Norman and Norma at the End of the World

Episode 1: “Norman’s Bloody Big Shop”

It was just after dawn, though time had ceased to matter to most of what remained of humanity. The sun rose lazily through a sickly grey sky, casting a washed-out light over the ruins of Woodsham-on-the-Wold. Bricks, bones, and burnt-out cars lined the street like confetti after a particularly aggressive wedding.

Inside what had once been a rather respectable semi-detached bungalow at number 14, Norman sat on the edge of the bed struggling with the buckle on a pair of heavy-duty gardening trousers. His wife, Norma, was already awake, knitting something that looked suspiciously like it could be used to garrotte someone.
“It’s no good,” Norman muttered, tugging at the strap. “This blasted buckle’s bent.”
“Use your teeth,” Norma replied without looking up. “You’re not using them for anything else.”
Norman shot her a look but said nothing. Sarcasm, he’d come to realise, was Norma’s love language.

A few minutes later he was dressed, weaponised, and ready. A cricket bat was strapped to his back with a dog lead, a bread knife tucked into one wellington boot, and what appeared to be a sharpened umbrella wedged into his backpack.
“I’m off,” he announced, pulling on his woollen gloves.
“Try not to die,” Norma said, pouring herself a mug of lukewarm tea. “And bring back something edible. If you return with another tin of peaches, I won't be responsible for my actions.”
She held up the sinister garment she was knitting and raised her eyebrows menacingly.
Norman gave her a small salute. “Roger that. Orders confirmed: No peaches.”
She watched him leave through the window, her expression unreadable. Outside, the moaning of the undead drifted in on the wind like some hideous village choir.

The walk into the village began uneventfully, save for a short detour to avoid a pile of reanimated badgers fighting over a shoe. Norman made good time, his pace steady and deliberate, breath fogging in the cool air. The high street loomed ahead like a broken jaw — shopfronts smashed, signs dangling at odd angles, doors left open as if mid-thought.

He had just crossed the remnants of the zebra crossing when the first real complication of the morning arrived — a ghoul in a wedding dress, limping aggressively from the shadow of the post office, dragging a mauled bouquet behind her like a leash. Her veil, tattered and streaked with something ominously brown, fluttered in the wind.
“Oh no,” Norman muttered. “Not today, Susan.”
Susan had been Woodsham’s most determined bride. It appeared death hadn’t softened her ambitions.

Norman ducked into the alley beside the greengrocer's, narrowly avoiding a lunge from the undead bridezilla. His foot caught on a drainpipe, and he went down hard, his bag spilling open beside him. Pork scratchings skittered into a puddle. Worse, the daffodil he’d picked — a sad but symbolic nod to spring — had been crushed under his elbow.
With a groan, he scrambled to his feet. Susan was rounding the corner, veil askew, moaning like a vengeful foghorn. With no time to retrieve his bat, Norman snatched up a half-brick and hurled it with more hope than precision.
It struck her squarely in the chest. She stumbled, paused, then looked up with renewed annoyance. The undead were many things — unsightly, relentless, a hygiene hazard — but easily discouraged wasn’t one of them.
Norman swore, scooped up his bag, and ran.

By the time he reached Derek’s Corner Shop — formerly a local treasure before Derek had tried to sell hand sanitiser at forty quid a bottle and been summarily eaten by the Women’s Institute in a moment of collective fury — he was scraped, winded, and thoroughly annoyed.

Stepping over what remained of Derek (now more gristle than man), Norman began scavenging. Tinned soup, a packet of custard creams past their sell-by date, and — jackpot — another multipack of pork scratchings. He had just reached for a bar of soap when he heard the tell-tale sound behind him: a wet dragging shuffle, punctuated by an odd squeaking noise.
He turned.
A zombie stood in the doorway, half of its face missing, with a bulging sack slung over one shoulder. It wore a tattered milkman’s uniform, the words ‘Daisy Fresh Dairy’ barely legible beneath the gore.

Norman cursed under his breath. His hand went instinctively to the cricket bat — only to find it firmly wedged behind his backpack, caught on a tin of peaches he’d reluctantly picked up for trading purposes.
The zombie took a step forward.
Norman scanned the shelf beside him and grabbed the first thing that came to hand: a roll of cling film. Not ideal, but it would have to do.
As the milkman zombie lunged, Norman ducked low, sweeping the creature’s legs out from under it. It landed with a wet thud. Without hesitation, Norman leapt on its chest and began wrapping the cling film around its head, ignoring the muffled growls. Round and round he went, panting with exertion, until the plastic had formed a tight, translucent cocoon.
The zombie twitched once, then stopped moving.
Norman sat back on his heels, wheezing.
“Well,” he muttered, peeling a sliver of cling film off his sleeve, “that’s one way to keep your milk fresh.”
He stood, collected his bag, and kicked the wrapped-up corpse once for good measure.
“You’re lucky I didn’t have foil.”

The journey home was slower, his ankle starting to throb where he’d twisted it in the alley. At one point, he had to crawl beneath an overturned lorry while two zombified scouts gnawed absentmindedly on their merit badges above. One of them dropped a tooth on his head.
He didn’t stop moving until the familiar outline of number 14 came into view. The sky had darkened and the moaning had intensified, as if the undead had sensed teatime was near.
Norma opened the door before he knocked, shotgun in hand, her expression sharp.
“You took your time.”
“Had a bit of a clingy situation.”
Norma peered into the bag. “Soup, scratchings, a single daffodil and... one tin of peaches. You just can’t help yourself, can you?”
He handed her the daffodil wordlessly. It was limp but mostly intact, a little muddy from its brush with Susan the Bride.
Norma took it, her eyes briefly softening. “You’re lucky I’m still emotionally vulnerable since the world ended.”
He smiled. “And you’re lucky I brought back pork scratchings.”
They stepped inside together, the door closing behind them with a solid clunk. Outside, the night deepened, and somewhere in the distance, a zombie walked headfirst into a bus stop.