The Prince Of Darkness

Cronauer took a step closer, then another. He laughed, then choked, then laughed harder—tears forming before he could stop them.

“You kept it,” he said, voice cracking. “Jesus Christ, I thought it got crushed.”

Bill grinned and gave the truck’s fender a smack. “Still runs. Still kicks. She’s been resting, but she’s hungry.”

Across the tailgate, in faded black spray paint, the name still read: THE BEETLE BOMB.

Cronauer has been walking for days, sleeping in abandoned sheds and listening to static on the radio — until a clipped, coded broadcast near Richland Center sparks something familiar. The Viroqua repeater is offline, and it sounds like Norm’s voice behind the warning. Now, with the rain returning and Viroqua on the horizon, he pushes forward — hoping he’s not too late.

Cronauer’s breath fogs in the cold air as he weaves through ghost towns, surviving on instinct and static. But near Richland Center, he hears something unmistakable—a clipped broadcast about the Viroqua repeater going silent. It’s not just the words that catch him. It’s the style. Norm’s style. He’s close now. And if the roads still follow the old maps, Viroqua waits just over the ridge.