The Attack

Part 1: The Attack

He searched the sea of heads, but could not find him. Could not find the unmistakable nest of silver hair, amongst the bustling crowd. The Sun had just come out, illuminating the inside of the station, leaving a plethora of shadows, engulfing the platform. Suddenly, a voice boomed over the tanoy system, quietening the area, for a few precious seconds. "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please. The 6.41 for London has been delayed by 40 minutes. This train will now arrive on platform four. Thank You." 40 minutes gone. Wasted on looking for someone who wasn't there. There will be no deaths happening today, he thought to himself, and departed, a wicked smile on his face.

...        ...         ...

It was a beautiful day,. The breeze was just right, not too cold to affect his old back. Oh, how he missed his youthful days. The days where he could stand and run for hours on end, and still feel like doing it all over again. Positioned just right, the old man sat on his wooden rocking chair, one he had built with his own bare hands, that were now aged with work.

His wife was inside having a shower. Finally he could have the few valuable minutes that he needed without the company of his loud companion.He popped a mint into his dry mouth, and sighed, "What a sight this is." The Sun was dying out, nonetheless, leaving a beauty in its wake. Oranges, pinks and yellows coated the sky with their warmth. The sky was a painting, the Sun its artist.

In the midst of this charm, a figure appeared, as if walking out from the descending Sun. It was too far away for his ashen eyes to see, but as it moved closer, he could make out the faint descriptions of a young man. 

His hair was brown, ruffled, like it hadn't been combed once in the several years that he had lived. Although he had a stock body, there was no denying the fear that this man was feeling, as his back was slightly bent, and his arms trembled by his side. His face now reflected the same fright that his body depicted. His chin was covered in a forest of dark, stubby hair, that could only pass as an unbarbered beard. Eyebrows appearing as one, the old man couldn't believe that there might've once been two of them on this man's sunken face.

As he walked down the deserted street, his face contorted in an inhumane way. The old man wondered what had suddenly changed this man's fearful expression, and the answer stood a few feet away. He turned in his wooden rocking chair, a series of creaks following due to this strenuous action. He saw it, another figure.

Even though the Sun was nearly close to its end, the few rays that remained  were still able to reflect the silver glow of this person's hair. At first, the old man thought it was a woman, for he had never seen a man with such white hair, but that may be the result of his aging eyesight.

Once the figure came into clear sight, there was no mistaking the male features that he obtained. His body was like that of a werewolf, about to transform as soon as the Moon came out. Although what normally came with a built body was a hairy face, this man was cleanly shaven. His skin was smooth and clear, quite the complete opposite of the man that stood a few feet away.

They both stood, opposing each other for the next few seconds. The old man sat, anticipating what will happen next. Were they going to fight, battle even kill each other, or were they just going to stand there, each far away from the other? The seconds stretched onto minutes, still, nothing had happened. 

He started getting tired, his back beginning to ache. Not even his wooden chair brought comfort to his backside anymore. Oh, how he missed his youthful days. In the depths of his thought, he could faintly hear the network of shouts, as the two men finally acknowledged the other.

It started off as a normal conversation, but as it progressed, it became more heated. One of them had said something the other had not liked. After a series of verbal fighting, all was quiet. It stayed this way, until silence had finally taken its toll.

One of the men charged down the street. It was as if the speed of a cheetah and strength of a lion had been fused into the the body of a 27 year old. He was screaming, hands held in fists. As he advanced, the silver-haired man stayed put. Neither did he move or flinch, just stayed in the composed  posture that the old man had questioned before.

He was closer now, just a few feet away, and the man still did not move. 

A meter away, still, stock still. Not even a bat of an eyelash. The old man began to worry. Was he about to observe a bloodied fight? However, what the old man had witnessed was far worse than that.