A night in Mexico

[Repugnant Abomination]

A little short story I wrote...

The lights of Mexicali swirled around Josh as he made his way through the sea of people. Every few seconds a firecracker popped and everyone cheered.
He saw his friends up ahead hitting on some girls who were laughing and passing a joint between them. Music spilled out from nearby clubs and some of the people around him danced and drank tequila.
“Wait up,” he yelled. He tried to catch them but got cut off by a girl with short blonde hair who wore a University of Arizona tank top. They both laughed and told each other their name, but soon she was swept away, disappearing into the crowd.
He couldn’t see his friends anymore. He stopped and took out his cell phone. The numbers on the pad were blurry and he grinned. He didn’t get halfway through dialing when a group of people pushed passed him and he dropped the phone.
“Move it, bro! Whoo!” one of them hollered as the others clung to each other, stumbling forward with everyone else.
People continued pushing passed Josh, hundreds of them. He knelt down and looked for his phone, but he couldn’t see very well and the people kept coming.
“Shit,” he said in a thick voice slathered with whiskey. He pressed his hand to his forehead and started walking again. There was a strong smell of enchiladas now. A firework shot up into the air and exploded red and orange and a group of girls took pictures to his left.
A hand gripped Josh’s bicep and pulled him aside. He tried to pull away but the grip was strong.
“What’s going on?”
“Pasaporte.”
Josh focused his eyes on the man. He was a middle aged Mexican with a thick mustache and bulky chest and beady eyes. He wore a green uniform.
“Passport? Yeah, man, I’ve got it,” he said, reaching into his back pocket and handing it to him. He noticed there were two other men, Mexicans, and they all wore the same uniform. The one with his passport inspected it for a few seconds.
“Usted viene con nosotros ahora.”
“I don’t understand. No comprende. I’m American. Americano. I’m going back over the border.”
“Vamos ahora,” the man said, gripping Josh’s arm again. “Estamos a la policía. Police.” He pulled Josh further away from the crowded streets, with the two other men forming a half circle around him.
“But I didn’t do anything,” Josh said, stumbling over his feet.
“Estás borracho en público. Vamos,” the man said, more forcefully this time. The other men kept a watch out and stood around Josh, blocking him from sight.
“Vamos,” the man said again, leading Josh to a black SUV parked near an alley. “Pon tus manos sobre el capó.”
“I don’t understand. I don’t speak Spanish.”
One of the two other men dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief and looked over his shoulder. When Josh didn’t comply he stepped forward and clubbed him on the back of the head with his fist.
“Hacer lo que dice!”
Josh held the back of his head with one hand and covered his face with the other, cowering against the car. The man who had hit him pushed him against the hood of the SUV and spun him around so he was leaning against it on his stomach. Then he kicked Josh’s feet apart and patted him down.
Josh pressed his hands against the hood of the SUV. It was warm. He heard the Mexicans speaking to each other in sharp voices. The sounds of the streets and dance clubs and college kids were behind him, and he could still smell the sweat and alcohol.
“Listen, if you let me call my parents I’m sure there won’t be a problem.”
“Cállate!” the man who had struck him said. When he finished patting him down he pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed his wrists together.
“Vamos,” he said. He opened the back passenger door and pushed Josh forward.
Josh slid into the backseat and the man slid in next to him. The man who had asked for his passport slid in from the other door so that Josh was between them. The last one got into the drivers seat and started the engine.
Josh sat quietly, looking over the interior of the vehicle. There was no police radio, or anything else that would be in a police vehicle. None of the Mexicans spoke. A thin layer of sweat coated Josh’s forehead and his stomach churned. The two men beside him stared straight ahead.
“Are we going to the police station?” Josh asked.
“Cállate!” the driver said.
Josh sank back against the cushion and bit his bottom lip. They drove south, towards the Mexican desert. He shifted in his seat. The Mexican to his right took a flask from his breast pocket and drank, then passed it across Josh to the other man. As they turned off the main road and onto a dirt one, a sign on the side of the road read, “Adios, amigo!”
The lights of the city grew dim as they drove further down the dirt road. The driver tapped his thumbs on the wheel and kept looking at Josh in the rearview mirror.
“Where are you taking me?” Josh asked, fear entering his voice. His speech was no longer slurred and his eyes were sharper and he shifted on his seat more. None of the men said anything. “Did you hear me? What the hell is going on?”
The man who had struck him grabbed Josh between his thighs and squeezed his hand. “Cállate! Huh! Cállate!” he said, twisting his hand to the right. Josh cried out, then leaned forward and groaned. He coughed and sat up, trying to breathe.
“Shit…Shit…Oh God…”

Twenty minutes later they parked in the desert.
“Vamos,” the driver said, turning off the engine.
“Please, listen, just listen to me. I, my name is Josh, Josh Parker. I’m an American. My parents are rich and will give you whatever you want.”
“Gag él.”
The two men in the backseat held Josh down, forced his mouth open, and stuffed a rag in it. Then the driver handed them some duct tape, which was spread across Josh’s mouth. When they finished they dragged him out of the SUV. He kicked and flailed, so one of them hit him over the head until his knees buckled. Once he didn’t have as much fight in him they carried him off into the night.