Wednesday, October 9, 2024: 11:37 P.M.
Deep inside the bowels of the bunker that they had built underneath their manure barn, Coaches Mike and Emily Van Winkle sat around a large round mahogany table. Surrounding them, on the walls, were charts, graphs, and a bank of several large flat-screen monitors. On the concrete floor of the bunker, about a dozen hens were pecking hungrily at some feed scattered carelessly about.
“Has the Vatican gotten back to you yet?” asked Emily.
“Yes. They said they’re sending someone,” replied Mike as he scoured the back pages of his Farmer’s Almanac. “I hope he gets here in time.”
“Have you located the ancient Indian burial site in Cedarville?” asked Emily, and motioned towards a large map spread out in front of Mike.
“Affirmative. It’s approximately at the halfway point of the race, in a clearing.”
“Excellent,” said Emily. “But what should we do about JP? I think he’s getting close to the truth.”
“I’ve considered that,” said Mike, “and we’ll deal with him when we need to. For now, he’s harmless.”
“I feel bad. I mean, he’s such a nice guy,” said Emily.
“True, but sacrifices must be made,” said Mike as he turned his attention back to the almanac. “He must live until the seventh sign has passed. We need his vote on November 5th.”
“I know. But have you figured out which way he’s leaning?”
“No. He keeps that card too close to his vest. Sometimes, he seems to enjoy Rogan, and sometimes he seems skeptical of Rogan’s guidance. Worry not, M’lady. There’s still some time. I’m certain that I can persuade him. He just needs to listen to the right episodes.”
“That’s true. I too was a slow learner,” said Emily, sheepishly. “I used to think that inter-dimensional telepathic cryptids were mere myth.”
“I remember,” said Mike, as he bestowed a rare half smile upon his wife.
“But that is the past. We must focus on the future,” Emily said.
“Right. Have you prepared the medicine kit for Saturday?” said Mike, gesturing towards the small black case that was sitting on the table.
“I have,” said Emily, and she opened it to show him. “Bandages, pre-wrap, emergency medical forms, a vial of holy water, some wooden stakes, and a silver crucifix.”
“You forgot the voodoo dolls,” snapped Mike.
“Crap,” said Emily, “I let Vivi play with them. They’re probably still in her room.”
“Get them. Now,” said Mike. “We’re going to need them, once the races begin.”
Friday, October 11th, 2024: 3:04 A.M.
Senior Captain Nicholas Johnson was stirring restlessly in his bed. No matter how hard he tried to implement the meditation techniques taught to him by Coach Van Winkle, sleep would not come. In his mind’s eye, he was envisioning the race that would take place on Saturday morning. He could see the other athletes, lined up and ready to go. Could hear the brisk pop of the starter’s gun as the race began. His lungs began to heave great quantities of air, as he lay there in bed, anxious, and helpless to the slow and merciless hand of Father Time.
Suddenly he heard his phone buzz. He looked, and saw that it was Senior Captain Bryce Nisly calling him. He picked up the phone. “Hey, Bryce. What’s up?”
“Can’t sleep,” said Bryce.
“Me neither,” said Nicholas.
“Did you try the Rogan sleep supplements that Van Winkle passed out at practice last week?”
“Duh,” said Nicholas. “They didn’t work. I tried warm milk, too, but no dice.”
“School starts in about five hours,” said Bryce.
“I know. There’s no way I can sleep right now. I keep thinking about Conference. We need to come alive. The Van Winkles are counting on it,” urged Nicholas.
“I’ve got an idea,” said Bryce. “Do you have your running shoes on?”
“Of course,” said Nicholas.
“Let’s meet for a long run. Twenty miles should help calm our nerves. I’ll call Zeke,” said Bryce.
Just then, Nicholas felt his phone buzz again. It was Zeke. “Right on time,” thought Nicholas as he answered the call.
Minutes later, the three captains were jogging down State Route 38. It was a clear night, and the stars above them cast an eerie glow on the rural landscape. Somewhere nearby, they could hear the quick yip-yap of some coyotes who were feeding upon the bloody carcass of an unfortunate calf.
Saturday, October 12, 2024: 5:30 A.M.
Assistant Coach Jeff Powell awoke with a start. He’d just had the most vivid, most disturbing dream of his life. In it, he had been running, for the first time in decades, through a foggy cemetery. Behind him, a group of painted Native American warriors astride sleek stallions were whooping and waving tomahawks over their heads. After about twenty meters, Powell was out of breath. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest. Defeated, he turned and faced his pursuers. Just before he felt the scalping slice of the brutal tomahawk, he woke up. His chest was still thudding as he checked the time on his phone. He rolled out of bed, and hurriedly threw on his gray coaching warm-ups, not bothering to shower. That would come later, in the peaceful afternoon, after his significant duties for the cross country teams were over for the day.
He looked over his children, each asleep in their own bed, and thought to himself how lucky he was. Apocalypse or no, he knew that he would do everything in his power to defend and protect the well-being of those precious lives. Hurriedly, Powell made a cup of coffee, ate a banana, and was out the door. He was glad that the conference meet was in Cedarville, a small town only about twenty minutes from his house.
He had high hopes for the day. The Panthers had been looking strong lately, and were looking to capitalize on their hard work. In the back of his mind, he began to consider the Van Winkles and their bizarre rhetoric about seven signs and the inevitable apocalypse. Powell brushed them aside. He’d known Mike Van Winkle for years. Together, the two had almost single-handedly resurrected the school’s track and field program from the brink of extinction and turned it into a district powerhouse. Then Emily had arrived. Yes, she was kind and generous. Yes, she was a doting mother and an attentive wife. But there was something about the way that she spoke to JP lately, with a trace of despair and pity in her voice. And then there were those small animal bones that she let Vivienne play with, as if they were legos. Sometimes, there were still desiccated remnants of flesh attached to them.
JP shuddered and returned his focus to the podcast to which he was listening. It was Rogan, and the guest was Dr. Avi Loeb, a Ph.D. from Harvard who was talking about the capabilities of remote viewing in order to contact extraterrestrial civilizations. Powell listened carefully, as the Van Winkles had instructed, but he still couldn’t buy into this hokum. In fact, he often thought that the Van Winkles were taking this whole thing a bit too far. Fallout bunkers? Rituals? And the way the Van Winkles had guided the male captains through the sacred traditions of homecoming, well, it was all just a bit much.
He arrived at the Cedarville University XC course and parked his car. In the distance, he could see the Panther athletes setting up the tent. He walked over and greeted the team.
“JP! You made it,” said Emily Van Winkle. “And how are we feeling this morning?”
“Tired,” said JP, “but ready to win this conference. How do the athletes feel?”
“Prepared as always,” said Emily.
“Great work,” said JP. “Where’s Mike?”
“Oh, he’s off scouting the course; there was one area in particular that concerned him.”
“Classic Van Winkle,” said JP and laughed.
Soon it was 9:00 and time for the boys to race. The runners stood along the start line of the sprawling opening stretch of the race, doing some last second stretches before the gun would sound. Suddenly, Coach Mike Van Winkle appeared, holding a small burlap pouch. He reached into and pulled out a small, ancient arrowhead. He touched it to Zeke’s forehead, and then pressed it into Zeke Gingerich’s hand. “You must carry this throughout the race,” said Van Winkle. “You won’t make it through without it.” He then gave each of the boy runners an arrowhead, speaking in a Native American language as he passed them out. The boys didn’t ask any questions, and clung tightly to their tokens as the referee reviewed the rules. Finally, the gun was raised and POW! They were off. Soon it was clear that the Panthers were outmatched by the dominant squad out of West Liberty Salem. However, at the halfway point of the race, when the runners entered a strange clearing in the meadow, it was said that the West Liberty Salem runners began shrieking in terror, claiming later that they had been accosted by what appeared to be Native American spirits. “It was crazy,” said Zeke, who witnessed the poltergeists. “They were whooping and firing arrows at the West Lib kids. I’ve never seen anything like it.” But these ghost spirits left the Panther athletes alone, and all of the runners finished in tact. Full results below:
15th—Zeke Gingerich—17:30
29th—Andrew Doll—18:35
30th—Daniel Thomas—18:36
31st—Nicholas Johnson—18:47
33rd—Bryce Nisly—18:49
38th—JJ Miehls—19:08
40th—Elton Bailey—19:17
42nd—Noah Thorley—19:27
51st—Brady Adams—20:10
Meanwhile, the girls had been warming up for their start at 9:40. Strange rumors began circulating about some sort of fiasco that had happened midway through the boys’ race. “I don’t know,” said captain Ava Lahmers, “they’re saying something about an old burial site, and unhappy phantoms.” But Coach Van Winkle was quick to cure their fears. “Don’t worry about it,” said Van Winkle, just hold on to one of these.” He reached into his pouch, but was shocked to find that it was empty. He had given all of his arrowheads away to the boys, who were now somewhere off running their cooldown. “Not a problem,” said Emily, as she produced about a dozen voodoo dolls from her purse. “What are those?” asked Sadie Miller. “Just watch,” said Emily, as she pulled a needle out of her hair. She took one of the dolls, and stabbed the needle into its belly. Suddenly, a sharp cry could be heard. “Sadie, look!” said Hannah Niehaus, and pointed over to where the West Liberty girls team was standing. One of their runners was doubled over, gripping her stomach and howling in pain. Emily looked at a horrified Sadie, and winked. “Probably just nerves,” said Emily.
Then it was time for the girls to race. They took to the line, and the ref raised the gun, then POW! They were off. The girls did their best, but couldn’t overcome the other strong squads in the conference, despite how many runners couldn’t finish the race due to abdominal cramps and sudden migraine headaches. Full results below:
10th—Sadie Miller—20:50
11th—Ava Lahmers—21:06
13th—Mara Vicari—21:20
20th—Mollie Thrush—21:57
27th—Hadley Premuda—22:36
33rd—Elizabeth Phillippo—22:57
35th—Hannah Niehaus—23:09
36th—Evie Reidman—23:12
44th—Avery Thorley—24:40
45th—Stephanie Headings—25:07
48th—Corinna Seaborn—25:46
50th—Prairie Bailey—26:04
53rd—Lanay Sommers—26:55
After the races and the cooldowns, the Panthers gathered back at the tent for a debrief. “My children,” began Coach Mike Van Winkle, “you have done well today. Although we didn’t take home the Conference titles, we persevered through what could have been a disaster.”
Senior Captain Nicholas Johnson raised his hand and asked the question that was on everyone’s minds. “Has the sixth sign passed?”
“No,” replied Van Winkle. “We have yet to see evidence of the sixth sign. It is said to come in the form of celestial lights, but we don’t know what that means.”
“Mike, look!” said Emily Van Winkle, and pointed to the north. There, in the late morning sky appeared a colorful display of green and purple. “It’s the Northern Lights!”
“But why are we seeing them in the day?” asked a confused Lanay Sommers.
“I don’t know, Lanay, I don’t know,” said Mike Van Winkle. “But the truth is being revealed to us, and soon now, very soon, we will know our fate. Next week is Districts, and there is but one sign left.”