It's Time to Start Digging

We had driven out into the wasteland, Fingers and me. Or I should say, I had driven. Fingers was sitting next to me, a gun poked into the side of my ribcage. We did not talk. There was nothing left to say. It had all been said. I would have run off the road into a tree if I could, taken my chances with the air bag. But there were no trees. Nothing. Not even a ditch to overturn the car. My mind should have been racing, trying to find an escape, but everything moved, contrarily, in slow motion. The sun was low in the sky as I drove towards it.
"Stop here," said Fingers gesturing with the hand that had only two fingers left on it. So I dutifully slowed down and stopped the car. It was as featureless a piece of the wasteland as I had ever seen, barren earth, a few tufts of half-dead brown grass and a couple of straggly knee high bushes. Fingers lent across, turned off the ignition and pulled the key out. I thought about hitting him as he lent, but the gun was hard up against my ribs, digging into my flesh. Fingers got out of the car, putting the keys into his pocket. I sat unmoving, watching him in the late afternoon light. He opened the boot and got out a long handled spade.
"Come on, get out of there," he boomed at me, holding the spade out in front of him. "It's time to start digging."
"Get stuffed!" I replied. "The grounds too bloody hard around here. And anyway, why would I be stupid enough to make your job any easier. You're going to shoot me anyway. Why should I help you get rid of my own body. Dig the bloody grave yourself." I sat in the car, my hands crossed over my chest. If he shot me like this, he would have a hell of a time getting my body out of the car, let alone into a shallow grave. I'm not a small man. I knew Fingers was not a man who enjoyed inflicting pain. He had suffered enough himself when he lost those fingers. No! He was a career criminal, with no moral compass, but killing to him was just an unavoidable part of the job.
"Damn it," Fingers growled, "you know I have trouble holding a spade." He held up has mangled left hand.
"So I should feel sorry for you, and help you in you latest little job, eh?" I laughed. "Fat chance!"
"I'll shoot you where you are then," he said with no conviction. "Ah come on, this is getting just too ridiculous!" He walked half a dozen paces into the wasteland, and began to start digging. He managed it very poorly, as his left hand had trouble with the spade.
"That's not going to be big enough for me!" I laughed. "Maybe you should have hired a backhoe."
He growled. "You're right it's too hard here." All this time the gun had been on the ground beside him. Now he picked it up and put it into his pocket. Getting back into the car he fished out the keys and handed them to me. "Drive on, we'll find a better spot." He put the spade between his legs, the long handle protruding up in front of his face.
I started the car and drove off at quite a pace. Then I jammed on the brakes as hard as I could. We both lurched forward, me with my arms up protecting my head. But Fingers rammed his head directly into the handle of the spade. He had knocked himself out. I reached into his trouser pocket and took the gun. I did not hesitate, but shot him clear through the temple, as he sat hunched forward onto the spade. It made a mess of the car, but I figured I could always clean that up later.
         I dragged the body out of the car and took the long handled spade out of his dead mangled hand. I sized up the lie of the land and came to a conclusion as to where the grave ought to be. After all, I had some experience of these things, unlike Fingers, who had never put himself forward for such jobs.
"Well, Fingers," I said to the body, "Now, it's time to start digging."