Being a man of letters, it pains me
to put pen to paper on this subject. However, time is short, and the truth of
things cannot be ignored any longer.
It
was not always this way. In earlier times, my youthful exuberance was boundless,
as was my belief in the power of learning. I envisioned a future that was
limitless, as I worked to accumulate letters after my last name, like medals
worn on a uniform. The competition was brutal, oh yes, with causalities
casually tossed to the wayside, pitied, and then forgotten.
I
recall, from an early age, intense competition between schoolmates to excel. In
primary school, at the tender age of eight, my main competitor for brightest
boy in the class was William Schibel. We would revel in the praise received from
our instructors, and celebrate when the other was reprimanded. One incident,
which is etched into my memory like a wound that will not heal, involved a day
that I forgot an to complete an assignment. When the instructor called upon me,
aghast I found myself; having to publicly admit my mistake. My humiliated
cherry red face turned to look at William, whose smile was boundless. I would
hate him for the remainder of my primary years.
I
believed in my area of expertise, convinced that I would help mankind, and be
reimbursed liberally with wealth and prestige. As my letters accumulated, I
paid scant attention to the tiny sacrifices demanded for the sake of my
advancement. Ethics and morals were being slowly eroded, reshaped like the
river stone. But all of that was ignored by the sea of prosperity that
surrounded me.
Of
course there were signs, pride and ego can never completely bury the obvious.
However, I was a man of letters, and as such, I knew what was best for those
inferior to me in education and intelligence. I convinced myself that my
unethical behavior was for their sake, therefore I had to persevere on my
mission.
Many
of those actions shame me now; however, this is not a confession, and I seek no
absolution. I knew, on some level, that power and prestige had darkened my
soul, but the soul is invisible to others, its blackness known only to me. As
my letters increased, the ease of committing crimes against the body and spirit
appeared to not be crimes at all; simply actions demanded of my class status. How
many commandments were forgotten and broken? It is easier for me to recall the
few that were not.
I
looked down on those uneducated individuals who worked with their hands, their bland
uniforms, bland spouses, bland lives. We, the educated and elite, were living
our lives in color, while theirs was in black and white. Whenever I was forced
to interact with them, they were encouraged to complete their task quickly, and
I always resented paying their fee.
My
metamorphosis was gradual, I cannot point to a single episode or event that initiated
it. It appeared to me that my cabal hardly recognized my profound changes that
were taking place, or more likely they did so and did not care. By the time I
had exited the cult of greed and hubris, they might as well have been aliens to
me.
I
came to realize that most, if not all of the catastrophic episodes that have
plagued mankind were because of actions, or inactions of the educated elite. It
was not the farmer, or the lowly soldier, nor the nursemaid who generated
conflict between men. No, it was us, the educate elites, who raised the
scimitar of death that would sweep across nations, the brunt of which was borne
by the serfs who served our lifestyle and excesses. We however, often escaped
with minimal loss.
What
is that you say? Yes, it is true, that without us, many of the conveniences
that we have come to rely upon would not be possible. But when those conveniences
disappear, who will be better adapted for survival? Will it be the farmer or
us? The weaver or us? The carpenter or us? As painful as it may be to admit,
the farmer, weaver and carpenter have had a far longer tenure on this earth
then we.
I
have come to believe it inevitable that what we, the educated elite have
brought to the world would someday disappear. But which of us would bring about
it?
Will it be the Diplomat class,
unable to resolve a simple issue which would then snowball into the Great Final
War?
Or perhaps the Geneticist, in her
zeal to increase her letters and status, producing something monstrous and
unstoppable.
Will it be the AI Ethicist, who
decides to look the other way so his company can advance more rapidly than his
competitors.
Perhaps the Bacteriologist,
ignoring safety protocols in the Gain of Function Laboratory, seeking an edge
over others.
How
do I know that the inevitability of these scenarios? Remember William Shibel
and I as eight-year-old rivals? Every one of us who has climbed the ladder of
letters, has never lost that burning need, like a thirst that can never be
quenched, to rise to the top and push our rivals down.
It
was not the actions of the farmer, weaver, or carpenter that has caused this
apocalypse to be placed upon us. The claim that it was a Virologist, somewhere
in Asia who felt the need to ignore all caution and rain this deathly end upon
us is at this point irrelevant.
What is relevant is that the
creatures trying to reach me as I cower in this corrugated shed are almost upon
me. How fitting, how humorous, how ironic that the most educated, elite among
us, have inadvertently produced the least intelligent creatures to destroy us
all.
I
have one bullet left in my .38
I
am a man of letters.
I
will not become a zombie.
BANG