Ancestor

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PAUL FISCHER HAD always pictured the end of the world being a bit more… industrial. Loud machines, cars crashing, people screaming, guns a-blazing. Perhaps a world-breaking bomb shattering the earth into bits. But here in Greenland? Nothing but packed snow, endless rocks, and the towering white vistas of glaciers sitting high on the horizon. No cities burning, no abandoned cars, none of that nonsense. Just a tiny virus, and some pigs.

Paul hopped out of the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter and onto a snow-covered field lit up by the breaking dawn. A woman in an air force jacket waited for him, fur-lined hood tight around her head to ward off the cold and the stinging wind.

She snapped a salute. “Colonel Fischer?”

Paul nodded and casually returned the salute.

“Second Lieutenant Laura Burns, Colonel. General Curry is waiting for you. This way, sir.”

She turned and walked toward three white Quonset huts, their curved roofs blending into the landscape. Two tunnels connected the huts, completing the little human hamster town that had gone up less than twenty-four hours earlier. He heard the hum of a diesel generator, saw the curve of two satellite dishes mounted on top of the huts.

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