The Escort

By Juan G. Calle

What does the future hold for humanity?

The Escort is about the universal struggle between good and evil, taking the reader on a trip from 9/11 in New York City to the deserts and mountains of Peru.

Certain characters are based on historical figures from Peru's rich history, finding themselves resurrected in some future time.

Daniel, the escort, is responsible for guiding individuals through part of their pilgrimage. Some human beings served God in their first life, while others served themselves with disregard for anyone else. Will they embrace forgiveness?

It's an intense drama about good and evil, love, forgiveness, and redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886167023

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The Escort

Juan G. Calle

ISBN 979-8-88616-701-6 (paperback)

ISBN 979-8-88616-702-3 (digital)

Copyright © 2022 by Juan G. Calle

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

All scripture quotations are taken from the New American Standard Bible, copyright 1977, by the Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Prologue

The End Begins

After the End: As If Greek Gods

The Hardened Old Man

The Monsignor

Daddy Dearest

The Tribunal

The Wagon

The Temple

The Slave

A Good Man

Another Session of the Tribunal

By the Firepit

A Redeemed Monarch

Say Goodbye

The Reunion

Epilogue

The Gospel According to Matthew, Chapter 24

About the Author

Prologue

Ho, everyone who thirsts,

Come to the waters;

And you who have no money,

Come, buy and eat.

Come, buy wine and milk

Without money and without price.

Why do you spend money for what is not bread?

And your wages for what does not satisfy?

Listen carefully to Me, and eat what is good,

And delight yourself in abundance.

Incline your ear and come to Me;

Listen that you may live;

And I will make an everlasting covenant with you,

According to the faithful mercies shown to David.

Behold, I made him a witness to the peoples,

A leader and commander for the peoples.

Behold, you will call a nation you do not know,

And a nation which knows you not will run to you,

Because of the Lord your God, even the Holy One of Israel;

For He has glorified you.

Seek the Lord while He may be found;

Call upon Him while He is near,

Let the wicked forsake his way,

And the unrighteous man his thoughts;

And let him return to the Lord, and He will have compassion on him;

And to our God, for He will abundantly pardon.

For My thoughts are not your thoughts,

Neither are your ways My ways, declares the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth,

So are My ways higher than your ways,

And my thoughts than your thoughts. (Isaiah 55:1–9)

1

The End Begins

Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His godly ones.

—Psalm 116:15

In the land of the free and home of the brave

Angel shivered, feeling a sudden chill in the air as he walked toward the transport bus. The cold, icy north wind blew along the long island sound, hitting Riker's Island on its way toward Hell Gate Bridge and beyond. The windy chill penetrated his bones. It was a sign of the coming cold tenebrous winter.

It was a dreary cloudy gray morning like when one felt a winter storm coming. This particular morning possessed a smoky haze in the atmosphere, an exceptionally gloomy morning, more so than those sunless winter mornings he so hated.

The bus departed, and this specific early morning drive seemed to be lasting an eternity, a dark silence the ruling presence in the transport bus. The usual jokes and always-present stories from the occupants who sometimes boasted about their children's accomplishments or bragged about their latest romantic hustle were lacking this early morning. The verbal exchange about their human experience always caused time to pass quickly. Today, the dreadful memories of days prior filled the bus. They all wore the black mourning band across their shields.

Any other time, Angel would have enjoyed the lack of traffic. Even getting to Riker's from Long Island this early morning had been a breeze, zooming through an empty Long Island Expressway with emergency flashers on and displaying his official pass and shield identifying him as emergency personnel. He and John drove in somber silence. Their favorite radio station was no more, having gone off the air in a flash. Anyway, neither felt like listening to any music, and it seemed like there wasn't any good news either.

Now the transport bus zoomed through the Brooklyn Queens Expressway, one more empty road in the city that never sleeps. Heading toward Manhattan, visible on the horizon was the gigantic plume of smoke, dust, and ashes that replaced the once tallest man-made structures on earth.

As the bus moved through the narrow empty city streets of Manhattan, its bright, rapidly flashing strobe lights seemed to be the only signs of life. Normally, these streets would be bustling with people and bumper-to-bumper traffic.

The small group of volunteering correction officers were dropped off by the rear of Bellevue Hospital where a makeshift morgue had been set up and included volunteers from many New York tristate area law enforcement departments as well as forensic and medical professionals from around the country.

Outside his department's makeshift tent which proudly displayed the New York City Department of Corrections insignia and motto, New York's Boldest, sat Angel on his improvised throne consisting of a blue surplus milk crate.

Angel appeared anxious in anticipation, periodically gazing at the corner, the sound of any oncoming vehicle caused him to get up off his throne and stare down the street.

When is the next one coming? Angel kept asking himself in silence. Nonetheless, the so anticipated arrival always dropped a knot down his gut feeling, an adrenaline rush, as in moments when he had been in extreme danger.

Never mind! Concentrate! he told himself as he stared across the street and continued in fervent prayer—the Lord's Prayer, a prayer which he had used in communication with his Maker since a child when he knelt at his bedside, Grandma guiding him through:

Our Father who art in Heaven,

Holy is your name,

Your Kingdom come,

Your will be done

On earth

As it is in Heaven

And so on.

He had exhausted it.

It was personal to him as every phrase and word had been carefully dissected and meditated upon, rationalizing and attempting to understand their deepest meaning.

Angel felt an intimate closeness to his Maker.

Opening his eyes, He stared across the street at the numerous plastic receptacles which ironically resembled the ones used at airports for travelers to place their belongings for inspection.

These receptacles were carefully and orderly arranged like soldiers in a parade, all placed side by side on top of numerous portable folding tables like the ones brought out at family gatherings when additional guests were expected. At one point, he had purposed to determine how many of these receptacles there were but had given up the idea upon reaching several hundred and realizing many thousands would be required. Anyway, like in days prior, more would be brought out as needed.

I need to stretch and clear my mind! he said to himself as he thought about those working at ground zero, fixing the respirator mask on his face as he arose.

Oh…oh…oh…no respirator could mask the stench of decaying flesh coming through his nostrils, hitting him in the gut and becoming permanently embedded in his brain cells, becoming a permanent and vivid reminder of that horrific tragedy.

This embedded memory resurfaced many years later when a certain coworker downplayed the 9/11 tragedy, asserting it had been exaggerated and even stating it might have been a fabrication. This led to a heated discussion that culminated in Angel asserting that he was an eyewitness and describing every gloomy, bloody, somber, dark detail as Angel had not only volunteered at the morgue site but had been in the area the day of the 9/11 terrorist attacks. Said coworker never again dared to raise the sensitive subject.

Angel calmly walked to the corner, in passing, looking into other makeshift temporary shelters where other law enforcement agencies had set up their operations headquarters. Pulling off his mask as he got further from the morgue, the stench of death was less intense.

Upon reaching the corner, a young female volunteer offered him coffee. She was an attractive young woman with a pleasing glow about her and a caring look in her eyes. Her angelic presence gave him a feeling of calm and ease.

Both engaged in small talk, attempting to bear with the present gloomy chill of the site.

Where are you from? Christina asked in her naturally sweet, calm voice.

Long Island, answered the now socially engaged hermit. And yourself?

We're from Rockland County, Christina answered.

They talked for a few more minutes about their jobs, neighborhoods, and how they had ended up volunteering at the site.

Thanks very much for the coffee and bagel, Christina. I needed that!

Christina's kindness refreshed him in a very caring human way, reassuring him that there are good, kind, concerned people in this world.

While walking back, putting his mask back on, his mind drifted back to those cherished moments when his wife greeted him with a loving embrace, a gentle kiss, and a warm home-cooked meal that always awaited him, even after those long and draining sixteen-hour workdays, all tokens of her love.

Pulling his respirator mask back over his face, he walked back down the same street of gloom heading toward his assignment, assisting in the processing of human remains which were transported to the over-capacity temporary morgue site, passing other makeshift shelters which were operating centers with uniformed personnel engaged in quiet conversation.

When handled, each container was treated with loving care and respect as when one takes care of an ailing elderly parent or a loved one on their deathbed.

There, in those containers, lay all that remained of the thousands of innocent victims, nothing but fragments, dust, and ashes of mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, lovers, and friends, somebody's precious loved ones.

As he walked in between the maze of tables, Angel looked around at the faces of other volunteers handling the human remains with the always present stench of decaying flesh in the air, penetrating deep into one's soul. It was a horrific site of broken body parts and human fragments.

Angel thought to himself, Only love could persuade these people to volunteer here.

Then he directed a heartfelt honest prayer to the dead, Only for you, my brothers and sisters! Only for you!

Angel's attention turned to a faint sobbing coming from a corner. As he turned, he noticed an NYPD detective who could not hold his emotions any longer and had broken into a baby-like sob, crouched in a corner in a fetal position. A couple of NYPD officers and a nurse ran to tend to him.

Then it occurred to him that even all the carnage he had experienced in Vietnam paled in comparison to the human destruction caused by this single event.

A few days earlier, these now shattered, violently torn apart, pulverized human remains had thrived with life pursuing their dreams and passions, loving and being loved, all full of life's energy, full of every feeling and emotion that makes us human.

Now because of the conscious, destructive, hate-driven actions of a few individuals who had chosen hatred as their life's driving force and purpose, these thousands of victims lay there in their small plastic containers, without even their identities—torn and broken, dust and ashes.

Angel reluctantly gazed at the contents of the open plastic casket he carefully held in both hands, on its way to one of the medical examiners for DNA sample extraction for identification. Forensic doctors had volunteered from as far away as California.

There it was, the dusty pale remains of a hand, frozen in time, life cut off in a violent instant, wedding band still on a finger as a reminder of love's mutual pledge: Till death do us part.

As he fought tears from rolling down his cheeks, Angel softly murmured to himself, "Is the loved one hopelessly searching for this person? Perhaps desperately posting pictures on city streets?

Have you seen her?

Have you seen him?

Please call…

"And in desperation, they're probably visiting every local hospital, like many thousands resolving not to let go and holding on to hope, praying and desiring their loved