Hope and Undead Elvis - By Ian Thomas Healy Page 0,8

panels. It was one of those half-pickup, half-cars that had been popular before Hope had been born. She couldn't remember what they were called. El-something. It had an old burgundy and white Arizona license plate that read "BURRO."

Having been a hitchhiker before, she knew what was expected of her. She bent down to the passenger window, arms placed in strategic position to maximize her cleavage for the man behind the wheel. It was always a man. Women drivers never stopped for hitchhikers. Hope couldn't blame them; she wouldn't either. Men usually stopped, though, especially those who knew the routine. Sometimes they were nice, and Hope would consent to a blowjob. Others were rude, or ugly, and they would only get a handjob as payment.

She didn't enjoy either one, but it had kept her from ever being raped.

The car's driver was so attractive that her pleasuring payment might not be so bad. He had short, curly hair the color of a cloudy night with a white kerchief tied around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes. Eyes like water-filled quarries with cool, seductive depths that beckoned to children on hot days. Strong jaw. Aquiline nose. His lips were full and pouting, and they curved into a delicious smile. He looked like a magazine model except for the sparks of humor and intelligence that danced in those eternal pools of his eyes.

Hope's carefully-rehearsed speech flew away as if it had never been part of her repertoire, and she stammered like a gawky teenager.

"Where you headed?" he asked over the rumble of his car's poorly-tuned engine. He had a voice like a mariachi singer that made Hope's knees weaken.

As she leaned on the car for support, her eyes fell on the bobble-head doll glued to his dashboard. Elvis. She took it as an omen and smiled at the driver, attempting to regain her sense of self in spite of her cracked lips. "Far as you'll take me, handsome."

"Sure, hop in, señorita. We survivors got to stick together."

Hope hesitated, her hand on the door handle. "Listen, about that. My friend, uh, can he come too?"

The man looked around. "I don't see no-one."

Hope glanced to either side and saw no sign of Undead Elvis. He wouldn't have left her behind and gone off on his own way; of that she was certain. But if the sands had become jealous and vengeful after she'd robbed them of him once before…

"He's here. Yeah." Hope raised her voice. "Elvis? Where are you hiding at?"

He stood up from behind a nearby dune. "I'm right here, Li'l lady. Didn't wanna startle the fella."

Hope pasted a desperate grin across her face and turned back to the driver.

"So what do you say?"

"Is that really Elvis?"

"I sure do apologize, mister," said Undead Elvis, leaning down to stick his bluish face in the window. "I know I don't look my best these days, but I am The King."

The driver scratched the back of his head. "I was sure you were dead."

"I was, sir."

"Please, mister, I'll do anything." Hope felt herself on the verge of a panic breakdown. If this man wouldn't take them as passengers, she'd lay down and wait to die. "Anything, you understand? Just don't leave us here." A single tear, all her body dared release, cut a path down the dirt on her face. She wondered if it was the last of her water and if she'd crumble into dust right there.

The driver smiled. "I couldn't say no to such a pretty girl. And you can see that I'm an Elvis fan." He flicked his bobble-head doll for emphasis. "Get in, señorita." He looked at Undead Elvis. "Lo siento, señor. I only have the two seats. Do you mind riding in the back?"

Undead Elvis smiled. "Not at all, friend." But Hope heard, under his breath, "I ain't nothin' but a hound dog." He climbed aboard. Hope looked back through the broken rear window and saw a fifty-five-gallon drum on its side filled a good chunk of the cargo bed. Braided steel hoses ran from the bottom of one end to disappear underneath the cab. She realized it was probably the car's gas tank and wondered how far they could go if it was full.

The driver dropped the shifter into gear and the car roared away from the shoulder in a great cloud of blue oil smoke. Hot, dusty air blew in through the open windows, and Undead Elvis could hunch down and stick his head into the back window,