“Price check at register five. Price check at register five.” On the speakers overhead the clatter of a phone hanging up could be heard, and Rarel Welles let out a heavy sigh. He only wanted to buy a few tomatoes and cheese and get home in time to watch Hollywood Squares. He had been at work since eight that morning and he was tired and just wanted to relax. The cashier smiled at him innocently and Rarel knew she was going to try to talk to him to kill time before the manager got there. He could read people like that. It was too bad that he wasn’t a big fan of normal average humans; he thought they milled about like sheep and bought things, destroyed things, and stomped around on the space that they claimed as their own. It was too bad because his social skills, with a little brushwork, could’ve got him far in life.

Instead he still lived in the town he was born in, good old San Diego. And even worse he was only a few blocks south of where his parents still lived and it was only a five minute stroll on the boardwalk to the nearest taco shop. From his small apartment Rarel could here the ocean’s soft roar and the even quieter buzz of the people outside. But unlike the old times, the tourists weren’t there for the beaches and salty cold water. They weren’t camped out on the sand to catch the morning surf, nor were they the result of no vacancy in all the hotels to visit Disneyland or Sea World or any of those crapshit theme parks with dangerous rides and strange animal mascots.

The tourists were there to witness the best sunset ever found on the Earth. Mothers and fathers, sons and daughters, and newlyweds crowded against the rough sea wall every morning and every night to gaze into the bloody orange sky and “ooh” and “aah” at the colors dancing across the water. Very few knew why the calm waters of the horizon turned such beautiful greens, blues, silvers, and gold. Only those who could remember the way it used to be knew that the water was no longer safe. Not because of sharks or giant squids lurking in the murky water.

Because of the very human scum of the planet. Because a genius created a machine that created nuclear power suitable for civilian use. Because the “impure” ways of making electricity (gas generators, water turbines, solar panels, windmills, coal burning) were done with and the world moved towards a better, more useful, more sensible way of powering airplanes, cars, computers, dishwashers, and toasters.

Because someone fucked up.

Rarel remembered the way the water looked on the day the S.S. Durga sank into the deep blue. The hundreds of atmospheres of pressure were too much for the nuclear engine and its compact power supply. Within hours of the ship going under, the authorities confirmed that the engine had in fact imploded, and to put it in lay terms, filled the Pacific with a crock full of shit that shouldn’t be there. That night the chemical imbalance of the water had already begun and the water shimmered with all colors imaginable. Atomic particles and the waste that the engine created, supposedly safe gases such as oxygen and nitrogen, wreaked havoc on the marine food chain.

The plankton was the first to go.

With them went the shrimp and fish and mollusks, and soon thereafter the whales, sharks, dolphins, and anything that ever had gills or a blowhole or swam the salty sea was dead. The beachgoers began to develop rashes and skin lesions after going in the water. Months later the swimmers and waders would run screaming from the water, turned acidic. In a year the ocean was a festering wasteland of disease and death and all those that swam in it risked infections of mutated bacteria and new, strange viruses.

Most of the coastal towns emptied out, only the courageous stayed. Rarel had stayed. His parents had stayed. He remembered driving to San Francisco with his father five years after the Durga accident and they were both surprised at the lack of life. The birds had completely left and the sea grasses were almost white with death and the hills burned with the heat of sun-baked sand and metal signs.

Twenty years have gone by since the day humans officially ruined their own planet with their overzealous ways. Since then the problem has spread to Artic, Atlantic, and Indian oceans. The seas were soon lost, despite efforts to install water purifiers that would remove the dangerous particles. Only the Black Sea survived by sheer geographical luck, the landlocked body of water now considered sacred by the countries near it. Most of the freshwater resources were saved due to hasty action by government officials and tree-hugging hypocrites, and the fact that when the water evaporated from the ocean surface it was pure, normal, and drinkable.

Some would say we tried too hard to perfect our technology. Others would say we could use the very thing that destroyed the oceans to save them. Why not evaporate all of the water and restore the oceans to their old state? Yeah, it could happen with enough heat! Or we could genetically engineer a bacterium to seek out and destroy the dangerous particles and eliminate the radiation? Yeah, it could work! Rarel was disgusted by the inane ideas that sprouted up even to this very day. It had been twenty years, and only those old enough remembered or gave a shit about the ocean. The new generation wanted to simply clean it all up, shake hands, and be done with it.

And now one of these fifteen-something girls stared at Rarel’s spiked brown hair, round brown eyes, and angular features and smiled at him flirtatiously. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes and sigh even louder than before, hoping she would page the manager again. Whoever was taking so long to do a price check for a few tomatoes and a block of Munster cheese could only be in the bathroom looking at the dirty magazines that they sold in the back, or was bullshitting with fellow coworkers in the break room.

The girl blew a bubble, popped it, and asked, “So, how old are you?” Rarel couldn’t believe his ears. He was twice her age, working on his degree in history, and absolutely positively had no interest in little high school student without an ounce of morality packed in their big heads.

“I’m old enough to be your dad.” He almost smirked at his own sarcasm.

“There’s no need to be rude, I was just trying to kill some time—“
Rarel’s eyes narrowed and he held up his debit card. “I don’t have time to kill. Call the price check again so I can get out of here and go home, please.” The girl popped another bubble, rolled her eyes, and picked up the ugly tan phone marred with scratches and sticky looking black stuff.

"Price check at register five…” She glanced back to her rude, yet incredibly handsome customer and dropped the phone. It clattered against the counter and the sound echoed throughout the store on the speaker system. Her hand went to her mouth and she backed into the wall behind her and started screaming. Customers in line behind Rarel were painted with awe and one woman dropped the basket she was holding, covering the magazine stands and her dress in the contents of a gallon of orange juice. Rarel didn’t care. He didn’t even notice.

To him, the grocery store, the people inside of it, and the microwavable foods it sold were insignificant. His thoughts were not on Hollywood Squares and whether or not Whoopi would trick another lousy contestant into believing two plus two was five. Only his body stood in line, still holding his debit card. Rarel’s eyes had rolled back into his head and in-between his fluttering eyelids there was only white ribbed with red veins. He had bit down on his tongue and blood was beginning to ooze out of his tight pursed lips and was flying off in little droplets as his head shook and his neck twitched.

For those witnessing the event, they thought he was having a seizure. Someone dialed 911 and a man in another line jumped over the counter and pushed his way through the gasping crowd yelling out, “I’m a doctor, I’m a doctor! Someone get a towel, this man is going to hurt himself if we don’t do something.”

No one moved.

Inside of Rarel’s mind a great number of voices whispered and swam through his thoughts. If he had control of his body he would have shivered with chills of fear so dark and deep that anyone would have frozen with eyes wide open in disbelief. Instead he stood tense, jaw clenched and hands fisted beside him. And as the doctor-customer tried to lay him down, the voices spoke out thundering across the space of time.

GREAT SAGE RAREL DO YOU HEED OUR CALL.

“Yes.” Blood spilled out of Rarel’s mouth as he answered and those crowding him jumped back with fright. “Yes, I hear you. What of my services do you require?”

IN TWO DAYS WE WILL CONTACT YOU AT THE JARNGERD TEMPLE IN THE DESERTS OF NEVADA. DO NOT DELAY, DO NOT FAIL TO APPEAR.

“I will obey.” Tears began to splash out of Rarel’s fluttering eyes. As control of his body returned his fists loosened and he sucked in deep gulps of air. The doctor hushed him and checked his heart rate. It was racing, and from the way Rarel was breathing (almost hyperventilating) it would seem that he had just ran a mile in the hottest, most humid weather. After a few minutes the doctor leaned into Rarel’s eyesight.

“Are you alright? The ambulance is on its way… You gave us all a pretty big scare.” The doctor didn’t even wait for the man to answer, but he continued as if he had. “You were having a seizure. You bit through your tongue, it was hemorrhaging heavily but it seems to have stopped. It should heal soon enough but it’ll be hard to eat or drink anything until then. Your heart rate is slowing down, but stay here until the ambulance comes. I’m going to go meet them outside.”

Rarel lay motionless and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling. The doctor stood up and ushered everyone back away from the man so he could get some air, and then left to wait for the paramedics. Rarel began to sit up and an older woman with two young kids, a boy and a cute little girl, cooed to him and told him to stay down. He ignored her and stood up, wavering and unbalanced. It felt like his head weighed a hundred pounds too much but it was still light enough to float away and he stumbled as he made his way for the automatic doors. Through them he could see the ambulance pull up, reflecting orange and pale red shards of the setting sun. The doctor turned and pointed and his eyes met with Rarel’s. Later that night at home, in bed with his wife, the doctor would wake from a dream gasping for air and remember only the terrible hollowness that had filled Rarel’s eyes for that brief moment.

Rarel sped up his shuffling walk and turned down isle three (bread, cereal, baking supplies, cake mix) and thought only of the back door. He could hear someone, the paramedics, the doctor, the other customers, shouting for him. Demanding that he stop. Demanding that he let them help. He didn’t want their help and they couldn’t do anything anyways. Could they take on the heaviness that had wrapped itself around his head? Could they bear witness to the endless knowledge and presence across all times; could they stand to see what he saw as the voices spoke? No. No. No. No. No, keep going he told himself. Keep at it they can’t catch you. These humans, these things without value, these pawns and weapons and flesh-shields. They destroyed their own planet and it isn’t going to get any better as long as they infest its surface or cut down the forests or build miles of concrete hard as stone, devoid of anything green or brown save for the gas guzzling cars.

The brown-haired man pushed through the back door and almost cried out as the sunlight blinded him and he tripped on empty boxes, landing hard on his knees and hands. He stayed there, breathing hard, blinking the sweat and salt out of his eyes. He could hear them behind him; he could feel their very thoughts. The world swam and he put a hand up to his head and screamed. A hole had been left in his thoughts, a void that was shuddering moments ago with the presence inside of him, and now it was empty and the voices were gone. But it had to be filled and Rarel could feel himself being pulled in all directions, towards all thoughts, towards all information, towards all creation.

One of the paramedics was worried about making enough money to pay for his bills. The doctor was both concerned with his newfound patient and how he would address the local news cameras about being a hero, how he could glorify himself (and hopefully rake in some new clients). The same woman with the kids was thinking about dinner for the night and was wishing with all her heart that nothing like this ever happened to her kids. She didn’t want them to be like the man with the spiked hair, hateful brown eyes, and snappy attitude. She didn’t want them to turn into a punk like he was with his one pierced ear gleaming with a black gemstone stud. No matter how handsome he was she wouldn’t have it at all, her little prince and her little princess would not grow up like him! More thoughts flooded his mind: the cashier was worried about her pregnancy test; the woman who had dropped her orange juice couldn’t get her mind off of the next presidential election (would Sandman win or would Granger steal the lead). They crowded around him outside and the paramedics had to yell and scream and push their way through. But they had already suffocated Rarel with their thoughts, drowning him in images and hopes and dreams. He screamed again and again, hand on his head, down on all threes.

“GET BACK, STOP IT, GET BACK DON’T TOUCH ME! DON’T EVEN THINK, ALL OF YOU JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!” And with that Rarel leapt up into a sprint and was a hundred yards away, feet thudding against the cement, before the crowd could realize what he was doing.