The Unaccommodating Providence of Mr. Grizzleton - Script

INT. CABIN - DAY

A massive, black iron ANVIL stands embedded six inches deep into the oak floorboards.

Dust motes dance in the air around it, disturbed by the impact. A thin strand of FISHING LINE lies coiled near the baseboard, snapped.

MEG (17), bundled in a damp wool coat, stands frozen. Her breath comes in sharp, ragged puffs of white vapor. She grips the arm of DAN (17), a lanky teenager with a face full of freckles and shock.

Dan untangles himself from Meg, brushing at his jeans.

I was just... checking things out.

Meg stares at the spot where Dan's foot was seconds ago. Then at the anvil. Then back at Dan.

(Small voice)

That’s not up to code.

It’s an anvil, Dan. A literal anvil.

I was walking. It’s what feet do. And the car is a popsicle.

Meg releases him. She scans the room. Rustic. Log walls. A stone fireplace. It looks cozy, save for the cartoonish death weight in the foyer.

She steps toward the living area. She places her boot with exaggerated slowness. Testing the weight.

CREAK.

She pauses. Nothing happens. She takes another step.

New rule. Don't. Touch. Anything.

Right. No touching.

Dan follows in her footsteps, mimicking her gait like a marionette.

They reach the kitchenette. Shelves lined with cans. Military precision.

Dan reaches for a can labeled 'GRIZZLETON’S GHOST PEPPER GUMBO'.

Dan!

He freezes. His hand hovers over the can.

Read the label.

Dan squints at the fine print.

'Caution: May cause spontaneous combustion and profound existential dread.'

He slowly withdraws his hand.

Okay. Spicy. I like spicy.

It's a chemical weapon in a can.

She points to a can of 'PRESERVED PEACHES'. Plain label.

That one.

INT. LIVING AREA - MOMENTS LATER

A fire CRACKLES in the hearth.

Meg kneels on the floor, holding a long iron FIREPLACE POKER. She extends it toward the can of peaches sitting in the center of the room.

Dan stands by the door, shielding his face.

Meg swings the poker. The tip PIERCES the lid.

PUNC.

Syrup oozes out. No explosion.

We outsmarted the psycho-peaches.

Dan moves toward a plush, overstuffed armchair near the fire. A wool blanket is draped over the arm.

I’m claiming the chair. My back is killing me.

Wait.

Dan stops, hovering over the seat.

It’s just a chair. What’s it going to do, suede me to death?

Look under it.

Dan sighs. He drops to his knees and lifts the fringed skirt.

He freezes.

Under the chair: A pressure plate connected by wires to four SHOTGUN SHELLS embedded in the floor, pointing directly up at the seat.

Oh, you have got to be kidding me.

He crawls backward, fast.

Not so cozy.

Suddenly, the single overhead bulb FLICKERS.

A low, grinding HUM vibrates through the floorboards.

CLANK.

A heavy sound from the front door.

CLANK. CLANK.

More sounds from the windows. Metal hitting wood.

The light dies. The room plunges into darkness, lit only by the fire.

Meg?

Meg looks at the window. A steel shutter has sealed it from the outside.

Lockdown.

We have fire. We have non-exploding peaches. We wait.

Nobody knows we're here. We're in a black box.

She looks at the anvil in the foyer. Then at the sealed front door.

We use his stuff against him.

Dan follows her gaze to the anvil.

A wrecking ball.

INT. CABIN - LATER

The anvil is rigged. A steel cable runs from it, through a pulley on a ceiling beam, to a release pin near the floor.

A braided rope made of torn wool blanket strips is tied to the pin.

Meg and Dan stand by the hearth, gripping the wool rope together.

On three.

They tighten their grip.

One.

Two.

Three.

They YANK the rope.

The pin SNAPS free.

The anvil drops. The cable catches it, swinging it in a wide, violent arc.

WHOOSH.

CRUMP.

The anvil impacts the log wall next to the door. The wood doesn't just break; it disintegrates.

A hole blasts open. Wind and SNOW explode into the room.

The fire is extinguished instantly. Darkness.

Go!

EXT. CABIN - CONTINUOUS

Meg and Dan stumble out through the jagged hole.

The BLIZZARD is a wall of white noise and ice. They grab each other's coats, leaning into the gale.

They trudge through thigh-deep snow toward a white lump in the distance.

INT. CAR - MOMENTS LATER

The car door SLAMS shut.

Silence. The howl of the wind is muffled.

Meg and Dan sit in the front seats, shivering violently. Ice crusts their hair.

Dan turns to her. A tired smile breaks through his pale face.

We did it.

Meg stares out the windshield. Nothing but frost patterns forming on the glass.

Yeah.

She leans back. Closes her eyes.

The frost continues to grow, intricate and silent.