Prompt: 050. 'Spade'
Word Count: 200
"Y'know," Hannibal says conversationally, "You guys've seen too many westerns." He gestures at the hole he's standing in. "I mean, digging your own grave? It's such a cliche."
The biggest thug scowls, gesturing with his assault rifle. "Don't talk. Dig."
"Suit yourself." Hannibal bends back to the task, sending clods of hard-baked dirt leaping up into the air.
For a moment he's far away – breaking ground in his father's garden, the cool April-smelling earth giving way beneath his spade, roots and rocks turning up out of the damp clay. He can almost forget the blaze of sun on the back of his neck, and the menacing shadows of the thugs looming around him.
The Team will be along soon, but he has to stall for time. He pauses once again, grinning insolently at them. "Trouble you fellas for a glass of water?"
Hannibal makes a faux-miffed noise, shrugs, goes back to digging. Thinks again about Dad's garden, the job of turning it up every spring. Strains his hearing, hoping . . . and catches the faint but fast-approaching sound of a racing van engine.
Hannibal grins, tightens his grip on the spade, and prepares to leap out of the hole.