Carpe Tenebras: I

Note from GG: I've linked this seven-part story. It's interesting; check it out. Just click on the next chapter at bottom right after you open up the full story.

As a young man in a grey t-shirt and blue jeans crossed the deserted street, two bikers rushed past him, almost hitting him. He turned to glare but it was no use, they were already halfway down the road by then. The man returned his attention to his destination, a small patch of dirt about twenty feet into the block. Surrounded on three sides by derelict buildings from the late 18th century, the garden was as good as a sanctuary - hardly visible from the road and set in an area not plagued by traffic.

The man waved to a passing neighbor before setting down to work his territory. It was over-run with mostly pumpkins and tomatoes but there were a variety of goodies growing. To an outsider, it would look chaotic, but to the trained eye, the garden was paradise. Every fruit was beautiful, many times bigger than an ordinary farmer's crop. While other gardeners suspected the man to use hormones, all he'd done was claim the sunniest corner of the patch, remove the old dirt and lay compost dirt down, fertilize with manure, and frequently water everything- no secrets.
An hour later, the man stood up. He ran his hand through his light brown curls; after brushing off his knees and arching his back to stretch, he went monotonously on his way, heading home. As he walked, he felt that something wasn't right. Had he forgotten to turn off the hose? It looked to be almost 8 o'clock - his neighbor, Finn, would soon return from working at the hospital, heading to his piece of garden shortly after changing from his scrubs into more appropriate clothing - he'd make sure the hose was off. What could it be? The man wracked his brain for any clue to what could be amiss, but it was no use. Being a relatively calm guy, the man continued on.

As soon as the man turned the corner, someone unlocking their front door saw a biker step out from an old building across the street. It was a rare sight to see and while the buildings were open to the public, every resident of the community felt like entering one would be disrespectful in some way. The strangely clad motorist placed a pad of paper in his backpack, retrieved his bike which had been placed on an outer wall, and pedaled away, leaving the onlooker to shrug it off and retreat inside. The biker was probably just a local tourist, up early to hunt for a story worthy of submission to the newspaper.