Dusk fell. Shadows lengthened and swallowed an industrial wasteland of abandoned vehicles and mountainous rubbish, several miles away from the White Building. The eerie silence was a stark contrast to the noise of the fire, shouting and screaming the rescue party had left behind. Only the chuckle of a thick brown stream broke the silence, as it oozed from the mouth of an old sewage pipe, almost hidden under an overgrown bridge.

Bedraggled and exhausted, five people clambered out of the pipe, stretching gratefully in the early evening air.

Two carried large bundles over their shoulders.

They fought through stagnant water to the steep bank and helped each other up into a patch of long grass under the broken shell of a shipping container. Coughing and clinging to each other, they panted, eyes locked on the limp bundles, carefully deposited on the ground.

One of the figures broke away and began to collect firewood.

Another knelt beside the bundles on the ground and began to strip them of their wet clothes, covering them with blankets pulled from a rucksack. Two began to secure the area, scanning the distant ridges for signs of movement, guarding the mouth of the sewer.

The last figure, a man in his sixties, crouched in the shadow of the container and watched his companions working. He stayed motionless, silent as the night.

A few hours later, rested and warmed by an open fire, the little group moved on into the night.

Owls hooted experimentally, testing the night for signs of life.

'Open fire? Fools.'

The man in the black coat stepped out from behind a tree on the other side of the stream. He clambered over to the patch of flattened grass. They had covered their tracks well, and it was a little while before he spotted the broken branches leading to the East.

He pulled his sleeve up and tapped on the keyboard strapped to his forearm. The large lens over his right eye hummed and whirred, scanning the area. Not long gone. The boy would soon be his.

'I have you now,' he said, to nobody in particular.