Azra'eil & Fudgie: A Short Story

  Azra’eil & Fudgie

  A Short Story

  by

  Andrew Barger

  Fiction by Andrew Barger

  Mailboxes – Mansions – Memphistopheles

  A Collection of Dark Tales

  Coffee with Poe

  A Novel of Edgar Allan Poe’s Life

  Edited by Andrew Barger

  The Best Ghost Stories 1800-1849

  A Classic Ghost Anthology

  Edgar Allan Poe

  Annotated and Illustrated Entire Stories and Poems

  The Best Horror Short Stories 1800-1849

  A Classic Horror Anthology

  The Best Werewolf Short Stories 1800-1849

  A Classic Werewolf Anthology

  Leo Tolstoy’s 20 Greatest Short Stories

  Annotated

  Orion

  An Epic English Poem

  Website: AndrewBarger.com

  Blog: AndrewBarger.Blogspot.com

  “So I figured, hey if so many of you guys want to come here on vacation, I want the place to look nice. Brighten it up a bit.”

  ---Azra’eil

  Azra’eil & Fudgie

  The Skullcrusher crawled down the Afghan road; if the unmarked strip of blowing desert sand and pebbles beneath the marines was a “road.” They were on their morning sweep for buried IEDs. Today they would be clearing a new path out from Khan Neshin in the Rig district of Helmand province. A clear path would enable Special Ops to slice its way into a suspected stronghold of Taliban insurgents.

  “Whoa!” said Corporal Vance from the passenger’s seat of the Skullcrusher. His binoculars were pressed to the three-inch thick, shrapnel-proof glass. “That bombed-out tank is . . . painted. So are the Jeeps.”

  “Aren’t all vehicles painted?” questioned the driver, Sergeant Moore.

  “I mean not just painted. Designs on them . . . patterns. No wait . . . Freakin’ flowers . . . Hold on . . . That destroyed tank has a plastic daisy sticking out of the barrel.”

  The marines were on a new sweeping route. At one o’clock on the horizon they saw a wasteland of mechanized corpses rotting in the desert. The closest was a destroyed Jeep compliments of an RPG. All four tires were blown out and a swatch of charred sand fanned out from what was left of its undercarriage. Colorful white flowers dotted its sides.

  “Craziest graffiti I’ver saw. Flowers? Should we have a look?”

  “This road has to be swept first,” warned Sgt. Moore. “You know it takes forever. Let’s keep moving.”

  The MPAP (Mine Protected, Ambush Protected) vehicle, they affectionately called Skullcrusher, was not allowed to travel more than the speed of a brisk walk. Five miles an hour was the maximum for spotting buried explosives. The marines in the Skullcrusher were forced to investigate everything that could remotely be an IED.

  Sergeant Moore checked his rearview and immediately picked up the communicator mouthpiece stuck to the dashboard. He proceeded to bark orders to the much smaller Humvee following behind. “You’re too close. Stay at least twenty yards back, Pence.”

  “Aye-aye, Sarg.”

  “I know how jumpy you get on these runs.”

  “Jumpy?”

  “Back, I said.”

  Corporal Pence switched off the radio communications and eased the gas pedal. “Sarg isn’t exactly Mr. Ice. You see him sweatin’ yesterday when we dug out that last IED?”

  “We all got the yips,” said Private Fudgerié next to him. “Most guys out here are happy to spend a few hours scanning mountain ranges for Talis. We dig up bombs that’ll rip us into a thousand pieces.”

  “They never found the hand of that Jarhead who got stupid last month and tried to disarm one by himself,” said Cpl. Pence.

  “Just his ring finger I heard.”

  “Yeah, ‘cause it got propelled into the leg of Johnson. Lodged in his thigh. Stuck there like it was plugging a dam of blubber. Had to be pulled out with pliers. The wedding ring stopped the finger from going clean through,” informed Cpl. Pence.

  Pvt. Fudgerié got wide-eyed.

  “A good day out here is not getting a body part blown off. Nobody stays calm under these conditions. Nobody. Not even Sarg no matter how much he lets on. And especially not you, Fudgie.”

  Pvt. Fudgerié made a cupping motion with his hands. “Kiddin’ me? I’m ready to hold my first skull today. Looking forward to it,” he lied.

  What about the gravy boat, Fudgie? came a familiar voice in his head. As always, he tried to ignore it.

  “You’re going to be standing there holding a metal skull while the detonator is worked on,” Cpl. Pence reminded with a tinge of smirk. “Touching it, feeling it against your skin. It’s like holding a baby made of steel that you can’t drop.”

  Or a metal gravy boat. You hated holding Mom’s gravy boat, too, in front of the entire family. Didn’t you, Fudgie?

  “And you’ll be thinking the whole time, What if I drop it or one of the wires gets crossed by the Jarhead working on it and boom?”

  With that Pvt. Fudgerié squirmed in his seat.

  “You will never be the same after your first real one. Sort of like having your first girl, only that’s way into the future for you. Right, Fudgie?”

  There came no response.

  Cpl. Pence was not finished much to the private’s dismay. “The sand pelts you in all the wrong places as you stand there holding it. That’s when you realize you’ll never get all of the grit out no matter how many times you shower. The ears are the worst. All those curves and crevices. Like I said, you’re just standing there . . . just, just holding that cold IED skull the entire time while your ears itch like crazy—”

  “And . . . and the entire family is laughing at you while Mom glares something awful.”

  “What family, Fudgie?”

  The family that handed down the gravy boat, Fudgie. That circa 1812 English china gravy boat with the fluted pouring spout! The one Mom said had been in the family since great-great-great-grandfather Fudgerié emigrated from Paris. The circa 1812 English china gravy boat Mom told you to be extremely careful with. That’s the one.

  Pvt. Fudgerié flashed back to that unforgettable Thanksgiving Day, a decade ago, when his domineering mother, widow and elementary school cook—Gretchen Fudgerié, decided that in their family a new tradition would be started. In her mind Carl would not become a man when shooting his first gun or making his first tackle on the football field. No, in the Fudgerié household, where any and all events revolved around food of some type, Carl would become a man in ceremonial fashion by presenting the steaming gravy boat with Mom’s award winning gravy—per the Sandusky, Ohio County Fair judges who rated it 9.5 on both taste (“rustic with notes of Portobello mushroom and reminiscent of Parisian bouillabaisse”) and texture (“chiffonlike”)—to the entire family: the aunts, uncles, eight cousins. And he would be dressed in his new seersucker suit, bowtie and red suspenders that Mom had bought him just for the splendid occasion.

  So you, the dutiful (and bountiful) son, appeared from the swinging kitchen doors with all of them watching around the dinning room table while Mom Gretchen hummed a tune that strangely sounded like “The Bridal Chorus” by Richard Wagner (that she called “Here Comes the Bride”). Cupped in your hands was the steaming, circa 1812, gravy boat colored in pale lemon and white with mint green band around the middle. The pattern, as Mom announced to all, was “peony flowers in bloom” with “a neck that a Canadian goose would be proud of” and “real 14 carat gold trim.”

  The family broke into a round of clapping as you neared the table in a slow, one-foot-in-front-of-the-other, approach. To this day Fudgie you cannot remember who said, “I am so proud
of him,” just before his shoe caught the edge of the area rug on which the dinning room table sat. You only know that the gravy boat slid down your belly and hit your knee where it briefly wobbled in the air before landing upside down on Mom’s ample lap with the spout broken off. There you stood with award winning gravy oozing down your new seersucker suit. Remember? The unctuous liquid burned your stomach, and slowly puddled on the area rug beneath you. Half the table was laughing and the other half gasping in horror. Then Mom, cursing in horrid obscenities that made it clear her twelve year old boy would never amount to anything in life and had completely missed his chance to ever become a real man, dumped what gravy was left in the boat right on your head.

  “Fudgie?” snapped Cpl. Pence. “I asked you a question. What family?”

  “Oh nothing.”

  In the Skullcrusher, with the trailing Humvee now backed off, Sgt. Moore and Cpl. Vance continued to scan the changing sandscape. The road constantly quavered and writhed in front of them. The beige sea was never calm.

  Cpl. Vance pressed his finger against the window and blurted, “There! I see something. A glint.”

  “Where?”

  “Snap. There it is again. Definitely metal. See it?”

  Cpl. Vance popped open one of the six hatches that were carved into the roof and stuck his head out. Through his binoculars he got a closer look. He immediately sunk back down into the passenger seat and verified that the object was at two o’clock.

  “Affirmative,” responded Sgt. Moore. He eased the Skullcrusher over toward the shiny object while Cpl. Vance communicated with the Humvee in back. When the military vehicle got within twenty feet, it came to a rolling halt.

  As Pvt. Fudgerié and Cpl. Pence approached, the Skullcrusher was prehistoric with its 30 foot arm extending from the front bumper, opposite end having a scoop with teeth, side exhaust pipes for horns, angular hide of steel formed to deflect shrapnel. Surrounding its v-shaped, explosion proof hull were eight beefy tires including one on the side and back. They watched Cpl. Vance eject from the back door, which was the only door out of the Skullcrusher. They stopped the Humvee and followed suit.

  Cpl. Vance signaled inside the Skullcrusher and Sgt. Moore began flipping switches to make the arm operational. He then reached down and gripped a joystick mounted in the center console.

  The three marines standing outside (and well clear of any potential blast zone) watched the double-jointed arm lift from the roof and extend to a near vertical position. It rotated and bent at the first elbow and then the second until the scoop reached the vicinity of the shiny object.

  Cpl. Vance scanned the vicinity for insurgents, gave a thumbs-up to the Skullcrusher, and the scoop lowered. As was standard operating procedure, a foot-deep square was traced in the sand by the scoop to ensure any trip wires were uncovered that may have extended to a roadside detonator. The men breathed a sigh of relief when nothing was located.

  Next Sgt. Moore maneuvered the arm so the scoop was horizontal over the shiny object and thrust the joystick forward. The scoop dug out a large quantity of sand. The object sat glistening on top of what remained.

  “You got the honors today, Fudgie,” said Cpl. Vance as he gave him a pat on the back and smiled. “Go have a look see, Rookie.”

  Pvt. Fudgerié sighed. He was visibly nervous, a thousand terrors racing through his mind. The private took a long breath and paused before shuffling his way over to the scoop. He stood as far away from it as he possibly could and stretched out his arm.

  It gave Cpl. Pence a chuckle. “Hate to tell you this, Fudgie, if the bomb goes off, standing a few inches farther away isn’t going to help.”

  The private paid the catcalls no mind. He slowly reached his hand under the shiny object, closed his eyes, and lifted. Dry grit spilled over the sides of his hands and through his meaty fingers.

  Feels like gravy powder, Fudgie, the kind you get in those packets.

  Dusty sheets wafted into the desert. At once it occurred to his racing mind that the bomb was not heavy at all. It was actually very light; so much so that it weighed hardly anything.

  “Fudgie, I can’t believe you,” came the shout from one of the marines standing behind him. “Open your freakin’ eyes.”

  “It’s a candy bar wrapper! Oh jeez. A blasted candy bar wrapper!” ejaculated Cpl. Pence. “Fudgie!”

  By this time the private had one eye open. Usually he felt satisfied holding an empty candy bar wrapper, but not today.

  Sgt. Moore dumped the scoop of sand onto Pvt. Fudgerié’s boots while the others hooted.

  It was common for the team to investigate false alarms in their meticulous and slow journey to clear the path from anything that could remotely be an explosive. Just last week they examined a lump of clay, a patch of windblown sticks, and a kid’s shoe inset with a plated buckle.

  “Let me see that,” said Cpl. Pence walking over to him. He snatched the wrapper. “This is from your stash, Fudgie. Nobody eats chocolate covered marshmallow bunnies out here but you and that’s because your mommy is the only one to send them in the entire United States Marine Corps.”

  “It is not mine,” he retorted in an unconvincing fashion.

  “The Talis certainly don’t eat marshmallow bunnies.”

  “It’s not his because it’s mine,” said a thin, female voice from somewhere near the Humvee. “What’s wrong with marshmallow bunnies anyway?”

  The three men standing outside their vehicles snapped back to look.

  There, standing in the blowing grit, was a thin Afghan girl with piercing green eyes. She wore a Pashtun outfit—yellow trousers, a long qmis shirt that reached mid-thigh, and a ḥijāb head covering. She looked to be about seven or eight.

  The marines were stunned that a civilian had gone undetected across the barren wasteland, especially one in a brightly-colored outfit. There would be write-ups and reports to fill out by all of them. Yet at that moment paperwork was the last thing on their minds. What struck them as even more mysterious than the appearance of the girl were the items she was holding.

  In one hand was a paint can and in the other a dripping brush. The large tires on the passenger side of the Humvee had been painted to resemble flowers. White petals fanned out from the wheel rims.

  The marines stood agape.

  “I said that the candy bar wrapper is mine. Don’t blame him!”

  “Engage. Engage,” whispered Cpl. Pence.

  “Uh, what’s your name?” asked Pvt. Fudgerié.

  “Name’s Azra’eil. Ask me again and I’ll never tell. What’s yours?”

  The three marines introduced themselves. Cpl. Pence asked why she had painted the tires of the Humvee like daisies.

  Azra’eil plopped the brush in the paint can and sat the can on the ground. Hands went to her hips. “Daisies? They’re lilies, sillies. Don’t you guys know flowers?”

  The marines looked befuddled. There was a long pause as the wind tousled the bright outfit of Azra’eil against the desert landscape. Thoughts that the girl could be strapped with an explosive were running through their minds.

  Finally, Cpl. Vance said, “We want to help you and those in your village. We have lots of bottled water in the truck. We build schools and bridges. We’re not here to take the country over or to divide it into little pieces like many people think.”

  “Guess you’re here on vacation then! As for me, I’m just brightening the place up a bit. Your ugly truck looks much better.”

  The marines imagined how they would get laughed to scorn at base camp when they rolled up with flowers painted on their tires.

  “We saw your other artwork back there,” informed Sgt. Moore who had climbed out the back of the Skullcrusher.

  “It’s part of my personal desert beautification project. Your tanks and trucks are all the same color. They are so drab looking. Just one costs more than all the buildings in my entire village. So I figured, hey if so many of you guys want to come here on vacation, I want the place to look n
ice. Brighten it up a bit.”

  “You certainly do that,” Sgt. Moore said.

  “There is some more of my artwork up ahead,” Azra’eil confessed. “Look!”

  Off in the distance the marines spotted more destroyed vehicles and colorful swipes of paint that could only be her flowery artwork. Pvt. Fudgerié managed to smile and immediately tried to hide it when Cpl. Pence glanced at him.

  “So what’s a girl gotta do to get a ride around here, huh?”

  The four marines told Azra’eil to stay put. They huddled in consultation near the bumper of the Skullcrusher. On the one hand they were never to pick up a civilian as a safety measure. Thoughts that she could be wired with explosives or have a tracking beeper strapped on her marched through their minds. On the other hand they realized the chances of the child getting blown up by running across a desert that had not been swept were high. It happened nearly every day.

  It was Sgt. Moore who thought of a compromise. This was a rare occasion for the battle hardened marine. “Why don’t you walk right beside one of our vehicles? We don’t move fast.”

  “Tell me about it. A grandma in a tight qmis could beat you guys.”

  “But we’ll have to pat you down first. That okay?”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” Azra’eil said, raising her arms.

  Sgt. Moore motioned to Pvt. Vance who strode over and lightly swatted at the girl’s puffing, blowing outfit.

  Azra’eil chortled and giggled. She pulled off Pvt. Vance’s sunglasses and tried them on. She made fun of his “absurd looking” outfit that needed a splash of color. She told him to smile more. She asked him how making war could bring peace. She instructed him not to ask her name again because she would never tell.