Billy scraped again and again at the stone, trying to find the edge. His spade screeched ineffectual against the hard surface. The sound dulled and died before they made it to the top of the deep hole he stood in, moist earth pressing in on every side.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck." he chanted under his breath. He resisted the urge to check his watch yet again. He knew it was almost midnight.

Finally finding an edge to the rock, he knelt down and pried it from the earth. He hefted the rock over the lip of his hole, setting it next to the mud caked boots of the pastor.

"Toss me the measuring tape." he said without looking up. He immediately returned to his work, tossing shovel after shovel of soil out of the hole.

A yellow tape measure, spotted and blackened with age hit the dirt in front of him with a soft 'wump'. Stabbing his shovel into the earth to hold it upright, he kneeled and shoved the end of the tape into the deepest part of his hole. He quickly pulled the tape out and measured to the lip of the hole.

"Four feet, seven inches. What time is it?"

"11:47." the pastor replied.

"Fuck." Billy said, and he once again began furiously pitching dirt out of the hole.

"I'm not sure I can do this, Billy." The pastor said in his low baritone. His aged, dark skin hung like a hound dog's off his skull.

"You'll do it, because you're the only one who knows."

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The Pastor said nothing, staring hangdog at the growing grave. Ten more minutes of frantic scraping at the earth passed without another word said by either of the two men.

"11:57." the pastor announced.

"Fuck!" Billy panted, a distinct amount of terror in his voice. He hastily measured the hole once more.

"6 foot 1! Fuck yes!" he tossed the shovel out of the grave and sat down, indian style in the center.

"You want me to read you your last rights?" asked the pastor.

"I think we are a bit fucking late for that don't you think?" Billy shouted.

The pastor shrugged. "Still." he replied.

"No." Billy said quietly.

"I don't think I can do it." The pastor repeated.

"FUCKING DO IT!" Billy screamed.

The Pastor scurried away from the rim, and Billy heard an engine start dimly from the bottom of the hole. He lay flat on the earth, and a new fear took hold of him. He had been so scared of finishing the hole in time, that he hadn't thought to be terrified for the actual dying part. He clinched his fists against the desire to climb out.

He could here a heavy thump and scraping as the pastor's snow plow pushed the earth back towards his hastily dug grave. He gasped in a quick lung full of fresh air just before the earth hit him. It hit hard, much harder than he had expected. His chest compressed so fast that the air was forced from his lungs. He was instantly smothered. Dirt, wet and thick was in his every crevice, filling his nose, eyes and ears. He tried to gasp for another breath, and dirt flew into his open mouth. Every cell in his being thrashed to make it to the oxygen above, but he couldn't move for the weight upon him. As his consciousness fell to blackness about him, he noticed, for the briefest of moments, that there was no light at the end of the tunnel.

The pastor drove furiously away from the crossroads Billy had chosen. He was terrified he'd get caught and questioned about his involvement, and not by the police. He prayed aloud as he drove, the speedometer topping over 60, despite the dark and the dirt road. He prayed for forgiveness, he prayed for protection. And, though he knew how little it would help, he prayed for the soul of the man he'd just buried alive.