The Garden of Eden
By
Scot McAtee
Copyright 2016 Scot McAtee
Novels
Zombie Zero: Survival of the Deadest
I Am Food
Short Stories & Collections
Casket Creek (Collection)
Zombie Theater
The Executioner
Monster Proof
Happy Home
The Garden of Eden
"Well, that's it then," said the old man to no one in particular as he pushed a single square red button on his console and leaned back in his seat. He watched the approaching planet ever so slowly fill the screen above his console and remarked on his achievement. "The ridding of man from the Universe."
The massive colony ship "The Garden of Eden" hurtled silently through the void of space helmed by the only unfrozen human aboard- Oscar Bradfield- an old geezer pushing the ripe old age of 993. It was his job to insure the timely arrival and successful insertion of his cargo on their new home, an earthlike rock that went by the unassuming and unflattering name of its discoverer: Geb. They were nearing the end of the journey and Oscar, whom most Earthlings thought to be the craziest human in the history of humanity because he had willingly agreed to take the loneliest job ever created, had enjoyed himself thoroughly. Well, at least for the first few hundred years.
No one understood why he'd been so thrilled to have the position, even after it was made public that he was the only person to have even applied. He'd fielded so many questions about it and when he told them the real reason. “I think the prospect of spending a little time alone sounds fabulous,” he told them. Of course, they laughed at him and teased him. The internet trolled him and made incredibly rude, offensive—and funny—memes out of him so that after a while he started making up lies that sounded more probable just to avoid ridicule. And yet, the powers that were had still given him the job.
It was at his birthday party, the day after his 87th birthday—spent surrounded by friends and family, none of whom he really liked—that he received the news. The day after his birthday was the date upon which they traditionally celebrated Oscar's birthday because his autistic namesake grandson, who was now nearing thirty, shared his birthday with his grandfather. Since he couldn’t understand why his birthday could possibly be shared with another person, they simply moved Grandfather's birthday to the following day. In the early days it was two-day event and was enjoyed by the entire family. Lately though, it had been more of a burden. Every year the same purple dinosaur themed party rolled around and passed with the same childish games and sweets and was then followed by the old man's curmudgeonly birthday, which more closely resembled a dour wake. Twenty-five years of the routine might have been great for the younger Oscar, but it had worn mighty thin for everyone else. And so what started as another exciting-as-watching-a-glacier ‘party’ grew more interesting when the screen of the old man’s tablet starting flashing a phone number.
Charlie, his favorite great-grandchild if it was to be known, had stolen his tablet and skipped happily away to some childish song she'd managed to get it to play for her. A few minutes after giving the child his tablet, one of his many nieces handed it back to him. Usually that meant a broken tablet, which incensed him, but as it was Charlie, he could forgive her anything. She looked like a Disney character, jet black hair and eyes, the personality of a happy little princess and incessantly lavished hugs and kisses upon anyone who showed the slightest affection towards her.
Oscar didn't recognize the number and initially brushed it off. "I don't know this person. I'm not going to take the call," he told the niece.
"But grandpa," the niece replied, "It might be da most po’tant call of your life."
"And it might be Satan calling, wanting his right hand man back in Hell."
Charlie’s response was simply to punch the button to answer the call, hand him the tablet and skip away.
"You rotten turd," he called after her. She ignored him, caught up in her own world. Oscar’s lips curled up imperceptibly. She was every bit the spitfire her grandma had been. One day, when she was old enough, she'd have any boy she wanted. Hopefully, she'd end up with someone just like himself.
"Oscar Bradfield?" asked a nerdy looking fellow whose uniform indicated he was from the Government's Space Agency.
"That would be me," he snarled. "Who wants to know?"
The nerd furrowed his brow. "I'm the Project Director for The Geb Project, sir." He adjusted himself in his seat, obviously uncomfortable at being challenged by others. "You applied for the position of-"
"AH! Yes, yes!" Oscar whooped with glee. "Caretaker of The Garden of Eden!"
His family, shocked at the old man's sudden burst of energy, gathered around to see what had caused him to stir so.
"Well? Well?" Oscar demanded. "Have I got the job? I must have or you wouldn't have bothered to call me directly, would you? Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!"
His oldest son coughed at him. Oscar shot him an angry glance. "Oh shut up, boy! I wasn't talking about you-know-who! Good God!"
He turned his attention back to the Director. "Well?"
The Director cleared his throat and twitched slightly. "Well, yes, to be succinct, you have the job of Caretaker of The Garden of Eden if you so choose and if you pass the physical requirements."
Somebody at the back of the room guffawed. "A job? At his age? Insanity."
Oscar shushed him and quickly answered the Director. "I accept. Come get me. You know where I am."
"Don't you need to say your goodbyes? You know this is a one-way trip."
Oscar looked around the room, raised his hand and waved. "Goodbye," he smiled. "There we go. Now come get me." Four hours later, he was headed to Space Command, grinning like a Cheshire cat. For the third time in his life, he was happy—truly happy.
There was no real astronaut training for Oscar. He did a few trips in the weightless trainer. He laughed through most of it. They were continually warning him he'd feel nausea and mild discomfort. "Hell, I feel dizzier than this just getting out of bed. And my back and legs have never felt better. Can't wait for space!"
When the time came for the ship to launch, he was a little surprised to find that they were going to strap him atop a standard missile-style rocket like in the old days. They told him it was the quickest way to get him to the actual ship. "None of the flyers goes out that far into orbit. We'd have to relay you through three transfers and that would take a great deal longer than we have. We need to get you out there before the sedative wears off."
"Sedative?" he'd asked.
The doctors nodded. "Of course, sedatives. Your old heart can't withstand the pressure of the launch otherwise. So we’ll knock you out once the rocket’s ready to go and then you'll wake up on the ship."
"Who's going to get me out of the chair?" he wondered.
"In space, you're weightless remember?"
"Ah," he grunted, "right. Ha! Well, okay then, knock me out!"
Mission Control prepped him for the launch. They checked and rechecked various complicated things that made no sense to him and to which he was told, "Doesn't matter," until he finally could hold his tongue no longer and waggled his arms back and forth chanting, "Check check check. Check check check. Cheeecccckk. CheeeeeCKKK! Checkity check check!"
One of the engineers on the other end dropped his jaw in astonishment and then summoned a colleague, who promptly summoned a supervisor, who called the Director, who came on the screen and demanded to know what was wrong with Oscar.
“Are you okay?” the Director asked him. “Are you having a seizure or something?”
"Let's get the Hell outta here boy
s! I'm sick of waiting, let's go!" Oscar roared back.
There was one big red button on the console labelled "Engage." He pushed it, muttering something about Star Trek as he did.
The Director started to say something, but in the background Oscar could see the engineers scrambling and screaming at each other.
"Um, oops?" he mumbled, suddenly deciding he’d made a huge mistake.
The original launch had to be scrubbed due to the damage he caused to the dry dock platform. Luckily, things went much smoother on the second attempt. Of course, it didn't hurt that they disabled the Engage button remotely so that he couldn't have started the motors even if he'd wanted. Oscar wasn't told that's what they did, but the engineers didn't want to have to resort to the less-than-optimal third launch window.
Oscar had learned his lesson and only did what he was told when he was instructed to do it. There weren't very many times in his life that he did what he was told without at least shooting off his mouth, but as