Try Not to Die: In the Wild West: Try Not to Die, #5

By Mark Tullius and John Palisano

Welcome to the Wild West,

a time of exploration, independence, and countless opportunities…

for death.

You've been to Placerita Town often to sell your father's ironworks, but never have you experienced a day like this. Jumpin' John and his gang of outlaws are tearing apart the town, and the Sheriff's doing nothing to stop them.

You'll have to steer clear of the gang and brave the dangers of the desert if you're going to survive in this interactive novel. Watch your back, choose wisely, and be careful who you trust. It's wits versus might as you try to stay alive in the Wild West!
 

MORE THAN TWO DOZEN WAYS TO DIE.

JUST ONE CORRECT PATH.

DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO SURVIVE?

 

If you grew up reading Goosebumps ® or Choose Your Own Adventure ® stories, you'll love this western! Find out why fans say, "I had a great time with the different decisions, even though I died a lot!" 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vincere Press
• Release date: Apr 10, 2024
• ISBN: 9781938475924

Mark Tullius

"If you want to get to know me and my writing, come check out my podcast Vicious Whispers. I’m an open book and have no issues being vulnerable, looking at my mental health and other struggles. As a reward for making it through my babbling, I share my short horror stories, chapters from science fiction and suspense novels, as well as excerpts from nonfiction at the end of each episode. My writing covers a wide range, with fiction being my favorite to create, a dozen or so titles under my belt. There are 4 titles in my YA interactive Try Not to Die series and 16 more in the works. I also have two nonfiction titles, both inspired by a reckless lifestyle, playing Ivy League football, and battering the hell out of my brain as an unsuccessful MMA fighter and boxer. Unlocking the Cage is the largest sociological study of MMA fighters to date and TBI or CTE aims to spread awareness and hope to others that suffer with traumatic brain injury symptoms. I live in sunny California with my wife, two kids, three cats, and one demon. Derek, he pops in whenever he’s tired of hell and wants to smoke weed. He makes special appearance on my podcast, social media, and special Facebook reader group Dark and Disturbing Fear-Filled Fiction. You can also get your first set of free stories by signing up to my newsletter. This letter is only for the brave, or at least those brave enough to deal with bad dad jokes, a crude sense of humor, and loads and loads of death. Derek and I would love to have you join us! For the newsletter, YouTube page, podcast and more go to https://youcanfollow.me/MarkTullius"

Book preview

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

One of the wildest things that has happened to me in publishing was when Mark Tullius asked me to work on a Try Not to Die book with him. Our first collaboration––In the Pandemic––was written quickly just as COVID-19 was hitting. We had jokingly thought it would pass soon and were worried the book would become dated before we even had a chance to put it out. As the world experienced, the pandemic didn’t die out. It thrived. Launched in the midst of those events, I was proud of the characters and the scenario and how they seemed to offer a small bit of hope to some readers and gave some a way to fight back and process some of what they were going through. I’m curious what future readers will think when they encounter the book.

So … the future is now. Well, actually? It’s the past. We brainstormed a second book and the world that felt most immediate and fascinating was the wild west. Of course, we wanted to explore a different point of view and check out some settings not usually, if ever, used in westerns. Along the way, we’d hit plenty of western tropes, too.

We had a blast! When developing the early drafts, our emails were hilarious riffs on western slang. Of course, I kept loving the characters and Mark had to remind me that I kept having to kill them. Again and again. And then twenty more times. As during Pandemic, Mark came up with some really novel kill scenes. Some made me laugh. Some made me cringe. Some broke my heart. Mark will tell you what he thought of mine!

For the record: Placerita Town is not real. But it’s close. There is a Placerita area between Newhall and Santa Clarita, but there’s not an actual town with that name. Possibly there will be one day, but not as of this writing. So, it was chosen to free us from having to worry about existing geography and history. We could make up our own without restrictions.

By the way? Newhall is a cowboy town! They have a cowboy walk of fame and a yearly cowboy festival. The area was a hotbed of western film production in the first half of the 20th century. All the greats shot there. So, with that history infused in the surroundings, it felt really inspired to think of Try Not to Die: In the Wild West as an homage to that era . . . although a very bloody and violent one. The cowboys don’t clutch their hearts, cry out, and fall over on their side in our story. Things get a lot more visceral. Such as happens with the combined sensibilities of a former mixed martial artist and a horror lifer!

Sure hope you enjoy stepping into the Wild West with us. We sure loved creating and living in this world for a little while and bringing out this story. Of course, as indie authors and publishers, reviews are everything, so please leave them at your favorite destination. And be sure to check out the many other great titles in the Try Not to Die series!

Be well,

John Palisano

Try Not to Die: In the Wild West

Interactive Version

My back’s resting against the west wall of our house, the only side with shade. It’s nearly ten and already hotter than a blister bug in a pepper patch. These four walls of wood are the only thing separating me and Pa from all this emptiness. Desert as far as the eye can see, a flimsy cloud, thin as my bedsheet, creeping across the brightest blue sky, barely casting a shadow.

Our house outside of Placerita Town might not be much, but it protects us from the blazing California sun while keeping out all the critters. Except for these dang red ants. Inside or out, they’re always a problem, chomping on you if they’re given half a second. It’s my fault for sitting in one place, but I’m saving my strength.

The little guy on my boot is headed for my leg. I flick gently enough to send him to the sand but not enough to teach him a lesson. He’s determined and heads back for me. I meet him halfway with the heel of my boot, feeling a little sorry for sending him to his maker.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

It doesn’t matter I knew those bangs were coming, I still jumped at the first one. Pa’s finishing up in the blacksmith shop, the last piece for the trip.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The blows are loud, but the echoes die down quickly. I get up, brush off my jeans, slip on my light duster coat, and strap on my canteen. I wait for the next set of bangs to come and go before I open the shop door. My ears are used to the noise, but the smells always hit me hard, the earthiness of hot metal and fire filling the shop.

Pa’s inspecting a red-hot stirrup, setting it down on the forge, his massive hand raising the hammer. He slams it down and sparks bloom like a cloud of raining fire. He looks like a god to me––like someone forging the great cities of Ancient Greece or Rome. I can only hope one day he’ll come to look at me with some sense of pride.

The first few seconds in the shop are suffocating, the sweat streaming down my face.

Pa takes off his hat and wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, smearing the black smudge. Nice timing, Rocky, he says, his voice a deep rumble.

I nod but keep my lips shut ’cause Pa’s still talking.

Make sure you carry enough water with you to get to town. He slips his hat back on, puts down the hammer, and raises the pincers. This load is gonna be a clip heavier than usual, boy.

The leather saddlebag beside the forge is stuffed with horseshoes and stirrups. I nudge it with my foot. Maybe if we do well, I can put some away toward a four-legger to help out. Tack of the Town has got a couple on the cheap.

We’ll have to see. Pa uses the pincers to lower the stirrup into a cauldron of water. He disappears in the steam for a second and reemerges, his face glistening. It’s been a real light year, he says. Not that I like the idea of you having to carry so much by hand.

My grunt surprises me when I pick up the bag. I play it off with a laugh. My back’s already mad at me.

Pa puts the stirrup on the drying rack. Take the wheelbarrow.

I don’t want to risk it getting broken or taken.

I trust you.

It ain’t me I don’t trust, I say. It’s all the people in town. Someone's apt to steal it. Plus, it ain’t gonna be no fun pushing it over the hill.

Pa uses the pincers to pick up the last stirrup. More reason for you to hustle as much of the haul as you can. Less to carry home.

Even though it’s never happened, I say, I aim to carry only coins back.

Pa nods and laughs with approval. That’s the spirit. None of those bank notes. Pa gestures for me to open the left satchel and sets in the stirrup. They ain’t ever no good when we go to cash ’em in.

Don’t have to tell me twice about them notes. I close the clasps on the bag and say, Biggest scam going.

Pa grins. Right you are.

The bag’s heavy as a hay bale and I have to use both hands to raise it. Here’s to this being empty.

More important, be smart and be safe.

Always.

The fresh air cools my sweat and gives me a bit of energy, making me think the bag’s not so heavy after all. I set it down and double-check my pockets, comforted by the folding knife and the handful of nuts. More out of superstition than reason, I slide a horseshoe from the bag and stick it in my duster’s long pocket. A piece of Pa keeping me safe.

The sun’s just getting warmed up. By the time I get to town, it’ll be dead hot. I take a deep breath and steel my mind, adjust my hat so the sun’s off my face. One day, I aim to be able to have a horse of my own, when we can afford it and justify the expense. Maybe if they ever bring that rail station to Placerita Town like they’ve been promising, the town will grow and there’ll be more work than we’ll be able to handle.

With the saddlebag strapped over my right shoulder, I close the fence door behind me and cross out into the unmade lands ahead. The clear blue sky is interrupted by a trio of hawks circling brush down below.

One dives.

Impossibly fast. Silent.

Comes up with something long and rope-like.

Snake.

Jeez, Louise. I feel sorry for the snake, can’t help but wonder if it knows it’s done for or just going on one hell of a ride.

The hawk dives back down to the desert floor to have his lunch, in the same direction as the path I’m taking.

The path is well worn, but not paved or official. The cacti and succulents surround me like a maze. It’s been a month since my last journey and the plant life seems to have grown five times since then. The bright oranges and reds of their stubby flowers contrast with the muted greens of their stems and the dull hue of the sand.

I can’t smell the plants though, everything overpowered by the sand heating up from the sun, a mix of earth, rock, and minerals.

Sixty paces or so on the other side of the path, there’s the hawk tearing apart the snake’s head with its talons. It sizes me up for a split second then goes back to its work.

I’ve always been a bit squeamish at the sight of blood, even a snake’s, but I can’t take my eyes off it, the beak ripping and tearing flesh.

A few steps down the path and I lose sight of the hawk behind the bushes, but I keep on moving, whistling to calm my nerves. I cut the second note short and freeze, terrified by what I think I just heard.

Rattle.

Oh crap. I don’t know where it’s at. Rattlers are best at blending in, never wanting to be seen, but I’m pretty sure it came from the large bush behind me.

Keep calm, I hear Pa tell me. Every year when it gets hot, we find rattlesnakes on our property. That’s why we search for them using sticks to open doors and poke the hay before hauling it. But out here’s a different game. Instead of the rattlers coming onto our territory, I’m intruding on theirs.

I ease away from the bushes and continue up the path.

Rattle!

I jump back, only two feet between me and the coiled rattlesnake I nearly stepped on. And he’s ready to strike.

*****

Stay calm and back away.

Crush the snake with the bag.

Even with all the fighting down in the saloon, someone must hear Jolene’s cries. Someone has to come and save her. If I move out from under this bed, Henry’s bound to kill me and will just take it out on her even more.

No! Stop it! Jolene screams. Don’t touch me!

Get up, dammit! he shouts. On your feet!

Jolene stands but judging by his growl, I’d guess Henry helped her. He spins toward the bed, the hem of her dress spinning with him. There’s a loud grunt and Jolene yelps, the bed slamming down on my back.

Ahhh! I scream. The board pressing down on me cracks, the jagged edges digging into my low back, the blood flowing.

You stay right there, you pretty thing, Henry says.

Jolene goes quiet. I hold my breath and stop sniveling, hold in all the agony, try not to think of the rivers of warm blood running down my sides.

Henry raises the bedskirt, his bushy brown beard dusting the floorboards. Looks like we got ourselves a Peeping Tom.

This might be my only chance. I go to squirm out the other side of the bed, but I’m pinned, any movement digging the board in deeper. Please, I beg.

The bedskirt drops. Buckle up, little buddy, Henry says, both boots facing the bed. This ride’s about to get bumpy.

Jolene and I scream no, but Henry’s boots are off the ground, all two-hundred-plus pounds about to drive the bed through my spine.

Crack!

A blast of lightning through my brain, no feeling below my waist. The entire bed is smashing me into the floorboards, making it so I can barely breathe, the mangled piece of meat in this sandwich.

Jolene screams and the bed bounces, the boards digging so deep, the pain turning everything red then black.

*****

Try again.

I drag the saddlebag behind me, staying low so no one spots me scrambling into the bushes. There’s lots of spider webs inside the burrow but I hope no snakes. The horses are fast approaching, so I swing the saddlebag beside the hole and scrunch in feet first, praying nothing takes a bite out of me.

I scoot my butt all the way inside and turn onto my belly, push myself deeper so just my head’s sticking out.

The pounding hooves pulse through the earth, vibrating against my chest. I widen the opening and drop down a few more inches, the top of my head still exposed.

The horses stop and a cloud of dust blows by, fills my nostrils so I can barely breathe.

You see what I’m seeing, Moose? a man says, his voice rough as sandpaper.

Placerita Town, a dopey-sounding guy I can’t see says.

You were right, John, a third voice says. They’re just sitting there like crops ready to be picked.

Right sure, says the first guy, who I’m guessing is John. But that ain’t what I’m talking ’bout.

Don’t see what yer getting at, Moose says.

It’s hard to make anything out with the bush blocking my sight, but it looks like the shadows of four or five horses.

The horses calm down. A pair of black boots with silver tips hits the dirt.

Right here, middle of the path, John says, his voice cold and sharp like a knife. The boots stop right where my bag had been. Ain’t none of you seen the puff of dust?

There’s some mumbling and grumbling but no one speaks up.

Well, maybe that’s why I’m the leader, John says. Moose, get over here.

The ground quakes when the second set of boots hits the path. Yeah, John?

Clear the brush.

The heavy brown boots head my way. There’s a saddlebag, Moose says.

That it? John asks.

Yeah. Moose leans down and grabs hold of the bag, his big hairy forearm all I can see. He leaps, drops the bag in front of my face. Holy crap! Someone’s in there!

I keep scrunched in the hole in case he’s going to shoot. I’m just a kid!

The horses are pacing, John stepping forward with a loud laugh.

You knew? Moose asks.

Well, I knew someone drug something through that dirt. And this don’t look like no critter I ever seen.

Or heard, Moose says.

Poke your head out, kid, John tells me. I like to know who I’m talking to.

Yes, sir, I say politely as I can, trying to hide that my heart’s beating a hundred times a minute. I poke my entire head out of the hole, look him in his steel-gray eyes. Holy crap. Jumpin’ John Wyatt, whose face is on all the wanted posters.

Anything interesting down there? he asks, his shiny revolver pointed at the ground.

I’ve heard the stories. The rumors. Notorious group. Pulled a big coup on the Pacific Sandliner a few years back. Took everyone on the train for all they had. Killed indiscriminately. Even those who cooperated.

He motions at me with the revolver, that barrel so big and black. Lose your tongue?

No, sir.

Whoa, whatcha got in here? He shakes the saddlebag and hands it over to Moose.

Sir, we’re counting on selling all that. We don’t and we lose our ranch.

He chuckles. You’re cute, kid.

I get one arm out of the hole. What if I give you a couple?

John holsters his revolver and walks away. You already did.

I want to yell at him, to jump out of this hole and attack, but both things would just get me killed.

Moose. See to our friend. John mounts his horse. Make sure he’s nice and comfy.

I don’t know what that means and don’t want to find out. Sir, I say just loud enough for Moose to hear. Please don’t hurt me.

Get yer hand in there, Moose tells me, his tone a clear warning. Get ’em both by yer sides.

Only thing I can do is what he’s telling me.

Moose steps so close I could kiss his boots, his weight collapsing the tunnel, pushing dirt against my chest.

What are you doing? I ask, the words hard to push out with him packing the dirt tight all around me.

Making ya comfy. He spits a glob of tobacco that splashes on the dirt inches from my face.

I go to speak but get a mouthful