Its high-pitched wails spread across the dusty interior of the derelict factory, echoes rebounding from the rusting junk-pile landscape of broken munce-grinders and disused conveyor belts. Sitting on a metal staircase to the side of the old factory floor, Lucas Verne tried to soothe the squealing infant. He rocked it gently in his arms, back and forth. He cooed at it. He made funny faces. His efforts, though, were unsuccessful. Lacking any real experience of babies, he had hardly any idea how to handle one, much less finally persuade it to stop its screaming. The baby had been crying, on and off, ever since he had grabbed it from the block crèche. The sound was relentless. It seemed to drill into Lucas's head, creating a build-up of pressure at the back of his neck and behind his eyes that made him want to moan in pain. Abandoning his fruitless attempts to console the child, Lucas reminded himself of the reason he had kidnapped it to begin with. The knife lay on the step beside him. The blade was keen and sharp.
