The Pandemic Letters

(With apologies to C.S. Lewis)

  My Dear Wormwood,

It pains me to hear of your follies in using this pandemic to its potential. You seem almost puffed up by the anxieties, deaths, and outright agonies of the people you are working to guide toward Our Father Below. Surely you have not forgotten already the careful lessons we poured over and drilled into your insect-like skull?
You grin about the deaths in hospitals and nursing homes (rather few, percentage-wise) as if these are somehow advancing our great cause! Far be it! Some of these belong to the Enemy, and I can almost hear the rejoicing as they walk through the awful gates! My ears bleed with it.

As well, can you not comprehend how they start to think about what is to come, and with gravity of soul and mind some begin to think...stay with me now... of preparation. Preparing for an afterlife. Considering what may come next! This is the worst possible news. We have worked for centuries to get their minds off of death, and onto frivolities, selfish habits or stoic musings- even daily we throw program after program at this very cause. And so when I hear your gleeful wringing of hands in regards to death, my dear Wormwood, I fear you have strayed far from the path. These gravitous thoughts the wretched humans are having will undoubtedly cause us to lose souls. Some that we have worked many years to steer in our direction may raise their ugly heads to the heavens. It should cause you pain, not this smiling like a stupid creature!
I'm not shocked Wormwood, merely disappointed in your oversight, as I would be in a cockroach that did not see the heeled boot descending. But you are inexperienced in the finer nuances of destruction.

Now to the other. I do not doubt that their economic system crashing gives you false confidence. Here too, there is something regarding human nature you must try, in your small way, to let enter the struggling synapses of your brain.

There is, what they call upstairs, a thing called Supply and Demand. Granted there is a great disruption at the moment, large stockpiles of rotting supply (I confess to craving the scent of it) and an inability to demand, and much frustration, loss, deprivation, and hence excitement among those of us Below. At surface this is wonderful to behold. However, the same demand will still be there that ever was, and thus the supply will rise to fill it. And on and on. A few hiccups, perhaps, a grinding of the gears, but move it must. And then all of the crashing will be for naught. It will not serve us for long. In the meantime, you waste our time and anger the Senior devils with your meandering idiocy. Get busy! Precious time passes, to throw the horror in their faces, to create desperation, crippling anxieties, and the inevitable sweet victory as some edge toward the cliff, unable to carry on! These are the moments, Wormwood, you will carry with you forever. Well, as long as I allow you to survive, I should warn. Do not take a moment of depression for granted. These are indeed perilous times. Some are using their pain to draw closer (shudder) to the Enemy. He loves them, strangely enough. This is a concept our Senior officials have prodded and studied for millennia, to no avail. There is nothing we can do about it. He will protect, cherish and provide for His rats, sometimes snatching them out of our very jaws.
(Excuse my salivatings on the page. You understand.)

You cannot imagine, Wormwood, how I ground my mandibles when you wrote of your latest failure. You thought that keeping them apart was something to celebrate. No! Not at all! Several extra-marital affairs I had been personally overseeing have ground to a halt. All lost. The bile rises when I think of the years I spent, creating small problems, causing little jealousies and innocent glances, and then seeing all the careful planning and depravity wasted.
And the gathering of the Enemies flock, interrupted! As if this "social distancing" was in our favour! Now they are missing their disgusting little times together, thinking of others, checking in on their neighbors. Nothing could be worse! We had lulled them, gently, cautiously, into a deep sleep. Now the "saints", as they nauseatingly call themselves, have awakened! The petty quarrels and insults we toiled over for years - forgotten. Even worse, forgiven. How I detest the word.
And still, the grating noise of what is known as "Worship" resounds across their devices and in their homes (we are forbidden to say the word, and so we simply refer to "That Screech Upstairs"). It is worse than the pitter and patter of birds in Spring, more horrible than the laughter of children. It cracks upon my eardrum and bends my very fangs inward! I've had to retreat from Upstairs and recover an entire week down Below.

This virus, the "pandemic" as they ridiculously and snivelingly call it, what I once thought a glorious idea, has brought them together in ways we could not foresee.
(You mustn't let a vile droplet of that last sentence reach Our Father Below. In fact, I may be forced to make sure you do not.)

And lastly, my dear, delicious Wormwood, the icing on a fly-ridden cake. At our last meeting of Senior devils, it was revealed. The cries of these stinking humans, old and young, rich and poor, light and dark, have reached the ears of the Enemy. He is mobilizing to send aid. Rumours are even oozing from above saying He heard them from the start. It is crass, obviously, but probably true. I've been crawling the dirt for several eons now and I've seen it before. They call it a Rescue, an Ever Present Help or something disturbing of that kind. How sadly inane.


   The point is that I'm afraid our time is growing short. What you so naively lauded as an opportunity of the ages for ferrying souls Below has turned into a battle in which we are taking heavy losses. They come at us from all sides. Many of our best and most promising charges have been turned back, and there is a steady hemorrhage of souls walking up to that dreaded piece of Wood and depositing their burdens there. A thunder of applause from Above is growing, causing fear and alarm among all rank and file of my colleagues, though of course I am steady in my ancient filth, ripe always with hope and deception. Never fear on my account.

His minions grow bolder, calling on the name of our Enemy daily. The time grows short.
And so, Wormwood, we must fight with all the rampant evil we can muster.
Set sibling against sibling, father against mother, nation against nation. Stir up the hate that lurks in families, and make them so sick of each other that little fights and snarls break out and crack the foundations.

Cause neighbors to tell tales on neighbors, and let them think their little laws are what matters. Fan the flames of insidious conversations about the constitution and government, creating bonfires of mistrust. Use the media, as I have repeatedly instructed you, to pour fuel on these bonfires until they blaze up and destroy anything around them. Whisper suspicions to the humankind as they pass each other on the street, and fill their heads with thoughts of how lazy or entitled others must be, while they suffer, oh so much more! Victims must be reminded often of their new state of victimhood, and bring up regularly how easy others must have it. Either they don't care enough about the sick, or they care too much. Polarization is almost too easy at the moment - seize the day! For those who are beset with laziness, let them wallow in it and germinate that self-hatred that ever does so much for our purposes. Confusion is key; when in doubt, cause chaos and misunderstanding at every turn. As yet there is no cure; maybe we can still turn fear into something that leaves an indelible mark on their pitiful hearts. As the cherry on top of the eternal Feast of death, we strive for their lives to be meaningless and empty, plagued by fears on every side.

Ah Wormwood! The possibilities are endless! I almost forget how short the time grows. Our days are numbered, however... yours perhaps more than mine. That particular delicacy we will discuss soon.

Until then.


Yours Ever so Sincerely,


Uncle Screwtape