Hope And Undead Elvis Part 1

Hope and Undead Elvis.

Ian Thomas Healy.

Foreword.

Allison M. d.i.c.kson.

Hope and Undead Elvis is not a typical Ian Healy story, and as someone who has read nearly every sc.r.a.p of his work, I feel qualified to say so. I also know Ian well enough to say he's not a religious man in the slightest. And it's important to note this, because Hope and Undead Elvis is heavy on spiritual stuff. h.e.l.l, its heroine is a pregnant virgin, and Graceland becomes an Eden that our girl must reach on a road of Job-like trials. And those are only a few of the themes you'll find within. Readers who are familiar with the Bible will likely recognize even more, and because I'd had plenty of that stuff drilled into my head as a kid in Sunday school, I know most of them.

When Ian told me he wanted to try submitting this to publishers in the Christian market, I was opposed to the idea. Not because I'm a G.o.dless heathen, but because this is not a Christian story any more than Lord of the Rings is. It is perhaps more allegorical than Tolkien. In fact, it's probably more on par with the thematic work of C.S. Lewis, but only if C.S. Lewis himself wasn't trying so blatantly to sell his religion through his work. Ian didn't write this to proselytize or reflect his own G.o.dly principles (such as they are). Rather, he delved freely into the collective unconscious and pulled out archetypes that were old well before the time of Christ.

An author doesn't need to be religious to write about religion, and a reader doesn't need to be religious to enjoy a story about G.o.d and saviors and such. I enjoyed the h.e.l.l out of this story, and pieces of it have stuck with me long since I handed him back the first draft with its few critical marks. G.o.d and Creation, for better or worse, are as much a part of the human fabric as much as our music and our beer. So sit back and enjoy Hope and Undead Elvis for what it is. It's not a religious tale and Mr. Healy isn't trying to tell you something. This is just one author's weird and haunting little vision about the end of the world that just happens to borrow a few familiar bits to sweeten the pot. And I have to say, Undead Elvis is a pretty righteous dude.

Preface.

One of the questions authors are asked constantly is "Where do you get your ideas?" Or, somewhat less frequently, "What were you smoking when you thought of this?"

With Hope and Undead Elvis, the idea germinated from a contest hosted by Jeff Hebert, creator of the HeroMachine character-creation application. The contest in question was to make a Mad Max-style post-apocalyptic character. I had just read Victor Gischler's Go-Go Dancers of the Apocalypse and wanted to do something in that vein. Thus came two images which I t.i.tled "Catholic Schoolgirl of the Apocalypse" and "Undead Elvis of the Apocalypse." Those two ideas wouldn't leave me alone, and it was only about a week before I sat down and typed out the first chapter of what would become a unique project for me. Those images are included after this Preface for those of you who have ebook readers with the capability.

At first, I imagined Hope and Undead Elvis as a tongue-in-cheek, babes-and-bullets type of romp through a post-apocalyptic setting in the vein of the movie Six String Samurai. By the end of the first chapter, I knew that this wasn't going to be the novel I'd write, and over the next several months Hope and Undead Elvis transformed itself from a lighthearted adventure into a highly allegorical reimagining of the story of Mary, mother of Jesus.

Marketing this book to potential agents and publishers proved to be the most difficult task of all. There isn't anything else out there like Hope and Undead Elvis, which means there isn't a pre-made audience ready to snap it up. That makes it difficult for agents and publishers to get behind, and the one common theme that stretched through my rejections was "We love this, but we don't see how we could sell it." Even my last-ditch efforts approaching Christian publishers were met with a love for the story and dismay at the prospects of selling it. I couldn't just let it sit, because I believe it is a very good tale and worth sharing, so I opted to epublish it and add it to my ever-growing library of online work.

No book can exist in a vacuum, and this one is no exception. I couldn't have done it without advice from my friend and former agent Ange Tysdal, who pa.s.sed along a few useful suggestions and potential markets I hadn't known of before. And finally, I want to extend special, heartfelt thanks to my best friend and editor, Allison M. d.i.c.kson, without whose eagle-eyed enthusiasm for editing (she'll slap me for the alliteration there, I'm sure!), my work would be lacking in, well, pretty much everything that makes a good book.

Ian Thomas Healy.

September, 2011.

Image: Catholic Schoolgirl of the Apocalypse.

Image: Undead Elvis of the Apocalypse.

Chapter One.

Hope and Undead Elvis.

Hope was playing Five-Card Draw with Undead Elvis when the world ended.

Well, he might have been Elvis. He certainly looked the part in his white sequined jumpsuit that flared at the ankles over his black leather cowboy boots, open down the front to show off a prodigious belly from decades of rough living. Purple waist-length cape with a high collar, and who wore a cape anymore these days? Golden belt that would have set a professional wrestler's teeth on edge with gaudy jealousy. The sungla.s.ses. The hair. The freaking sideburns, for f.u.c.k's sake.

If he might have been Elvis, there was no question in Hope's mind that he was thoroughly undead. Zombie? Perhaps, although instead of going for brains like any sensible zombie would have, he was chowing down on a plate of greasy fries doused in sausage gravy with a handful of grated generic cheese on them-another indication that he was in fact Elvis. He wasn't a pale-faced vampire, neither sparkling nor catching on fire in the afternoon sun leaking through the blinds of Yancy Cleveland's Tavern, Microbrewery, and Rock Shoppe in the middle of Nowhere, New Mexico. That was the name of the town, and an apt description it was for a few ancient buildings that aspired to ghost town status. There was the Post Office and Rock Shoppe, the Authentic Jewish Delicatessen and Rock Shoppe, and Hope suspected even the police department had a rock shoppe buried somewhere inside by the single-bed drunk tank.

She'd run out of car pa.s.sing through town. Some people ran out of gas, or had a breakdown. Hope's car had sputtered and died three miles out, and when she'd stepped out to inspect it, the parking brake had failed and the thirty-year-old Plymouth had rolled gracefully down the embankment to flip into a box canyon. It had taken with it every worldly possession of Hope's except for the Catholic schoolgirl costume she'd worn the night before when dancing at one of the Indian casinos, and thirty-eight dollars in singles. She could have had a couple hundred if she'd given that one guy the lap dance he kept asking for, but that would have led to the kind of trouble Hope had decided to avoid.

Hot, sweaty, dusty from the road, she'd walked into Yancy Cleveland's in search of a cold brew and a ride out of town. Instead, she'd found Undead Elvis sitting in the corner, smoke curling from the cigarette clutched in his bluish fingers, with a deck of bicycle cards still shrinkwrapped on the table before him.

"Hey there, Li'l lady, come on over here and sit down a spell," he'd said.

Sitting had turned into talking, talking into drinking, and drinking into poker. Undead Elvis was an interesting fellow, full of stories and reminisces about the Good Old Days before he'd taken one or two or ten too many pills and wound up facedown in his own c.r.a.pper. He wasn't very good at cards, and Hope wasn't about to tell him she could see the reflection of his hands in his sungla.s.ses. So far, she'd taken him for fifty bucks and felt optimistic she could clean him out and maybe buy somebody's junker to get her out of Nowhere and as far as Raton, where she'd been promised steady work.

When the world ended, she had four Kings and Undead Elvis was trying to work two pair: aces and eights. It would have been the perfect Dead Man's Hand, except he had the red aces instead of the blacks. There were forty-eight dollars in the pot. Hope finished her mug of p.i.s.s-warm Dos Equis and took a deep draw from her Virginia Slim Ultralight. The hearts and diamonds in Undead Elvis's hand reflected backward off his sungla.s.ses and she wondered just how far she could push him with this hand. "Raise ten bucks," she said to him, then, to the bartender, "Another beer."

Something pa.s.sed through the world, as if it were at the end of a whip and someone cracked it.. It ruffled Hope's straw-blonde hair and made the sequins on Undead Elvis's jumpsuit dance. Gla.s.s shattered behind her and she looked back at the bartender, who'd been the only other person in Yancy Cleveland's.

He was gone.

Beer glugged onto the floor from where the bottle had broken on the bar.

Hope turned back to Undead Elvis. "You better not have looked at my cards."

"I wouldn't dream of it, Li'l lady. Uh-huh."

"You see where the bartender went?"

"Away."

"So, like, to the back?"

"No." Undead Elvis leaned back from the table and rested one blue-green hand on the curvature of his gut. "One second he was there, pouring your beer, and the next he wasn't there at all."

"He went away when that thing happened?"

"Uh-huh."

"What was that thing, anyway?"

"I dunno. Felt kind of like the end of the world."

"How would you know what the end of the world feels like?"

"I dunno, but I bet it felt kind of like that thing."

"You going to raise or call?"

Undead Elvis adjusted his sungla.s.ses, almost uncovering his eyes, and pulled his cards a little closer to his chest. "The world might have just ended, and all you care about is forty-eight dollars, Li'l lady?"

"Fifty-eight, and ten to you unless you're going to raise, you undead b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

He smiled at her. His teeth were dazzling white. "Now, that ain't no way for a sweet young thing like you to talk."

Hope sighed. She was ready to be done with this no-horse town. She'd quit after this hand and leave Undead Elvis, Yancy Cleveland's, and Nowhere with all its little Rock Shoppes as far behind as she could get with what little cash she had. "s.h.i.t or get off the pot."

Undead Elvis set a crisp ten dollar bill atop the pile in the center. "I call."

Hope grinned and laid her hand on the table. "Read 'em and weep. Four, uh ..." The cards on the table were not the ones that had been in her hand a moment ago. They weren't even regular playing cards. A seven of blue circles. A five of orange triangles. Something which she could only call the P of green circles that featured an image of a burning man. A symbol she couldn't even name in red. And an ace of, apparently, multicolored squares. "What the h.e.l.l is all this? These aren't my cards."

Undead Elvis put down his cards, showing a similar mishmash of unfamiliar types, colors, and symbols as well. "Well, that's peculiar."

Hope pointed to one of his cards. "The F of... h.e.l.l, I don't even know what that's supposed to be."

"I think it's called a fleur de lis."

"I don't care what it is. What did you do with the cards?"

"I didn't do anything. One second they were the regular cards..."

"And then the end of the world happened, and they changed." Hope rubbed her nose. "What the f.u.c.k, Elvis?"

"Language."

"Yeah, yeah. So how come we didn't change?"

"How do you know you didn't?"

Hope started to get up from the table, stopped, and grabbed the pile of money. "I'd have won this. I had four kings before... before whatever."

Undead Elvis shrugged. He was a walking corpse; what did he need the money for, anyway?

On her way across Yancy Cleveland's, Hope noticed the Miller High Life clock on the wall no longer had hands. It still made ticking noises, but gave no indication of the time. She'd worry about the time later, and ducked into the bathroom to check her reflection.

She still looked like a stripper dressed in a Catholic schoolgirl outfit under a windblown mop of blonde hair. She turned on a spigot, intending to splash some water on her face, but instead of water, a stream of sand poured out. "What the h.e.l.l?" She touched it with a tentative finger. It was cold. The hot water spigot rewarded her with another stream of tepid sand. She watched the grains spiral down into the drain and listened as they tinkled through the pipes below.

She had a horrible, frightening thought that Undead Elvis might disappear on her while she was in the bathroom, and hurried back out into the bar. He might have been Elvis, might have been a zombie, but he was still the only person she knew here.

When she emerged, he was standing behind the bar, pouring her a new gla.s.s of beer. "Find anything interesting?" he asked.

"We've got hot and cold running sand in the bathroom."

"Huh." He handed her the beer. The cool gla.s.s sweated like it had been in a freezer. His fingers brushed hers as she took it. They were cold like a corpse's. "Maybe the water went away when the world ended."

"Stop saying the world ended!"

Undead Elvis shrugged. "Drink your beer. Might be the last one for awhile."

She did so, and rounded on him. "What are you doing here anyway? You're supposed to be dead. You died thirty years ago."

He shrugged again. "Seemed like the place for someone like me to be." He went up onto his toes in a cla.s.sic Elvis pose. "Uh-huh."

Hope shook her head. "This is just too weird for me. I'm out of here." She stalked to the door of Yancy Cleveland's and flung it open.

Beyond, instead of the dusty main street and Rock Shoppes of Nowhere, New Mexico, she saw nothing but sand dunes for miles and miles in all directions. She shrieked and slammed the door shut. Her heart hammered as she opened it a crack to peek out once more. Still nothing but sand. A few grains dislodged from a nearby dune to roll down and trickle beyond the threshold of Yancy Cleveland's. Shrinking back from them as if they were infectious, she turned to Undead Elvis. "It's gone. It's all gone, out there."

He struck another cla.s.sic Elvis pose, up on his toes and arms spread wide. "It's the end of the world. Uh-huh!"

Chapter Two.

Hope and the End of the World.

"I'm not going to stand for this," said Hope. "We've got to do something. Call somebody and tell them."

"What are you going to tell them?" Undead Elvis leaned back in his chair and kicked his booted feet up onto the tabletop. Bizarre, mismatched playing cards flew in every direction. "The world ended. What am I supposed to do now, go find a helmet?"

"You're no help," said Hope. She picked up the old, rotary-dialed bar phone. As she'd expected, there was no dial tone. Still, she hit the cradle b.u.t.ton a few times, because she'd seen that in the movies.

Something fell into her ear. She yelped and dropped the phone, brushing frantically at the side of her head. Whatever it was fell out. She stuck a finger in her ear to check for anything that shouldn't be there.

"What happened?" asked Undead Elvis.

Hope picked up the phone and shook it. Grains rattled inside the hard plastic sh.e.l.l and some bits of sand fell out through the holes in the ear and mouthpieces. "G.o.d, how long has it been since anyone's used this phone, anyway?" She started to set it down, but sand still streamed from the holes. She shook it again. It seemed heavier.

She set it back in its cradle and sand poured out in two neat little piles on either side of the phone. "What the h.e.l.l? Hey, Elvis, come check this out."

Undead Elvis sidled across the barroom floor, like he was listening to a beat n.o.body else could hear. "What you got, Li'l lady?"

"Sand, like what's outside." Hope held up the receiver as evidence. Tiny torrents of sand rushed from it, far more than it could have held. She wondered if the sand was pushing its way in through the phone cord. The way the world had changed and gone all wonky in the past few minutes, she wouldn't have been surprised in the least.

"Huh," said Undead Elvis. He poked an unnatural finger at the sand and looked at the few tenacious grains that clung to his skin. "That ain't natural."

"Says the undead guy."

Undead Elvis didn't reply. Instead, he yanked on one of the beer taps by the bar. Damp sand splattered into the drain tray. He went down the line: Coors, Coors Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, Miller High Life, Miller Lite, and Fat Tire. Every single tap released sand. As Hope watched, the trickles became torrents that didn't shut off when Undead Elvis let go of the taps.

Hope took a step back from the bar as sand overflowed the drain tray and spilled onto the floor. "What's going on?"