Cronauer didn’t remember falling asleep — again. First the dream that sent him walking into the night, now this. He’d only meant to sit for a few minutes on the floor of the transmitter shack, let the hum of the gear settle his nerves. Instead, he’d gone under — completely. He woke up to the feeling of a boot nudging his leg. “Rise and shine, Sleeping Broadcast,” Bill said, coffee in one hand, mischief in the other. Dave was leaning in the doorway behind him, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. “You were out cold. That floor can’t be comfortable.” Cronauer blinked a few times. The dream was still with him, wrapped around the edges of his vision like fog refusing to lift. Emmy had been in it. Clear as day. Back in the booth at the theater, running lights like she used to. The smell of strawberry Kiwi Kool-Aid, of hairspray and solder. It was so vivid he could hear her laugh echoing off the walls. “You alright?” Dave asked. “Yeah,” Cronauer muttered, rubbing his face. “Just a dream. A real one. Emmy was there. Felt like I stepped right back into 1996.” Bill raised an eyebrow. “High school stuff? You gotta let that go, man. The world ended. Time to move forward.” Cronauer didn’t respond. He just took the coffee and followed them out. The feeling wouldn’t leave. It was like something had brushed against his brain and whispered not yet.

They spent the next few hours going through the radio gear. Most of it was functioning thanks to the solar inverter. The repeater rack was intact, and Dave had already started cleaning out the coax feeds. As they tuned in the rig and patched in the long-range receiver, voices started breaking through the static. At first, just murmurs. Barter chatter, old emergency loops, numbers stations left running like ghosts. But then came the sharp, clipped voices of military code.

“Alpha-Three, adjust position. No engagement unless fired upon. Report back to Truax.”

Truax Field. Madison.

Cronauer locked eyes with Dave.

“Warthogs are flying again,” Dave muttered.

They heard another voice, this one full of certainty and menace:

“This is Director Scott Walker of Homeland Security. All unauthorized transmissions must cease immediately. Civilian transmitters must be surrendered. Noncompliance will be treated as treason.”

Bill spat on the floor. “That guy sounds like a third-rate villain.”

“He’s the one who’s been sending out confiscation orders,” Cronauer said. “Trying to shut down anything not under his thumb.”

Then a different signal broke through. Weak, but steady. Laughter in the background.

A young voice: “We’re running the Kickapoo with the Ho-Chunk. Got grain, cloth, and batteries. If DHS wants to stop us, they better bring paddles.”

Then a woman: “If anyone has veterinary antibiotics—penicillin if you can spare it—we’ve got a dog with an infected leg. She’s been with us since the start. We can’t lose her.”

Cronauer’s hand froze over the dial.

The voice. Something about it. The cadence.

Bill looked over. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Cronauer said too quickly. “Just reminded me of someone.”

They moved on, but it stayed with him. That voice.

That night, when Bill and Dave turned in, Cronauer stayed behind. He turned the receiver to the buried repeater frequency Norm had given him years ago. He keyed the mic.

“This is Cronauer. Viroqua station is almost up. If anyone hears this, respond.”

A pause.

Then, more quietly:

“And if you’re out there—Audrey—I heard your voice. Or maybe just your echo. If you still have that rig, I’m here. The shack is warm. The antenna’s standing. You still have a place on this frequency.”

He let the silence linger.

The next morning, they tried again.

“Tom Joad, this is Cronauer. Repeat — this is Cronauer, Viroqua station hot and clean. You still out there?”

A long pause.

Then buzz-crackle-hiss-pop — and Norm’s voice breaks through, ragged and low.

“Still breathing. Still broadcasting. Barely.”

“Laundromat basement. Monroe and Mills. Last safe spot. Coat hangers for antennae.”

“Jenny Street market still open. Barely. Neighborhood crews holding it down. Trade, food, updates. One generator left.”

“CAP flights overhead daily now. Truax still active. Drones too. Mostly night runs. You see lights? You stay down.”

“No federal voice. No president. Mount Weather’s still sealed. No FEMA. Just Walker.”

“Scott goddamn Walker. Thought we voted that clown off the stage ten years ago.”

Cronauer keyed back: “How the hell did he end up with DHS? I thought he washed out after Wisconsin.”

“Doesn’t matter. He’s everywhere. Shortwave, NOAA bands, emergency loops. Calling himself acting Director. Declared Madison a federal holding zone.”

“Only reason I’m still on air is because I buried half the gear and never transmit twice from the same spot.”

Cronauer rubbed his jaw. “We picked up a river broadcast yesterday. Kickapoo folks. Said they were moving grain with the Ho-Chunk. Mentioned the Mississippi running again. You hearing any of that?”

“Whispers. Hard to trace. Some nights it sounds like ghosts. But I’ve got ears open.”

“If they’re trading and paddling, it means somebody’s figuring it out.”

Cronauer: “And we’re going to need to do the same. Can you make a move?”

“Maybe. Not in daylight. Packed the drives. Got the mic. Buried the backups under the old café on Monroe. I’ll go when the street is cold and the sky is silent.”

“Keep the repeater hot. You’ll know when it’s me.”

Click.

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