Seth MacFarlane's A Million Ways to Die in the West: A Novel

by Macfarlane, Seth

  “You drank the whole bowl!”

  “Oh, shit! Oh, shit, is that bad?”

  “That was for the entire tribe!” said Cochise. “You’re totally gonna freak out and probably die. Good luck.”

  Albert’s jaw hung open in terror as the world around him dissolved into a distorted hellscape.…

  He tried to move his arms, but they remained locked at his side. Something was holding him in place. He looked down to see that his entire body was sandwiched between two brown, rough-looking sides of the same giant vise. Wait, not a vise … a walnut? Yes, a walnut. He was trapped in the center of an oversized walnut. But where the hell was he?

  When he looked up, he saw stars. Countless stars. Never had he seen so many. But what terrified him was what he saw when he looked down: More stars. Thousands. He was floating above the sky, in the heavens, and there was no up or down. He could see, on all sides of him, other walnuts of various sizes circling the sun.

  Somewhere off to his left, another light source flared up. Albert turned and was astounded to see a massive cloud of gas and dust expanding from a single point too far away to ascertain. Every color in the known spectrum was engaged in a sort of misty water ballet; there were even a few new colors Albert had never seen before. New colors? How was that possible? But before he could contemplate it further, the gas cloud contracted as quickly as it had expanded. The gorgeous multihued formation was drawn into a rapidly widening vacuum. A gaping hole opened up, like some horrific maw leading back to a dark time before creation that no living man should ever see.

  And then everything was sucked inside. The walnuts, the stars, the gas and dust, and Albert. The intensity of the pull flung him free of the nut in which he’d been confined, and he found himself being hurled at blinding speed through a vast tunnel, which that seemed to twist and turn at random like an agitated earthworm being poked with a twig by a sadistic child.

  And then all at once he was on solid ground. He hadn’t felt the impact, but nonetheless he was here, lying prostrate on an uneven surface. He lifted his head and spat out a mouthful of sand. He was back in the desert.

  But as he struggled to stand, he saw that it was not his desert. Not the Southwest. There was no vegetation here, no rocks, no dirt—just sand. Miles and miles of sand, with dunes stretching all the way to the horizon. It looked more like the North African deserts he’d read about in books.

  He was not alone. Something was here with him. A dark shape momentarily blocked out the sun, and Albert heard a piercing SHRIEEEEK. He looked up just in time to see a massive black condor descending toward him from the sky. It was moving as fast as a locomotive and appeared to be nearly half the size of one as well. But that wasn’t the only thing wrong with it. Its eyes glowed bright green, and it had fangs. No bird that Albert had ever seen or heard of had fangs. This was a hellish demon-bird that looked as though it had burst into reality from a mythical tale created by some long-dead and best-forgotten savage civilization.

  Albert tried to scream, but nothing came out. So he ran. He ran as fast as he could, which in this nightmare world still felt like moving through molasses. Just as the condor was upon him, he lunged over the crest of one of the dunes, tumbled violently down a steep embankment—

  —and crashed through a layer of solid ice.

  Albert plunged deep into the frigid water beneath. He immediately swam for the surface but could find no opening. Beneath the solid ice, he was trapped. He began to panic again as he pounded on the frozen ceiling with both fists, his lungs aching with pressure as their final reserves of oxygen were depleted.

  Then at last, just as the grip of unconsciousness tightened around his body, he found the opening through which he had fallen. With all his remaining strength, he pulled himself up out of the water, finding purchase on the snowy shoreline that rimmed the freezing pool. He stood up, dripping and shivering, and surveyed his surroundings. He was in an Arctic wilderness, and there was a blizzard in full force. Stinging snowflakes bit and snapped at his face at the same time that he became aware this was no ordinary tundra. There were tall palm trees peppering the landscape, so curiously equidistant from one another that they looked almost artificially placed. Each frond was a different color, which gave them a striking rainbow effect. But what drew Albert’s attention more than anything else was the cabin. It was his cabin. Just plopped out here in the middle of this insane, otherworldly panorama. He ran toward it, partly out of curiosity and partly out of fear of death from pneumonia or hypothermia. He reached the cabin door and hurried inside.

  It was his house, but empty. No—not completely empty. There was a lone rocking chair next to the cold, unlit fireplace. Because he had nowhere else to go, Albert walked to the chair and sat down.

  Almost instantly the walls around him began to ripple. At first, he braced himself for another transition—Jesus, what’s next, the moon?—but it was merely the room itself that was changing. The rippling intensified, turning the walls and floor into liquefied, ocean-like waves of wood and sod. And then, abruptly, it stopped.

  The room was no longer empty. There were chairs, tables, paintings, and photographs on the walls. It was still Albert’s cabin, but its personality had been entirely altered. It had been transformed into a cozy, beautifully decorated home. He almost didn’t recognize it.

  And there was Anna.

  She was seated in a second rocking chair on the other side of the fireplace, which now roared and crackled and gave off a warm, comforting glow. Anna smiled wordlessly at Albert as she stitched some ornately embroidered words into a pillow: Don’t go snackin’ if you been tobaccin’. After a moment, she set down her stitchery and pointed off to his right.

  When he turned, he noticed a small table that hadn’t been there a second ago. On it sat a steaming cup of coffee. Albert felt himself smile. Although his clothes and skin were now somehow dry, he still felt an inner chill from the ice and snow. He could certainly use a cup of coffee. He picked it up and prepared to take a sip, but stopped as he looked into the cup. The coffee was spinning like a whirlpool. It was almost hypnotic, and soon he found that he could not take his eyes off it. He could still feel his body placed firmly in the chair, but at the same time he had the distinct sensation that he was being pulled down, down, down into the eye of the whirlpool.

  And then he was no longer inside the cabin but rather was sitting on a hard, ribbed surface. He looked down. Wicker. Wicker on the floor, wicker on the walls … no, not walls. I’m in a basket. He scrambled to his feet, and his breath caught in his throat as he took in his latest surroundings.

  He was floating in a hot-air balloon surrounded by trees. But these trees were impossibly, fantastically tall. Whether Albert looked up or down, he could not see where they began or ended. The trunks simply receded to infinitesimally small points in the distance.

  He felt the balloon quiver slightly. When he gazed up, he saw that the fabric above him now bore a gigantic face. A face he knew all too well. Foy’s face. “Balloon moustache, balloon moustache,” it sang in echoey, dissonant, reverberating tones. Albert grimaced in repulsed confusion, but before he could react further, a dark shadow passed overhead. The black condor swooped down from above, ripping Foy’s face to shreds with its massive talons. Unfortunately, the balloon itself was also in tatters, and Albert began to plummet fast. He let out a scream as he looked down and saw the trunks racing past him at blurring speed. Still, the ground had yet to make an appearance. His fall accelerated, and Albert could feel his face rippling from the force of the descent. His insides pushed angrily at the back of his throat like an invading army with a battering ram at the gate. Then, suddenly, with a hard, skull-rattling jolt, it stopped.

  He glanced up and found that the balloon had caught on a branch. He was swaying back and forth pendulously, and the branch looked ill-equipped to hold his weight for long. He looked down again and saw the forest floor at last.

  It was a sea of raging fire.

  The branch snapped.
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  Albert braced himself for death as the basket plummeted again and the flames rushed up to meet him—

  THUD!

  He landed on a patch of soft green grass. The impact had been harder than the others, and he thought for a moment that his nose was broken, or at least bleeding. But when he poked at it gingerly with his index finger, it felt intact. He struggled to his feet and looked around. He was standing in a wide-open field, surrounded at its perimeter by a thick layer of pine trees. It was an oddly silent place, bereft even of birdsong. And then he began to hear the clip-clop of hooves. He turned toward the sound. Approaching from the distance was the most ornate horse-drawn carriage he had ever seen. It was a bright shade of purple, and was pulled by two milk-white mares bedecked entirely in gold-colored tack. The carriage came to a stop directly in front of Albert. The horses did not stir, but Albert got the distinct sense that they were waiting for him to act. He cautiously moved toward the side door and grasped the handle. When he opened it, his head spun.

  Beyond the door was the interior of a Gothic church. It was dazzling in design, lusciously opulent in décor—and full. There had to be five hundred people in attendance, all lavishly dressed and all staring expectantly at Albert. Most were strangers, but some folk he recognized from Old Stump: Edward, Ruth, Millie, Doc Harper, Sheriff Arness—and Anna.

  She was dressed in a flowing white wedding gown and stood at the altar, attended by Pastor Wilson. Her gaze was warm and welcoming as she beckoned him to approach. The magnetism of the vision was irresistible. Albert stepped through the doorway …

  … and tumbled out the other side of the carriage. He felt the wind knocked out of him as his rib cage absorbed the impact. He pulled himself up, clutched his side in pain, and turned back toward the open door. The church was gone. All that remained was the inside of the carriage, which looked just like any other. Even the bright purple effervescence of the surface had become dulled. He reached an arm inside, searching, grasping for any trace of the vanished mirage, but found nothing. Instead of disappointment, however, he felt something else. Anger. Something had tantalized him with this gateway to the life he wanted and then deliberately denied him access. It was then that Albert realized, with a wave of release, how tired he was of being a perpetual punching bag for the endless blows the western frontier hurled at him.

  He heard the unmistakable shriek of the condor. He looked up as the monstrous creature bore down on him from the sky once again, its eyes glowing an unearthly green, its white fangs glinting bestially in the sunlight. But this time, Albert did not run. Something tugged at his waist, and when he looked down he saw that he was wearing his gun belt. Without a moment’s pause, he drew the pistol and fired several rounds at his avian attacker. To his frustration, the bullets did not pierce the bird’s skin, instead bouncing off harmlessly. However, the bird did veer away from its trajectory and circled back up into the air. It swung around for another assault, and Albert fired at it again. His gut wrenched as he heard the click-click of an empty chamber. No more bullets.

  The condor dove directly for him. He was about to run when he noticed a bulbous feathered convexity between the condor’s legs. A ball sack, he realized. Completely exposed and unprotected. Could it be that easy …? The bird came at him, shrieking with open jaws. As it overtook him, Albert kicked the ball sack as hard as he could with the toe of his boot. The condor let out an earsplitting, hellish scream that echoed all across the field as it spun away, head over tail, off into the sky, until it vanished to a pinprick of darkness against the sun.

  Albert sat up with a violent start. The light was suddenly gone. He could feel a thick coat of perspiration descending the surface of his face. As he took in his surroundings, he realized he was still sitting around the campfire, with the Apaches watching him intently. The first pink ribbons of dawn were visible on the edge of the horizon. Albert felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Cochise.

  “Did you shoot the black condor and kick it in the balls?” asked the wizened old warrior.

  Albert was startled. “Yes. How do you know that?”

  Cochise’s eyes crinkled as he gave Albert a warm, knowing smile. “It means that true courage does indeed lie within you. If you can trust in its power, then you may yet find happiness.”

  ——

  Several hours later, Albert stood facing the entire Apache tribe at the edge of their camp. He regarded Cochise with a look of gratitude. Albert had begun his odyssey as their prisoner, and now he was closing it out as the beneficiary of their wisdom and kindness.

  “Thank you for everything, Chief Cochise. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

  Cochise gave him a look that was almost paternal. “There is an ancient proverb among my people: Sometimes the only way for a man to discover his true path is to take drugs in a group.”

  Albert nodded. “Thank you for letting me take drugs with you. I know what I have to do now.”

  He gave Cochise a long embrace, mounted Curtis, and waved goodbye. The Apaches watched as he galloped off toward his destiny.

  The main thoroughfare of Old Stump was overcast and deserted as Clinch Leatherwood dragged his wife out into the center of the street, his pistol pressed against her side. Lewis, Ben, and the rest of the gang watched with amusement as their leader began his deadly theatrical display.

  “All right, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear, his foul breath assailing her nostrils, “now we’re gonna find out whether your little boyfriend gives a fuck about you.” Clinch took out the gold pocket watch for which he’d shot a man not three months before. “He’s got six minutes till noon. If he doesn’t show, he’s gonna be picking up pieces of you all over the street.” Clinch shouted at the empty horizon. “STARK!!”

  There was no answer. Anna stood stone-faced, ever the picture of courage. She knew she was going to die today, but she also knew she’d be goddamned if she’d give her bastard of a husband the pleasure of seeing her break. In reality, the last thing she wanted was for Albert to make an appearance. There was no way he stood a chance against Clinch. She already felt the regretful sting of her own betrayal, and she did not want to be responsible, indirectly or not, for his death.

  For a moment, they all struck a morbid tableau: a large and sinister man with a reptilian gaze standing rigidly in the center of the street, a loaded pistol against his wife’s ribs, his gang watching as if they were witnessing a carnival show rather than a prelude to murder, and dozens of goatish frontier faces with fearful eyes peering helplessly from windows, doorways, alleys, all too terrified to emerge. Even the sheriff watched from the safety of his office, displaying his usual ineffectiveness.

  And then, from the distance, the sound of hooves. As they grew closer, Anna’s heart sank even deeper. No, Albert, no! Get out of here or he’ll kill you too!

  Albert appeared astride his horse at the end of the thoroughfare. When he came to a halt, his clumsy, nerdish dismount only amplified her distress. Was he insane? He was a sheep farmer with one week of shooting practice under his belt, and he was going to go up against the deadliest outlaw in the West?

  “Let her go, Clinch.” To his credit, Albert’s voice was steady.

  Clinch gave Anna a loveless squeeze. “Well, now,” he said with an evil grin, “true love conquers all, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

  “Albert, don’t be stupid!” she shouted desperately. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Clinch twisted her arm, hard. “Too late for that,” said the outlaw. “He’s already been real stupid, haven’t you, Stark? You’ve been with my wife.”

  Albert seemed to carefully measure his response. “Well, I mean, we haven’t done it, if that makes a difference.”

  Clinch shoved Anna roughly toward Lewis, who restrained her firmly—and with far too much pleasure—and leveled his gun at the space between Albert’s eyes. Albert stiffened, but held the other man’s gaze. “Y’know, I hear you’re a pretty tough guy, Clinch. Well, why don’t you pro
ve it? You and me. Gunfight. Right here, right now.”

  Clinch brightened visibly. He looked almost entertained, as if someone told him he was about to be treated to a puppet show. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?” he said with a grisly little cackle.

  “But—” Albert raised a hand. “But let’s make it interesting. One bullet apiece. One for you, one for me.”

  For a moment, Clinch actually looked caught off guard. “What?”

  “Yeah. Empty all your bullets but one. Unless you think you need more than one to kill me.”

  Clinch hesitated. He certainly had no fear at all of this lowly, pathetic sheep farmer, but he also was clearly unable to calculate what Albert’s angle was. He eventually seemed to decide it made no difference. His dark smile returned as he emptied the chamber of his pistol save for one round.

  Albert did the same.

  “Okay. On the count of three, we shoot,” said Albert, a few beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

  Clinch nodded.

  Albert took a deep breath. “One … two …”

  Albert fired.

  He hit Clinch in the left arm.

  Clinch looked down at the wound, then slowly lifted his gaze back to Albert, that awful smile spreading across his face in tandem with the blood. He let out a big guffaw that echoed eerily across the expanse of the empty town. “I been playing cards a long time, and I’ve never seen such a bad gamble, Stark. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

  “Your wife.”

  “Aw, snap,” whispered Edward from his doorway.

  Clinch stopped laughing. He raised his gun and cocked it.

  Albert dropped his own gun and raised both hands plaintively. “Look, before you shoot me … grant me a few last words. Please?”

  Clinch sneered. “Why not? Yes, let’s savor this moment.”

  “Okay, good. Thank you. Look—just promise me one thing. Let Anna live. Please. She didn’t kiss me, I kissed her. So it’s my fault.” Albert paused in momentary thought. “I mean, she didn’t tell me she was married, so it’s kinda her fault too, I guess, so … yeah, actually, that’s true. So maybe just shoot her in the leg? That seems fair, right?”