The air on the ridge usually had a predictable rhythm—the rustle of dry oak leaves, the distant lowing of Joy’s cattle, and the low-frequency hum of the “Beetle Bomb” cooling down.

But as they stood in the shadow of the pole barn, talking about masts and regional coverage, a new sound began to vibrate in the marrow of their bones. It was a rhythmic, heavy thumping that ate the silence of the Driftless Area.

“Nobody flies up here,” Dave muttered, his eyes scanning the horizon toward La Crosse. “Not since the fuel lines went dry.”

Then they saw it. It wasn’t the olive drab or tan camouflage of a National Guard bird. It was a matte black Blackhawk, its rotors biting into the air with an aggressive, predatory tilt. As it banked slowly over the ridge, the sunlight caught the oversized, stark white DHS seal painted on the sliding door. It was moving slow—scanning, not traveling.

“Brett wasn’t chasing shadows,” Cronauer said, his voice tight. “He told me they were moving to compress the civilian bands. He said the ‘turn-in’ orders were coming. I just didn’t think they’d have the flight hours to bring a bird this far north.”

“They’re looking for the source,” Joy said, her hand tightening on the frame of the barn door. “You put a fifty-foot mast on my ridge, and that bird won’t just pass over. It’ll hover.”

The mood shifted from the excitement of the “Hardware Store” to the cold reality of an occupation. They didn’t wait for the helicopter to return. They loaded back into the “Beetle Bomb,” the orange truck feeling far too bright and visible as they wound their way back down the ridge toward Viroqua.

When they reached the station down the road from the library, the air inside the studio felt stale. Cronauer sat at the console, the glow of the analog meters the only warmth in the room. He keyed the receiver, scanning the emergency bands he’d kept on silent for weeks.

The audio that cut through the static was a looped, synthesized voice—devoid of humanity, cold as a winter frost.

“…by order of the Department of Homeland Security, all civilian radio transmitting equipment is to be surrendered to the nearest regional collection point. Possession of unauthorized broadcast hardware is now a Class A felony under the current state of Martial Law. Furthermore, under the Emergency Resource Act, private food storage is limited to a three-day supply per household. All surplus must be surrendered to a certified Red Cross distribution site for equitable allocation…”

“The Red Cross?” Bill spat, leaning against the doorframe. “How the hell are they still running when the power grid is a memory?”

“They aren’t running,” Cronauer replied, staring at the flickering lights of his transceiver. “They’re being used as the face of the hand-off. It’s easier to get people to give up their dinner if the person asking is wearing a white tabard instead of a tactical vest.”

He looked at the microphone—the same one he’d used to try and bring hope to the valley. Now, it felt like a detonator.

“They want the radios, and they want the food,” Dave said quietly. “They want us hungry and quiet.”

Cronauer reached for the gain knob, his eyes fixed on the “Beetle Bomb” parked outside. “Then I guess we better start building that tower on the ridge. If they’re going to come for the signal, let’s make sure they have to climb for it.”

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