The morning light crept through gaps in the boarded-up windows, casting sharp slashes across the dust that hung in the air of the old station building. Cronauer stood just inside the barn-turned-garage with Dave and Bill, staring at the leaning tower through a cracked window in the back wall.

The tower had been hit hard — bent at the lower third where a rusted-out tractor still sat, front end crumpled against the steel base. It looked like someone had tried to drive through it on a dare.

“Guy was drunk,” Bill said flatly, arms crossed. “Lost his license before things went dark. Started using the tractor to get into town. One night he didn’t quite make it back. Something probably spooked him — rabbit, deer, who knows.”

“He rammed a radio tower,” Dave muttered. “How the hell do you not see that coming?”

“Foggy night. Bad decisions. Shit happens.”

The Beetle Bomb was already backed out and parked in the yard. Bill had moved it earlier that morning and was now fiddling with something under the hood. Cronauer wandered the perimeter of the barn, checking for usable space, and noticed a faint seam in the wooden wall behind where the truck had been.

“Hey Bill,” Cronauer called, “was this always here?”

“You found the wall?”

Bill wiped his hands on a rag and strolled over, giving the panel a nudge. A hidden latch gave way, and the wall swung inward, revealing a false room hidden behind it.

The space was tightly packed — rows of wooden shelves lined with gear, crates, sealed barrels, and bins labeled in Bill’s handwriting. There were fifty-gallon drums of cooking oil, boxes of canned goods, coils of climbing rope, emergency radios, and a whole shelf of labeled liquor bottles.

Cronauer blinked. “What the hell is all this?”

Bill grinned. “Well, when I was livin’ on a cruise ship, I didn’t really spend money unless it was for hookers or blow. Blow turned out to be overrated, and the hookers were legal where I was, so I sent most of my paychecks back here — with instructions.”

“To who?”

“The Reverend.”

Cronauer laughed. “You’re still in touch with that guy?”

“Off and on. Tall dude. Hair down to his ass. Never wore shoes. We called him the Shoeless Wonder. Knew code better than most hackers I’ve met. He used to tag along with me when I first started volunteering at WORT. Freaking weird but brilliant.”

Dave opened another crate and stared. “Jesus. This is a mini arsenal.”

“That one’s just rope and climbing gear,” Bill said.

“The crate labeled ‘Remains to Be Seen’ is explosives,” Dave deadpanned.

Bill shrugged. “Enough to level Camp Randall and about twenty blocks around it.”

Cronauer’s mouth twitched. “You were never subtle.”

“Nope. Just prepared.”

Dave eventually wandered out toward the old transmitter shack next to the studio building. He returned several minutes later, nearly breathless.

“Guys,” he said, “you’re not gonna believe this — the inverter’s still online.”

“What?”

“There’s solar panels hidden behind the shack. Big ones. They’re still working. Batteries are intact. The whole site’s off-grid.”

Bill froze, then broke into a grin. “No shit.”

“None of us knew,” Cronauer said. “That must’ve been added after we were gone. Probably the Reverend again.”

Bill didn’t answer. He just grabbed a bottle labeled road-grade bourbon, took a long pull, and disappeared into the barn.

He returned carrying a tangled mass of sticks and fuses.

“Two thousand bottle rockets,” he declared. “Been savin’ these for the right moment.”

Cronauer laughed. “You kept that launch tube?”

“Hell yes. Welded it to the Beetle Bomb back in ‘95. You remember that night? Outside WORT?”

“Three a.m.,” Cronauer said, grinning. “Lighting off rockets. Cops rolled up.”

“Asked if we could play Peter Frampton.”

“‘Do You Feel Like We Do,’” they said in unison.

“Didn’t arrest us,” Bill added proudly. “Just watched the show.”

Cronauer shook his head. “Alright. Let’s celebrate.”

Bill dumped the bottle rockets into the launch tube and lit the fuse. What followed was ten minutes of chaos — thunder, streaks of fire, bursts of light over the rooftops of a mostly-empty town.

Dave ducked behind a half-wall. Cronauer just laughed. Bill stood in the smoke like some demented wizard, grinning ear to ear.

When it ended, Dave motioned for Cronauer to follow.

They walked together through the old studio building, their steps echoing off linoleum and concrete. Rooms sat untouched, everything frozen in time. Microphones still hung from mounts. Coffee mugs still sat on desks. A dusty music library filled one wall — racks of CDs and vinyl, organized and labeled.

They reached the back and spotted a narrow staircase that hadn’t been there in the original design.

“This was added later,” Dave said.

They descended into a cool, dry basement. The floor was concrete. The air smelled like cardboard and plastic. Against one wall sat rows of identical boxes.

Cronauer cracked one open.

“Hand-cranked radios,” he said softly. “Brand new. Still wrapped.”

Each had a WDRT bumper sticker inside the box.

“They must’ve been ordered as pledge premiums,” Dave said. “They never got the chance to hand them out.”

Cronauer stared at the wall of radios for a long moment. Then he looked up.

“We’ve got power. We’ve got radios. We’ve got the gear.”

He turned toward the bent tower, still slumped in the distance.

“We just need to fix the damn signal.”