Hope and Undead Elvis

chapter Thirty-Two

Hope and Elvis





Hope stood in the door to the Casino's small club and stared open-mouthed at the man singing an Elvis song. He wasn't her Elvis; that was plain to see. For one thing, he was shorter and much thinner, more reminiscent of the early Elvis if he'd been malnourished instead of eating fried peanut butter sandwiches. He also didn't look very much like The King, with acne scars on his cheeks and a pronounced limp in his step as he moved across the stage. He did have appropriately-styled black hair, sideburns, and some kind of jumpsuit. His voice was very close to what Elvis had sounded like, and each note of Kentucky Rain was like a needle poking into Hope's skin, reminding her of what she'd lost.

When he finished with a bow and a mumbled "thankyouver'much," the dozen people in the audience offered scattered, unenthusiastic applause, and drifted away from the club. Left alone with Fidel, Hope decided that if nothing else, she had to talk to the Elvis impersonator.

He was going through the club, upending chairs and resting them on the tables, clearing away glasses, and collecting the odd chip left behind. He didn't seem to notice Hope as he worked with his head bowed. She cleared her throat.

He jumped at the sound. "You scared the hell out of me!"

"I'm sorry," said Hope. "I wanted to meet you. You're very good."

He shrugged. "I'm okay, but I don't really have any other marketable skills to keep myself in chips."

"Don't sell yourself short. I'd have paid real money to hear you sing, before. I spent my fair share of time in clubs and casinos, and I've seen a lot of lousy Elvises."

He stopped wiping down a table and smiled. "Thanks. I actually worked here before. The Deuce kept me on because he said it would help people to forget some of their troubles."

"Is it working?"

He shrugged. "Maybe once upon a time, but it's not like the show ever changes. Everyone here has seen it and nobody really cares. I'll run out of chips sooner or later."

"What happens then?"

"You get sent Down Below."

It felt as if the temperature in the room dropped a few degrees with those words and Hope shivered. "What's Down Below?"

He set the last chair onto a table and went over to the bar. "Where do you think all this electricity comes from? The lights and slots and music and everything? There aren't any power stations anymore." He took a stick-vac from behind the bar and ran it over the places where people had sat during his performance. "We make it all here."

"You generate your own power?"

"The Deuce has a guy, called Shades, who knows electricity. He hooked a bunch of generators up to bicycles. You need chips to live, you can earn them Down Below. Three hours on earns you one chip."

The math was easy enough even for Hope. "But a meal costs a chip. So does a bed. You'd have to work twelve hours just to break even at the end of the day."

The Elvis Impersonator gave her a sad smile as he packed away the stick vacuum. "Exactly. Once you wind up down there, you're probably never getting out. Folks are killing themselves working fifteen hours a day just to get a couple extra chips, then gambling them away up here."

"That's horrible!"

"Yeah, it is. But if you're smart with your money, you can stay alive and comfortable up here in the sunlit world. At least when it's not snowing." His eyes wandered upward toward Undead Elvis's sunglasses that still rode atop Hope's head. "You wouldn't want to sell those glasses, would you? They'd really help complete my look."

Hope shook her head. "Sorry, they're not for sale."

The Elvis Impersonator chuckled. "Everything's for sale for the right price. I'm Duane."

"Hope."

Duane's face went pale and he grabbed onto the edge of the bar for support. "Jesus, it's you."

Hope clutched his arm, offering her strength. "What about me?"

"He said he was looking for you."

Hope's heart leaped into her throat. "Who? Who was it?"

Duane looked around, his sideburns framing the unease on his face. "I'm not sure. He looked like Elvis. I mean, the real one. He had a jumpsuit and the hair and everything, except his skin didn't look right. It was kind of—"

"Blue?" interrupted Hope, her hands clasped at her throat.

"Yeah." Duane looked relieved. "I got the idea for my act from him. He said I had a good voice."

"You do. He would know."

"He said he was looking for a girl named Hope. He described you, but you don't look a lot like what he said you would. Except he said you were pregnant. God, he was right. After all this time."

"What happened to him? Where did he go?"

The worry marred Duane's face again. "I-I don't know."

"You're lying to me. Why are you lying?"

"Look, I have to go. Some things we're not to talk about. I probably already said too much. I'm… I'm sorry." He fled from the club into the recesses of the Casino.

Hope knew she couldn't waddle after him. "Damn it," she whispered. Nevertheless, she struggled after him, trying to keep a solid hold on Fidel and not let him overbalance her. Her baby wriggled in her belly, pressing a foot right against her lungs, making her gasp for breath. "Come on, give your mom a break, would you?" she grunted.

Fidel's ears stuck up as he saw someone in the darkness of the Casino. He strained at his leash, almost tugging it from Hope's grasp. He uttered a short bark, making people look over toward them. Hope saw he was pulling toward a woman in a wheelchair. "Yes, all right, Fidel. I see her. Thank you. Good dog."

Fidel wagged his tail and kept tugging at Hope until she was close enough to call to Margaret.

The woman stopped her progress, turned, and smiled at Hope. "There you are. I was looking for you."

Hope gasped for air as she joined Margaret. "I'm sorry, I just need a moment," she said. "I'm glad I'll be done soon. I miss breathing."

"My husband and I never had any children." Margaret's smile was one of sadness. "And then I was in the accident and he left me soon after."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"It's all right. It's hard to live with someone who's handicapped. I can do a lot of things, but I still need help from time to time." She sighed. "Sometimes it's even hard for me to live with myself."

"I understand, at least, I have an idea what that's like," said Hope. "I used to be a dancer before this." She patted her belly. "Well, before the world ended."

Margaret reached out a tentative hand. "May I?"

"Of course. He's quiet right now. I think he's finally asleep."

"How do you know it's a boy?"

"I just do."

Margaret rubbed Hope's belly with gentle fingers. Her demeanor became one of reverence. "It must be wonderful."

"It's been hard. At times I've been terribly sick, hungry, or just miserable. But yes, sometimes it's indeed wonderful."

"I bet the Deuce is beside himself."

"Yeah. I kind of get the sense he's looking forward to trying for another baby with me."

Margaret scratched Fidel behind his ears. "You wouldn't be the first, either. He's more than willing to spread his seed around. He says it's our duty to breed and to grow, and he chooses to lead from the front." Margaret lowered her voice. "Personally, I think he just likes the power of sleeping with so many women. He pays them for it, in chips or food or other perks."

"He's making them all into whores." Bitterness crept into Hope's voice. She'd seen the same pattern play out time and time again in the clubs where she'd worked.

Margaret uttered a soft, cynical laugh. "Honey, we're all whores. It's just a matter of finding the right price."

"It doesn't have to be that way."

"It does here."

"We could leave," said Hope. "The more I find out about this place, the more I think I don't want to raise my baby here."

Margaret's laugh was biting. "And where would we go? The world is gone. There's nothing left out there."

"Is that what Duce tells you?"

"Him and those few people who've come here since the end." Margaret looked up at her. "Why, are they wrong?" She lowered her voice. "What do you know that they don't?"

"Yes, they're wrong. The world is still out there. It's just… waiting."

"Waiting for what? For us?"

Hope rubbed her belly with gentle grace. "For him. This baby. I think he'll be the first born into this new world."

"I hope he won't be the last."

Hope felt her eyes grow a little misty. "He won't be. I know that for a fact. The world isn't ruined. It's going to come back. And those of use who are left, maybe we can make it a better place than it was before." Hope took an experimental breath. "I think I can go on now. Where were you headed?"

"Just back to my room. It's getting late and I'm tired and hungry."

"Me too."

"You can stay in my room if you want. You and the dog. It's big enough for all of us, and there's an extra bed."

"That sounds nice." Hope followed Margaret into a hall leading away from the main Casino floor. It was a dark place, with only one out of every four light bulbs lit up. Shadowy people passed by them, singly or in pairs, heading toward the gambling floor or toward rooms. They gave Margaret a wide berth and wouldn't look at her, Hope noticed, as if being in a wheelchair was contagious.

"Are they all this nice here?" she asked in a soft voice.

"No," said Margaret. "Some of them are much, much worse." She wheeled along in silence for a minute, and then asked, "Is there really nothing left out there, beyond the edge of the parking lot?"

"No, the world is still there. There are still things, and people, both good and bad, and places to go."

"So we can leave?"

"Yes. And I'm thinking I probably will as soon as this storm blows over. This place makes me uncomfortable, and I'm afraid of Mr. Duce."

"You should be." Margaret unlocked a door with a key she had on a string around her neck. "He won't want to let you go."

"He'll have a hard time stopping me," said Hope. "I haven't come this far just to give up before reaching my destination."

"What destination is that? Where are you going?"

Hope said, "Graceland. The real one."