War Of The Tombies: Chapter 3: Feeling Flush.

Funny story written by Nick Hobbs

Monday, 7 March 2011


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I thought I saw a Tombie, I did, I did, I did see a Tombie...

He landed the job a few weeks ago.

Office clerk, it said in the advert. He was enjoying the atmosphere, and the people were nice. Far better than the packing job he had before.

And he always got a bit extra off for his dinner hour, well that's how he saw it, anyway, because they sent him out for the sandwiches.

It was a nice warm day, so he decided to take the longer route, through the park. He'd just say there was a long queue, should anyone ask.

It would have been nice to say he died a valiant death.

To say he died fighting to live.

To tell his loved ones he died trying to save others.

But in truth, he died screaming in pure agony. Bitten, torn and mutilated, whilst still breathing, and on his way to buy some lunch.

And besides, you couldn't tell his loved ones anything about how he died, anyway. They were all dead too now, you see.

Way across town in a seperate, but not altogether dissimilar set of circumstances.

Well, it was lunchtime.


David Cameron stood at the office window, looking out across his city. He could see fires burning in the distance, orbs of orange colouring the night sky.

London was burning, and Cameron loved it.

The door behind him swung open, stirring David from his thoughts.

"Uh, sir?" said a whiny voice.

"Yes Clegg?" replied David, sighing dejectedly.

"We've got a sighting sir!" said Clegg, stepping in to the office and closing the door behind him.

"Confirmed?" replied David, he did not glance away from the window, but his interest was piqued.

"Absolutely sir, he has met someone though," said Clegg, "someone dangerous!" he added, cautiously.

"Meaning what? Spit it out!" said David, his patience waning. He turned from the window and walked to his desk, pulled out his leather chair and sat down.

"Well man? Speak!" David demanded.

Clegg took a step back and began wringing his hands. He often did this when nervous or put on the spot. He hated giving bad news, and giving bad news to his boss was not a wise move. He'd seen first hand evidence of that. He still bore a few scars himself.

"Reports are sketchy, sir," Clegg finally said, "it would appear that Miliband has formed a coalition with a rather handy individual. This man is armed to the teeth, and if what we've learned is true, he single-handedly despatched twenty of our staff in as many seconds."

"What level of staff?" said Cameron through gritted teeth.

"Level 4, sir," replied Clegg "a search and deplete party, but still extremely tricky to handle alone!"

"I'm aware of what a level 4 is, thank you Nick. I am the creator, after all." said Cameron, cutting Clegg one of his looks, "any description of this individual? Any ideas?"

"Well, and this is only conjecture, sir, a possibility, nothing concrete..." stuttered Clegg.

"Who..?" interrupted Cameron, he knew he wasn't going to like this.

"..well, it seems it could be, but we're really not sure.." Clegg mumbled again.

"WHO?" screamed Cameron, darting up from his chair.

"The description fits George Galloway," blubbed Clegg.

There was a stunned silence. Cameron slumped back in to his chair and stared in to nothing.

"Fuck!" was all he could muster.


He was only six years old when it happened.

He was looking for his mummy.

She had disappeared an hour ago while they were out shopping.

He remembered her being grabbed and doing a silly dance in the street, with a man in a suit. He thought it looked funny. But then he saw mummy crying. Then he saw some blood on her neck. He decided to run away.

He wished he hadn't. Maybe mummy needed him. But now he couldn't find her. He needed her.

He wasn't sure how to get home either. They had taken the bus that morning.

Maybe he should ask that man over there, for help. He knew mummy didn't like him talking to strangers, but this was an emergency. Yes, he'll ask that man.

Today he was supposed to be choosing a toy, for his seventh birthday next week.

There'd be no need, as it happened.

He wouldn't make it past the next 'excuse me, mister', let alone make it to next week.


George hushed Ed and signalled him to stop.

They were in an alleyway, and were attempting to make it across the road to a newsagents. George wasn't forthcoming as to why the newsagents was so important to him, but he had been adamant about getting to it all the way there.

The road outside the newsagents was littered with bodies. This alone would not have been a problem, but these bodies were moving. Moving and walking. And they all seemed rather hungry.

"Can't you just do what you did back at the house?" whispered Ed.

"There was twenty back there," replied George in hushed tones, "and they were spread out, one shot here and they'll swamp us in seconds. No. We need a plan. Now shut up and let me think."

Ed slumped back against the wall. He was a little miffed at the way George kept talking to him. He was the leader of the opposition, after all. He deserved, no, demanded respect! He was thinking this and looking at his air rifle. Turning it over and over in his hands.

The crack of the rifle firing surprised Ed just as much as the Tombie, whose left buttock was pierced by the pellet it fired.

George, who had momentarily looked to the heavens and simply asked 'why?', turned to Ed and pointed down the alley.

To witness the gesture from the outside, it would appear to have been a mere indication of required directional retreat. But Ed took it very much in the way it was intended. As in 'get the fuck down that alleyway, as fast as you can, but by Christ without making another sound, and by the way laddie, this is not over with, by a long shot, you and me are going to have some seriously stern words about this, and no mistake!'

They reached the back end of the alley and turned to see the first few Tombies entering it. Looking up and down, George spied a man-hole cover.

"Quick, in to the sewer!" he yelled, silence was pointless now, but speed was of the essence.

The lid was off and Ed was down the tube faster than a whiskey at the Kennedy's. George was fast behind, stopping briefly to replace the cover. Just as it was slotted in to place, the moaning began, and scratching could be heard from above.

"That won't hold them long Ed, get down that ladder and get moving along the tunnel!" said George.

Ed didn't need to be told twice.

They reached the bottom of the ladder and looked right, then left.

"Which way?" asked Ed.

"Left," said George.

"What makes you think left?" queried Ed.

"Because left is best," replied George, "now move it!"

They began wading through shin deep water which, it had just occurred to Ed, didn't exactly smell fresh.

"Oh, and Ed?" said George softly, as Ed stopped and turned to look at him.

"Yes, George?" said Ed.

"You complete prick!" he replied, and punched him, hard, on the nose.

The funny story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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