A Bad Sign

My face was in sand. Face down; my left cheek covered as the sand stuck softly to my skin. My eyes opened painfully, eyelids almost super-glue sticky.

The beating sun beat down, doing its job to perfection.

I was covered in sweat, as was my blue cotton shirt, under-arm dark as the sweat dripped from me.

I couldn’t raise my head, at first. Neck stiff, skull heavy, senses unwilling. I just wanted to lie. But the heat was stifling. Lying would mean dying.

I pulled my head up with my aching neck muscles. Palms flat, I pushed tenderly down, to raise my torso too.

“Where the fuck am I?”

The voice was rasped and thick.

My words, but not my voice. The voice of a drinker. The voice of a rough-sleeper. The voice of a half-baked corpse.

I blinked,

“Shit!”

The wall. Stood tall right before me, almost in touching distance.

“That fucking wall!”

Memories flickered.

We finished the wall.

That’s what happened!

Last night we finished the damn wall!

Finally.

We had vowed to make those damned Mexicans build it and pay for it, but in the end we had to build it ourselves. Still, I guess this made sure it was better quality, so those bastards couldn’t break it down and sneak in to steal or jobs.

I staggered to my feet. Dehydrated and hungover. We always celebrate big when we finish a job and this had been a big job. To be honest most of us had started celebrating before the last section had been fully secured. Well, it was our last chance to swill some cheap tequila before we locked those Mexican rats out for good.

I guessed I must have got separated from the guys and passed out. They’d be packing up the camp in the afternoon. I needed to get back to help out and pick up my stuff ready for the ride home.

I wondered where I was.

Glancing up, eyes shielded against the sun, I surveyed the wall. We’d done a damn good job there! I couldn’t see how any dirty migrants could get past that thing.

But I still didn’t know where I was. I turned away from the wall. Few hundred yards behind me were a couple of run down bars on the edges of a small town. Well, a village really. I didn’t recognise them.

Between me and the bars was a busy four lane highway. That would be my clue.

I wandered over to the roadside as traffic sped by.

There was a sign fifty metres up the highway. I squinted, but with my sun-blinded sticky eyes I couldn’t make out the words. Cursing I trudged along the sidewalk, trying to get the sign into focus.

Eventually, I was close enough to make out the letters. They confused me.

I had to spell them out one by one:

A v e n u e L u i s D o n a l d o C o l o s i a

I blinked.

Avenue Luis Donaldo Colosia!

That’s not an American highway.

What the…?

Shit!

Fuck!

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!

I was trapped.

I had no money left; no passport; no I.D.

“I’m on the wrong side of the fucking wall!”

And I was.

Trapped!

On the wrong side of the wall…