Zombie Vacation Spot

 "Arizona is one of the most zombie-friendly states in the nation," Linda said. "And you agreed to come with me here to the Dead or Alive Dude Ranch so stop your moaning. This is the first vacation we've had in, well, I really can't remember, and I won't let you spoil it."

"Ungh," Steve moaned, hoisting his suitcase up onto the bed. "Fine. Let's check out the welcome packet and see when the restaurant opens for dinner service. I could eat a horse."

"Okay," Linda said, opening the slick, plastic folder with a boldly lettered "Drop Dead Fun and Games" on the cover. 

"A horse," Steve repeated.

"Yes," Linda said.

"An entire, actual, literal horse," Steve said.

"Oh, look!" Linda said, ignoring Steve's lame attempt at humor. "Check out the activities available! This is going to be so dead!"

"Is Horse Tartare on the agenda?" Steve asked.

Linda sighed. "I get it. You're hungry. You're always hungry. I'm always hungry. We're always hungry. Because we're zombies."

"It's funny because it's true," Steve said.

"Does it look like I'm laughing?" Linda said, pointing to her face.

"Well," Steve said. "Kind of. Having half your cheek fall off will do that to you."

Linda narrowed her milky blue eyes and gave Steve her best of what was left of her I'm Not Laughing face.

"Okay," Steve said. "Dinner can wait." He nodded to the folder in Linda's hands. "What's a dead dude going to do for fun?"

Linda picked a pamphlet from the folder. "How about a Rattlesnake Roundup? Feel the tingle of toxins as what's left of your blood boils as you wrangle a den of Diamondback Rattlers! After a long, dusty day punching venomous doggies, enjoy the apres roundup feast. It's true! They taste like chicken!" She handed the pamphlet to Steve.

"I wouldn't mind feeling my blood boil again, I suppose," Steve said. "No matter how many layers I wear I still feel cold."

"Dead will do that to you," Linda said.

"What else have you got?" Steve asked.

Plucking another pamphlet from the folder, Linda said, "How about the Shootout at High Noon? Feel the burn of hot lead as you and a partner empty your Colt revolvers into each other at 20 paces. Who needs kevlar when you can't be killed (again)?"

"I don't know," Steve said. "That sounds like a recipe for disaster. I'd hate to get kneecapped. I've got a bad enough limp as it is. Not to mention a stray bullet to the brainpan."

Linda seemed frozen in time, as if in a dream, looking at the pamphlet still in her hand.

After a moment, Steve said, "I don't know what's going on in that undead brain of yours but let me just say right here and now that we will not be doing the Shootout at High Noon."

"Agreed," Linda said, stuffing the pamphlet back into the folder. Selecting another, she said, "Okay. How about the Bar Room Brawl and 'All You Can Eat' Smorgasbord? It says, No 5-Second Rule here! Anyone who hits the floor, no matter how long they've been on the floor, is fair game!"

"Wait, what?" Steve said. "Anyone? As in any person or people?"

Scanning the pamphlet, Linda nodded. "There's a legal disclaimer. All of the dirty, no good, card sharps in the Bar Room Brawl Smorgasbord have signed a legal waiver indicating they fully understand what they're about to do and their statistically insignificant chance of survival. So (and we're quoting our lawyers): Enjoy!"

Steve took the pamphlet from Linda. "Okay then. That one sounds like fun. A kind of old west dinner and a show."

"This sounds fun," Linda said, as she took a single glossy page in the folder. "The Starlight Scorpion Scoop. Test what's left of your quick twitch reflexes - and your night vision - as you explore the rocks and sand of the Sonoran Desert by starlight in search of these delectable desert predators."

"I don't know," Steve said. "Insects are like popcorn. Crunchy and delicious with salt and butter but the shells are always getting caught between my teeth."

"Love the humble-brag but I get it already. You still have all your teeth," Linda said.

"I told you," Steve said. "Flossing makes all the difference."

"Yeah. Okay," Linda said as she slid the glossy back into the folder sleeve. "Technically, scorpions are not insects. They're arachnids," Linda said.

"What?" Steve asked.

"You said 'insect' but scorpions are arachnids," Linda said.

"Why do you always do this?" Steve asked.

"What?" Linda asked.

"It's always about semantics with you," Steve said.

"I don't know what you're talking about! Besides, this is more about zoology than semantics," Linda said.

"You're doing it again!" Steve said. "You totally ignore the emotional truth in my statement -"

"Emotional truth?" Linda asked. "I'm sorry. I must've missed it. Did it have something to do with the popcorn?"

"No!" Steve said. "I mean, well, yes, in a way. You know how I feel about my teeth."

"Do I ever," Linda said, her eyes rolling uncontrollably, the left eyeball nearly popping out before she caught it and pushed it back into the socket. "You only talk about them all the time."

"The point is not the scorpion's genus and species. The point is the shells get stuck in my teeth. The exoskeleton. It doesn't make a difference what kind of bug it is," Steve said.

"I'm sure it makes a difference to the scorpion," Linda said, flipping pages in the folder. "Oh, wait! Listen to this! The Cattle Rustling Adventure! Only the finest, hormone-free Angus cattle. Taste the free range with all the tartare you can rustle up!"

"Tartare," Steve said. "You know I love tartare."

Linda smiled. "You do have the teeth for it." She pulled the pamphlet from the folder and tossed it on the bed. "And there's this," she said. "Custer's Last Stand! Or is it? We take you on beyond simple, conventional Old West reenactors to an alternate history where you are George Armstrong Custer, leading the 7th Zombie Cavalry in a war of genocide against the indigenous peoples of North America." She paused as she scanned through the pamphlet. "It says you can opt for being scalped or shot with as many as 20 arrows. You know, if you're into that."

"I don't know," Steve said. "I have enough guilt as it is. I mean, genocide? Didn't we come here to relax?"

"It's a distinction without a difference," Linda said.

"Semantics, again?" Steve said.

"Genocide," Linda said. "Not sure where you think you can draw a line there. I mean, we're zombies, after all. It's more or less our raison d'etre."

Steve considered it. "I suppose you're right."

"I'm always right," Linda said. 

Steve tried to think of something that Linda had been wrong about to throw in what was left of her face but after struggling in vain for a moment decided it wasn't worth ruining dinner. "I'm starving," he said. "What do you say we rustle us up some dinner?"

Linda put the folder back on the desk and picked up the Cattle Rustling Adventure pamphlet she'd left on the bed. "Tartare it is!"

"Yee haw!" Steve exclaimed, as they left to find the concierge.