A-Frame of Death: Sam, Part 1

In The A-Frame of Death, unpopular characters from my least popular stories get introduced to the confines of a dungeon.  They must survive the challenges and prove themselves worthy of escape. 

This was intended to be a contest entry, but the word length was too short (only 680 words), and the contest expires in only a couple hours.  Plus I don't want to pay $5 to enter the contest.  This story will continue as long as Sam is alive.

 

It began with a stray cat.

He'd been driving home from the office, listening to Weezer on the stereo of his Ford Focus.  He puffed a cigarette, trying to forget all the work bullshit he'd done for eight hours.

The car smelled of cigarettes, old beer, old Doritos.  Trash had piled up in the passenger floor space, but he didn't feel like cleaning.  Mostly he felt like a beer, maybe finishing off that Corona six pack while watching Squid Games or some shit.

Cold.  He had the heater on, but it had something wrong with it.  Took forever to warm up.  The cigarette helped, slightly.  He cinched his parka tighter.

Rain poured down heavily on the road, the car windshield.  He had the wipers up on highest speed, but still next to zero visibility.  Worse, it appeared to be smearing ice.  The street ahead looked like glass.

Out In The Middle Of Nowhere, Kansas.  Farmland - miles from a gas station.  Typical for a collections agency.

A black cat jumped out in front of him unexpectedly.  He slammed on the brakes, but hit an ice patch.

The cat leapt out of the way, but his car didn't stop.  It bumped over the end of the road, rolling over an embankment.

Hard to say what happened after.  A fog rolled in, obscuring visibility further.

The car barreled through a lot of smacking tree branches, to the point where he didn't know which way was up.

Somehow he banged down on a level surface, apparently gravel.

No visibility at all.  The insides of all the windows had fogged up.

"Son of a—"

He shut off the engine, tugging the door opening lever, but it stubbornly resisted until he kicked a few times.

Instead of opening, the door fell off its hinges into a pile of snow.  Icy below zero winds blasted him in the face.

Swearing, he stepped out, assessing the damage.

He'd crashed into a copse of trees at the foot of a hill, headlights bashed in, bumper gone, front grille barely hanging on, no passenger side mirror.

"Well, Sam...You're royally fucked."

He took out his cel phone to call for a tow...or something.

No bars.  He'd crashed into a mobile dead zone.  More swearing.

Up ahead:  A small A-Frame house with smoke rising from the chimney.  It looked warm.

Already his hands felt frostbitten.  Hoping to borrow a phone, he hurriedly rushed through three foot mounds of snow to its inviting front doorstep.

...Semi inviting.  It resembled a hunting lodge.  Still...

The camera doorbell chirped at his approach.  He pushed the doorbell and got a fake door chime.

"There's them bells again."  A little levity to ease the tension.

Shockingly, the door slid open like the elevator on Star Trek.  Unusual, because the interior only looked like a model living room furnished by Cabelas.  

He stepped inside.  "Hello?"

Immediately, the door slid shut, some locking mechanism snapping in place.

"The fuck?"

He ran back and tried the door, but, alas, he'd sooner open a closed bank vault.

Something made a tsk sound.  "Alas, if only I had access to the alchemical potions necessary to undo that fiendish mechanism.  At least we have a fire to keep us warm."

Sam turned to face the massive stone fireplace and let out a girly shriek.

There, beneath the mounted head of a thirteen point buck, sat a man sized sewer rat in raggedy Victorian clothes, pince nez perched upon its muzzle.

Sam shuddered.  "Note to self:  Never go to that dispensary again!"

The yellow toothed rat had companions.  He jumped back with a startled shout when he noticed them rise from the couch and loveseat.

A narrow bodied...frog thing in a breechcloth, feather headdress and bone breastplate.  A fuzzy owl chick, similarly clad, and...a puffy white man thing in a brown trenchcoat...reminded him of the Sta Puft Marshmallow Man, except with huge Yoda ears and a fedora.  

Sam rubbed his eyes.  "That's it!  No more tabby pot pie for me before bedtime!  Time to wake up, Sam!  Please wake up!"