Thank you to those following so far! Things will pick up pretty quickly now. Chapters will be relatively short so I can try and update once a week between school work.
Jones counted three empty cans of beer at his feet, with that fourth (or was it fifth?) one he had just tossed somewhere on the other side of his trailer. Though blurry, he could still read the time on his clock. 11:30. With only half an hour till his shift, he figured it would be safer to walk under the influence than drive. He didn't need to hit another lamp post like he did last week. Lazy police still hadn't come after him for that one, and probably never would. They were alcoholics too, anyways. They would never cuff a fellow drunkard. That was just bad manners.
After a five minute struggle to put his shoe on the right feet, Jones merrily walked down the block, twirling his flashlight in hand and pointing it at the few people still walking the streets this late at night. Hey, it wasn't his fault they were blinded. That was all on the Yuengling.
With just minutes to spare, he reached his workplace. Jones saw his obnoxious-looking manager standing by the lot gate, looking at him impatiently. He (not they, fuck that noise) must have caught the smell of beer on Jones, for he crinkled his nose in disgust. "Please tell me you aren't fucked up right now."
"Just fine," Jones murmured with a drunken chuckle, "Better than fine."
"…Just don't get yourself killed," the manager said, "And pay extra attention to item #77658."
"Number what now?"
He could tell from the eye roll that this manager was probably going to fire him in a few weeks. "The hippie van that came in today. Apparently it's a target for burglars. Cops said it vanished from the impound three times before bringing it to us."
"Impound?"
"Yes. Its previous owner was found dead. It was pretty grisly, they say."
"Huh-urk!" Jones burped out, "That's… that's pretty bad."
The manager waved away they smell of his beer breath and turned to leave. "Just keep an eye on it. Shouldn't be that hard, even with how you are right now…"
"And fuck you too, buddy," Jones grumbled, flipping his boss the bird as he closed the lot gates.
Jones started his first walk through by using the hoods of vehicles as support to not topple to the ground in intoxication, followed by another go-through where he relieved himself behind a tree. Classy? No. But who was going to see anyways?
The monotony of this job began to set in around 3 PM. Barely able to keep his eyes open at this time, Jones decide to take a small nap. He picked out a flatbed truck, pulling down the tailgate and flopping onto the cold flat surface. As he adjusted himself into a comfortable position, he noticed a certain vehicle parked directly across from the truck. It was the 'cursed' Volkswagen hippie van in all of its rusted glory. Even while drunk, Jones found an odd fascination with it. An urge to find out more came over him.
Sliding out of the flatbed, he approached the van and peered through the front windshield and looked inside. Aside from the Christmas lights, it was fairly empty within. No rugs, no pillows. Just a bunch of rusty furniture.
No, that wasn't right. Furniture can't rust. Then what were all of those dark stains in the seats?
Jones put his face on the windshield as he looked even closer. "The hell… is that blood?"
Suddenly, the Christmas lights flickered, startling Jones into falling backwards. The van's yellow headlights began to light up slowly as a strange sound of shifting metal coming from somewhere inside filed the air.
"Shitass!" Jones shouted, scrambling and failing to get to his feet as the front of the van began tucking into itself and rose from the ground. Two clawed arms emerged from the vehicle's side, one entangled in those damn festive lights. Its side panels becoming shoulder pads and back wheels sprouting talon-bearing feet. Jones was speechless in terror as a robotic head, barring fangs and four small red eyes, emerged from within and glared at him. The robotic… thing let out an ear grating hiss, and then seemed to smirk at his fear.
"Scared, aren't you?" the creature spoke.
Yes, spoke. In plain freaking English.
"Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming…!" Jones spat out repeatedly as the van leaned down to his level. It smashed its hand on the pavement, digging its claws into the ground just feet away from the man.
"Nah," it said, "No dream. I am very real."
"Bullshit!" Jones grabbed a chunk of broken pavement and threw it at the creature's face, hitting it in its robot eye. It recoiled at the sudden pain, giving Jones a moment to recollect and run.
"Stupid meatbag!" the creature snarled, flipping over the nearby pickup in frustration as it scanned over the dark car lot for Jones. A large blaster pistol came out of its hip, and the creature cocked the firearm. "To think I was gonna kill you slowly. You had to ruin everything!"
The creature began pacing down the rows of cars, unaware that it had passed right by Jones cowering underneath a black sedan. With so many thoughts and questions of reality going through his mind – not to mention he was still feeling pretty drunk – Jones could only hope that the creature wouldn't notice him making a run for the exit. Once he was home free, then he'd call the cops. And the army. And maybe Kim Jong Un to nuke this fucking thing.
With the sound of footsteps now getting a bit fainter, Jones rolled out from under his cover and dashed across the isle behind a large trailer truck. The creature must have heard his footsteps, and it fired a shot in his general direction. The blast sent a car flying back in flames as it reloaded the blaster. "Can't hide forever, meatbag!"
"Shut up, asshole…!" Jones cursed quietly.
"Correction: his name is Dreadbot. Though he can be quite a pain in one's gasket."
Jones nearly pissed himself at the sound of another robotic voice. Before he could scream, a metal hand covered his mouth as a human-sized robot emerged from the darkness beside him. This one looked nowhere near as vicious as the bigger one, but granted was still terrifying for being sentient metal. Jones continued speaking was muffled by this newcomer, who raised a finger in discipline at him.
"Please, be silent," it said, one eye twitching as its finger converted into what looked like a 19th century revolver barrel, "My name is Cogman, and I have no plans of eviscerating you unlike our large adversary over there. Well, unless you attempt to kill me for whatever reason. Then that will change things."
Out of all the first days on the job Jones has had up until this point, this one was easily the most pants-shitting scary of them.
