“The Sun will last another five billion years,” agreed all the world’s scientists— except two.

After a massive solar flare wipes out nearly everything more complex than jumper cables, the Sun dims, and Earth's climate begins to rival that of Mars. The U.S. government, led by a distant presidential successor, takes shelter in a bunker, grappling with life-threatening global conditions as humanity is tossed back into the Stone Age.

While the Raven Rock Mountain Complex is isolated, the rest of the world slowly devolves into a cosmic snowball. Recognized as an extinction-level event, a team of four embarks on a mission to rekindle the Sun using the world's most powerful nuclear missile. Alex Tate, his quirky sidekick Mick Moore, and two war-hardened federal agents, Hans Jupp and Dirk Karsten, brave a frozen wasteland, encountering friendly preppers and dangerous thugs. Quincy and Teedarius, marooned at a remote Arkansas catfish processing plant, provide comic relief during their engaging struggle for survival.

Eight Minutes is a gritty, fast-paced romp through a realistic apocalypse. You’ll never take the next sunrise for granted.

Gregory N. Whitis was born in Gainesville, Florida, raised in Dubuque, Iowa, graduated from Iowa State University, and earned a Master's of Aquaculture at Auburn University. After marrying Karen Schimek, they resided briefly in central Iowa. Raising fish north of the Mason-Dixon line soon lost its glamor. He landed a job as a farm manager on Alabama's largest catfish farm. His church friend and writing mentor, Aileen K. Henderson, suggested that he should write novels about catfish farming. He cranked out Blue Green and Nighthope. At the age of forty-four, he suffered a midlife crisis, proudly graduating fourth in his class at the Tuscaloosa Law Enforcement Academy. He served ten years as a Hale County deputy sheriff. He's run in eighteen half marathons, three triathlons, and two Warrior Dashes. His doctor still says he's too fat. Most of his writing epiphanies sprout between bouts of boredom while running. Now retired after thirty-three years with Auburn, he spends his non-writing time turning his pine acreage into OCD Park, violating every forestry management guideline in the book. He says his chainsaws won't run properly in eighty percent humidity. The old refrigerator in the garage still frosts the Leinenkugels. His fan club has an open invitation to drop in for a cold one. Critics are escorted to the dewberry patch. The chiggers are free.