Norman and Norma at the End of the World
Episode 2: A Pump and A Thump
In the quiet remnants of what had once been the picturesque village of Woodsham-on-the-Wold, the sound of birdsong had been replaced with the occasional moan, shuffle, and enthusiastic thwack of undead skulls meeting garden tools.
It was a Tuesday. Probably.
Norman, a wiry man in his late seventies with thick grey eyebrows and a passion for practical socks, was knee-deep in grease and grumbling. His latest obsession: fixing the old well pump that had stubbornly refused to produce anything but brown gloop and the occasional worm.
“Bloody thing,” he muttered, tapping at the pipe with a spanner. “Easier getting sense out of Geoff from the post office. And he’s got half his head missing.”
A loud thud sounded behind him. Without looking, Norman called out, “Norma? That you or another bloody Girl Guide risen from the grave?”
Norma, his equally spry wife of 54 years, appeared with her usual calm authority and a blood-streaked cricket bat in one hand. In the other, she held what looked suspiciously like a severed zombie ear, which she promptly dropped into a bucket already half-full of similar trophies.
“Morning, love,” she said cheerfully. “The vicar just tried to bite my ankle again. Took the scenic route into the rhododendrons after I gave him a good wallop.”
Norman didn’t look up from the pump. “Still wearing his cassock, is he?”
“Course. It’s nice he’s committed to the role, even in death.”
“Well, maybe now he’ll finally shut up about that bloody church raffle.”
Norma wandered over and peered at the pump. “Any luck?”
“It’s like trying to make a hippo tap dance. The pressure valve’s buggered, the pipe’s kinked, and I think something crawled in here and died back in '92.”
“Tea?”
“Always. Builders please. I want the spoon to be able to stand up in it.”
Norma went to put the kettle on. A few minutes later, while Norman knelt beside the pump with a screwdriver in his teeth, the tell-tale groaning of the undead began to drift across the garden.
He sighed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Lurching across the lawn came three zombies – a postman with most of his uniform intact, a jogger missing half a shin, and a woman in a matted white wedding dress, veil fluttering grotesquely in the breeze.
Norma reappeared, steaming mugs in hand. “Would you look at that. Wedding girl must’ve been running late.”
“Handle the left,” Norman said, grabbing the spanner. “I’ve got a plan.”
“Not like last time, I hope,” said Norma, setting down the tea. “I lost a good frying pan.”
“I’ve refined the process,” he said with a wink.
As the postman zombie staggered closer, Norman yanked the rusted lever on the pump and twisted the spout. With a sudden hiss and clank, a jet of high-pressure water erupted from the nozzle – and caught the postman full in the face.
There was a brief moment of watery suspense before the pressure did its work. The zombie’s head rocketed clean off, soaring over the garden fence and landing somewhere in the hydrangeas with a meaty thud.
Norma gave a slow clap. “Five points for distance.”
“I adjusted the pressure valve,” Norman said smugly. “Physics.”
The jogger made his move, launching himself at Norma with a guttural snarl. She sidestepped neatly and, without spilling her tea, swung her knitting bag into his legs. The zombie tumbled to the ground. With a grunt, Norma stomped on his back and caved in his skull against the patio stones.
“That’s for trampling my begonias last week.”
The bride zombie – teeth bared, eye hanging by a stringy thread – came at Norman with surprising speed. He dropped the spanner and grabbed a torn bag of cement mix nearby. In one motion, he tore it open and threw the powder into her face. The zombie reeled, gagging and stumbling blindly.
Norma, catching on, tipped a bucket of rainwater onto the shrieking creature.
There was a horrible sucking squelch. The cement hardened instantly around the bride’s head, turning it into a grotesque concrete block. She tottered, unbalanced, and fell face-first into the birdbath, with a muffled gurgle.
Norman wiped his hands. “Quick-set. Works wonders.”
Norma stared at the bubbling birdbath. “That’s the first time someone’s drowned themselves after dying.”
Norman tested the pump again. It gave a joyful gurgle and released a strong, clean stream of water.
“Well I’ll be,” he said. “Finally. No more washing in that muddy puddle behind the Co-op.”
Norma nodded. “We can have a proper bath now.”
“Ladies first,” Norman said grinning.
Later they sat on the porch sipping tea, surrounded by zombie limbs, splattered entrails, and the faint sound of cement hardening in a birdbath.
A mostly intact arm twitched on the lawn.
Norma leaned over. “Do you want to keep that one for baiting traps?”
Norman took a long sip of tea and considered it.
“Only if we’re out of spam.”