Norman and Norma at the End of the World: Shuffleboard of Shadows

It was a rare day of sunshine in post-apocalyptic Woodsham-on-the-Wold. The air smelled faintly of damp moss, distant decay, and a whiff of wild garlic that had begun colonising the abandoned allotments. Norman and Norma were strolling hand in hand down a cracked country lane, their boots squelching satisfyingly in the mud.

They’d just finished a successful morning of scavenging — Norma had found a tin of custard that was only two years out of date, and Norman had retrieved a surprisingly intact crossword book. It was, by all accounts, a good day.

“Look at that,” said Norman, shielding his eyes as he pointed towards a high fence in the distance, half-concealed by ivy and climbing roses. Beyond it, nestled in the rolling hills, stood a sprawling complex of bungalows, trimmed lawns, and — Norma squinted — was that bunting?

“Woodlands Rest: Premium Retirement Living,” Norma read aloud from a faded sign. “Sounds like a place you’d go to die.”

“We are seventy-six, love,” Norman replied. “You say that like we haven’t been dodging death daily for five years.”

“But there’s bunting, Norman. And I smell scones.” She inhaled deeply. “Warm scones.”

Norman looked wary. “Warm scones in this world? That’s black magic or a working oven. Either way, suspicious.”

But curiosity — and the chance of baked goods — got the better of them. They approached cautiously…