,” James reassured.

“How do I know if you even have any ammo in those guns?” Mathais wondered.

“You don’t, that’s for me to know,"

"And for me to find out.” Mathias finished, remaining calm.

From the front of the Mathias’ shop, Tristan observed, planning what moves he would take, like a chess match, planning multiple steps before executing.

Quietly, he said to himself. I have to move, quietly.

His breathing sharpened. He sensed he would be confident in situations like this, but now that the situation was present, his nerves were winning.

He bit down, clenching his jaw, air escaping his nostrils, and began his count down.

On one, he’d rush the door. The more he thought about it, the longer he’d take, so he didn’t think. He knew that about himself, so he didn’t think. Under his breath he counted,

Three... it’s now or never, Tristan…

Two... Mathias needs your help, you gotta do this; you gotta do this…

One…

Tristan kicked open the door, staying on the left side of the entrance, unseen. James and Jojo, startled, spun quickly toward the vacant doorway as James’ occupied hand dipped slightly. Mathias used the diversion to his advantage and grabbed full control of the shotgun. Tristan jumped into the doorway, first, aiming at Jojo, center mass and fired two shots. Before turning to James, Mathias pulls his trigger, letting off a blast into James’ back. Tristan rushes into the store, aiming his weapon at the downed men.

James laid motionless. Jojo began rolling on his back, in harrowing pain, pulling out a hardcover black notebook from his left jacket pocket. He looked at it, dented from the round that could have taken his life. Barely able to speak, he mouthed thank god as he clutched his upper body.

Tristan’s eyes widen. With his weapon still aimed at Jojo, he kicked his pistol away and reached for the notebook with his left hand.

“If I let you live, I better not see your face ever again,”

“Tristan, what are you doing?!” Mathias said, bewildered.

He looks to Mathias mouthing the words, don’t worry.

Tristan refocused on Jojo, “You got it??”

“Yes,” Jojo tried saying, but the air knocked out of him still hadn't returned. Withering in pain, Jojo nods his head, yes.

“Go on,”

Jojo slowly gathered himself, finding a way to his feet, stumbling to the exit and out of the shop.

“He’s not coming back, I promise, Mathias.”

Mathias appeared unconvinced, but relieved to still have his life, grateful for Tristan’s return.

He looks to Tristan, “Well… was it the book?” he said.

Tristan brushes the book off that was engraved with a perfectly round circle. He opened to the inner cover.

To my beloved Tristan, please continue writing and please never stop.

“You have to believe. Otherwise, it will never happen.”

Stardust - Neil Gaiman

He bit his lower lip, fighting his watered eyes, and nodded to Mathias.

“Yeah, Mathias… it’s the right book.”