Norman and Norma at the End of the World
Episode 3: Bakewell and Brains
It was an unusually sunny afternoon in Woodsham-on-the-Wold, or at least what was left of it. The once-trim hedgerows were overgrown, the corner shop was now a charred husk, and the church bell had long since been silenced—currently dangling from a tree after Norman had used it to flatten a particularly noisy solicitor-turned-zombie.
Inside their fortified home, Norma was elbows-deep in flour, jam, and battle strategy.
“I’m making Bakewell tarts,” she announced, slapping pastry into a tin with military precision. “Good ones. Not like the ones from the Co-op that tasted like sugar and cheap marzipan.”
From the corner, Norman peered up from his makeshift workbench where he was modifying a garden rake into something dangerously close to a medieval halberd.
“Lovely,” he said. “Let’s just hope no one undead comes sniffing around for elevenses.”
Norma smiled sweetly. “If they do, they’re getting a Bakewell surprise.” she said holding up a rolling pin with menace.
The first zombie arrived at quarter past two. He was wearing cycling Lycra, which made him a perfect target. Lycra wasn't even a good look on the living, image how the zombie looked. Got it? Well it's WORSE than that. The second arrived moments later, dragging a leg and chewing on what appeared to be a former school crossing sign.
By half past, there were six of them, moaning and lurching up the lane towards the garden gate.
Norma squinted through the lace curtains. “That’s the lot from number 12. You remember—Brian and Sheila and their book group.”
Norman joined her at the window. “I always knew that book group would turn nasty. All that home made wine and Fifty Shades.”
He grabbed his rake-halberd combo. “Ready?”
Norma nodded, tying a bloodstained tea towel around her hair like a war bandana. “Let me just glaze the tarts.”
She brushed egg wash over the pastries with professional flair and slotted the tray into the wood-fired oven. Then she picked up a metal serving tray and slid several jam tarts onto it like ammunition.
Norman raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking those outside?”
“I baked them with extra sharp flaked almonds. One bite and they’ll saw a tongue in half.”
The zombies breached the garden gate with all the finesse of a drunk pub crawl. Brian from number 12 stepped onto the lawn first—and had his shin split open by one of Norma’s cunningly placed rake traps, which promptly hoisted him into the air by the ankle.
He dangled upside down, gurgling and twitching.
“Remind me to patent that,” Norman muttered.
Sheila lunged at them next, teeth snapping. Norma flung a tart directly into her mouth. The sweet projectile wedged between Sheila’s jaws just as her molars snapped shut. There was a horrible crunch—then an even worse gurgle as the razor-sharp almond flakes shredded her tongue and she dropped, howling, to the lawn.
“Death by Bakewell,” Norma said, proud. “Can’t get more British than that.”
Two more zombies made a grab for Norman. With surprising speed, he jabbed his halberd-rake into one’s chest and hoisted upwards, flipping the creature into the rose bushes where it became thoroughly impaled on the thorny stems.
The last zombie, a hulking figure in a rugby kit, tackled Norman to the ground.
“Bit of help, love!” Norman gasped as the zombie straddled him, dribbling onto his cardigan.
Norma reached for the hot tray of fresh tarts, marched over, and with deadly precision, slammed it face-first onto the zombie’s head. The soft pastry stuck. The boiling jam, however, burned straight through his eye sockets, sizzling like bacon on a grill.
The zombie gave a final twitch and collapsed in a smoking heap.
Norman dusted himself off and stood. “Right. Well, that’s put me off rugby.”
Norma inspected the wreckage. “Two Bakewells wasted. Shame.”
They stood together in the quiet, the only sounds the bubbling of the jam in the oven and the occasional twitch from Brian, still dangling upside-down and moaning half-heartedly.
Norman gestured. “Should we let him down?”
Norma considered it. “Might be useful. Like a scarecrow, but with worse breath.”
They went back inside, stepping over the twitching remains of the book group, and made tea.
Later, as they nibbled slightly charred tarts and admired the carnage from their window, Norman raised a mug.
“To baking,” he said.
“To murder by pastry,” said Norma.
They clinked cups and smiled.