Norman and Norma at the End of the World: Dentures of Doom

The shopping centre was quiet in that special sort of way you only got after the end of civilisation — eerily still, save for the odd flap of a seagull wing outside and the occasional creak of rusting escalators. Woodsham-on-the-Wold’s shopping centre had once been a bustling hub of overpriced cardigans, lukewarm sausage rolls, and teenagers loitering by Claire’s Accessories. Now it served mostly as a scavenging ground and impromptu zombie playground.

Norman shuffled forward with the sort of deliberate, arthritic grace unique to a seventy-four-year-old man in steel-toe slippers. His wife, Norma, was two paces behind, pushing a tartan shopping trolley brimming with scavenged tins, batteries, and, for some reason, a novelty mug that read World’s Best Nan.

“Honestly, Norman,” Norma huffed as they passed the skeletal remains of a Boots the Chemist, “you’d think the apocalypse would’ve come with better heating. Me bunions are like frozen peas.”

“That’s because you insisted on wearing those daft slippers,” Norman replied, swatting a dusty cobweb out of the air. “I told you, trainers are apocalypse chic. Slippers are just… well, suicidal.”

“They’re memory foam, Norman. And what’s the point in surviving the fall of mankind if a lady can’t be comfortable?”

Norman grunted but offered her a fond smile. He never won these debates, and truth be told, he didn’t much mind. They reached what used to be the food court, where…