The old VW microbus rattled like a coffee can full of bolts as it groaned down Main Street. Its canary-yellow paint had faded to something closer to mustard, but the spray-painted WORT logo on the side—crooked, chipped, and proud—was still there like a scar that never faded.
Dave gripped the steering wheel like it was made of glass. Jesus, I haven’t driven this thing in weeks.”. Surprised she still runs.”
Cronauer kept his eyes ahead. “It smells exactly the same. Like damp carpet and bong water.”
“That’s the spirit of community radio, my friend.”
They passed two empty storefronts, a hardware store, and a diner with its door half off the hinge. The town was still standing, but barely. Cronauer was only half-listening to Dave now—his eyes were hunting for the old broadcast tower.
“I didn’t mention it earlier,” he said, “but there’s a repeater in the station. Norm wired it in back when we first brought this place online. It’s buried in the wall rack—independent power source, separate antenna feed. If there’s even a little juice left in the system…”
Dave turned his head. “You think we can reach him?”
Cronauer nodded. “If we fix the tower, yeah. There’s a chance.”
They turned onto the access road and rolled to a slow stop at the edge of the old WORT-Viroqua outpost.
The tower stood like a wounded animal—one leg crumpled inward, the top section leaning just a bit too far to the right. And there at the base of it, like an afterthought to a bad joke, was a tractor. Its nose was embedded into the concrete foundation, front wheels twisted, steering column snapped clean in two.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dave said, jaw slack.
“We’re gonna have to move that before we do anything else,” Cronauer said, already thinking through angles and leverage.
“That’s not a two-man job.”
From behind the shed came a voice, casual as a summer afternoon.
“Still trying to fix the unfixable, huh?”
Cronauer turned toward the sound—and froze.
The man stepping into view looked like a cross between a mountain hermit and a snowboard instructor. Beat-up snow pants, mismatched gloves, a ridiculous puff jacket, and hair that hadn’t seen shampoo in months. But the grin? That was unmistakable.
“No way,” Cronauer whispered. “Bill? Bill Norman?”
“In the flesh,” Bill said. “You look like hell, buddy.”
“You’re one to talk! I thought you were dead—or at least on a beach somewhere. Last I heard you were running A/V on a cruise ship out of Galveston!”
“Did that gig for five years. Got bored. Came back to Wisconsin, figured I’d live out my days in a cabin and snowboard anything that looked like a hill.” He shrugged. “Then the world ended. Go figure.”
Cronauer walked up and hugged him tight, laughing in disbelief. “I lost track of you after I moved to Virginia. How the hell are we both in Viroqua?”
“Fate,” Bill said. “Or just stubbornness. You always were the cockroach of the group.”
Dave cleared his throat. “You two wanna stop making out and help me figure out how to move that damn tractor?”
Bill clapped his hands. “Oh, I got ideas. Some of ’em even legal. You’ll need rope, a gallon of vegetable oil, maybe a car battery, and uh… you guys like fire?”
Dave groaned.
Cronauer grinned. “This is gonna be fun.”
Bill slapped his hands together. “Alright, you old bastards want to move a tractor? I’ve got just the ticket.”
He turned on his heel and started walking toward an old barn at the edge of the property, waving them along like he was unveiling a magic trick. Cronauer followed, raising an eyebrow at Dave, who only sighed and trudged behind them.
The barn door groaned like a dying animal as Bill yanked it open. Dust poured out. Inside, something monstrous gleamed faintly in the shadows—sunset orange, jacked sky-high, wheels like oil drums.
And there, spray-painted in massive, cracked letters across the tailgate:
THE BEETLE BOMB.
Cronauer stopped cold. His mouth dropped open.
“No,” he whispered. “No. It can’t be.”
Bill turned, arms out like a proud game show host. “Still runs. Still kicks. Converted her to biodiesel right before the grid went. She’s been resting, but she’s hungry.”
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. You told me it was crushed!”
Bill shrugged. “I may have… exaggerated. Thought I was going off to sea forever. Didn’t want you to miss her too much.”
Cronauer leaned against the wall, clutching his chest like he was trying to hold in all the feelings at once. “We used to tear through gravel pits with that beast… doing donuts until the tires caught fire. Remember when you tried to jump that culvert and blew out the rear axle?”
Bill grinned. “And you threw a M-80 into the lake just to see if fish would float up?”
“You named her after a Johnny Horton song and then spelled it wrong on purpose.”
“Artistic license,” Bill said proudly.
Dave peered inside the barn, arms crossed. “Well I’ll be damned. That thing’s uglier than I imagined.”
“She’s glorious,” Cronauer said, wiping his eyes. “God, I needed this.”
Bill gave the truck’s fender a loving smack. “We chain her to the tractor, set up a pulley with some rope and a dead tree, grease the mud under the front wheels with a little cooking oil… and if all else fails, I’ve got a bag of dog shit and a cherry bomb in my coat.”
Dave raised both eyebrows. “What the hell is that for?”
Bill grinned wider. “Motivation.”
Cronauer was still laughing. “Let’s do it.”
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