“I kilt Paw.”
For a moment, I expected the boy to present a bear foot dressed in Highland tartan. Instead, he held out a bloodied shovel.
“I kilt my Paw with this’n shovel.”
Cool filtered air blew into my isolation suit. I patted the boy’s matted hair with a gloved hand. “Where’s your mother, son? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
The boy pointed to the locked root cellar. We both heard undead moans.
“Paw bit Maw and Sissy,” the boy said.
I drew my pistol. The boy stopped me with a hand, raised his shovel, and went in.