Shop of the Dead: Shattered Souls

It was the end of a world—and the beginning of something far stranger.

1991 — The Night the Cracks Appeared

Michelle Romes wasn't supposed to go into labor that night. The due date was still two weeks away, but life has a funny way of ignoring calendars.

The hospital lights flickered as she was wheeled into the delivery room. At first, the power surges were dismissed as weather-related. A storm, they thought. Just a storm. No one thought the very bones of the city were groaning beneath them.

Dr. Stephen Marsh—"Dr. Steph" to those who loved him—was calm, even as tremors shook the walls. His hands were steady, his face pale but composed. He knew something was wrong, but his priority was Michelle and the life she was trying to bring into the world.

Jeff Romes, Michelle's husband, never left her side. His hand was in hers, knuckles white, the veins in his forearm bulging with tension. He whispered soft things, things meant to soothe, but his voice trembled.

"It's okay, baby. You're doing great. Just breathe. I've got you."

Michelle's scream cut him off.

The first real tremor hit like a train. The room jolted violently, and a low groan came from the structure itself—like the building was warning them. Then came the rattle. Cabinets shook. Medical tools clattered to the floor. The power blinked again and came back dimmer, the lights flickering overhead like dying stars.

"It's happening now," Dr. Steph said, voice clipped and tense. "We need to get him out now."

Michelle screamed again. Outside the delivery room, chaos unfolded. Nurses ran, shouting. The intercom screeched before dying completely. The hospital alarms began to wail, not just for fire—but for structural collapse.

Jeff tried to remain calm, but then the floor shifted again—and he slipped.

He fell away, suddenly, the ground beneath him splitting open in a long jagged crack. A sickening crunch echoed through the room as part of the floor gave way completely, and Jeff's body disappeared through the collapsing tile, his hand ripped from Michelle's grasp.

"No!" she screamed, her body spasming.

There was no time to mourn. The baby came screaming into the world, unaware of the madness.

Dr. Steph wrapped the infant in a towel and pressed him into Michelle's arms, though she barely registered it. Her eyes were wide, filled with horror.

"The floor," she murmured. "Jeff… He fell. Oh God."

"We have to go!" Dr. Steph barked.

The walls of the room cracked with loud pops, lines snaking through the paint and plaster like veins. Dust rained from above. A steel beam groaned ominously overhead.

He grabbed the bed and began pushing.

"You're going to be okay, Michelle," he said, his voice firmer than he felt. "We're going to get out of here."

The hallway outside was a warzone. Nurses and doctors lay crushed under debris. Fires sparked from broken light fixtures. The world beyond the windows no longer made sense—buildings leaned sideways, the roads split in two, and from the cracks in the ground, shadows rose.

Not cast by any light, not tied to any object. Living shadows.

Dozens of them.

They writhed and twisted as they crawled up buildings and tore through the streets. Some had limbs, wings, teeth. Others were formless, clouds of hunger. Wherever they passed, light faded, and glass cracked inward.

On the 10th floor, Dr. Steph pushed the bed with all his strength. Each bump jarred Michelle, who clung to her newborn, her body still weak. They turned toward the stairwell—but as they reached it, the ceiling above caved in, obliterating the stairs in a cascade of rubble.

"No way down," he muttered.

Then the hospital dropped.

Not floor by floor—but all at once. The foundation gave way and the entire building sank, as though the earth beneath it had crumbled.

Michelle screamed as her bed careened forward. Dr. Steph lost control and fell. The bed crashed into a broken doorframe, and the newborn wailed. In the distance, alarms blared. Fires lit the floor like candles on a collapsing cake.

A man came into view.

He emerged through smoke and chaos like a myth. Dark blue uniform, badge cracked down the middle, shotgun in one hand.

Officer Jasper.

"Hold on!" he shouted.

He dashed through the corridor, eyes sharp. He saw the bed, the woman, the infant. He sprinted forward, catching the rolling bed before it could tilt out a shattered window. Debris fell around him, steel and glass, but he didn't flinch.

Dr. Steph scrambled to his feet. "Help me get her out!"

Jasper looked at the building, already tipping sideways, and made a decision. "You'll never make it. Jump."

"What?" Michelle gasped.

"You'll die if you stay. Toss me the baby. Now!"

Michelle hesitated for one breath—and then let go.

She threw her child.

Jasper caught the infant cleanly, his arms moving with trained precision. Michelle leapt after, legs buckling as she hit the ground below. Dr. Steph followed, but his body twisted mid-fall, and his head slammed into concrete with a terrible sound.

He didn't move again.

Jasper held the baby tight, eyes flicking between mother and flames. He reached down, pulling Michelle up with his free hand.

"We have to move," he said. "Now."

The hospital behind them crumbled, floors folding in on themselves. Shadows poured from the wreckage, howling as they emerged. The air stank of sulfur and burnt metal. Sirens screamed in the distance, already fading into the ash.

They ran through burning streets. A flying car—yes, flying—crashed through a building and exploded in front of them. More of those things—the creatures—chased after fleeing survivors.

Jasper didn't stop.

He shot one of the creatures mid-air, blasting it apart into black smoke. He kept running, ducking into an alley, pulling Michelle with him. She clutched her side, bleeding from the fall, but alive.

The baby didn't cry.

He looked up at Jasper with wide, still eyes.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Understanding.

One Month Later — Ishama Evacuation Center

The evacuation camps were quiet in the mornings. The fires had died weeks ago. The ash had settled. Most people kept to themselves, but they all stared when Officer Jasper passed by. They knew he'd survived the Gallagher Fall. They knew he had carried a baby out of the flames.

For a month, he took care of the boy.

Fed him. Changed him. Watched him at night, sleeping peacefully while Jasper sat with a shotgun across his lap.

He had seen many things during the Fall. People twisted into things. Men screaming as they burned, not from fire—but from voices no one else could hear. He'd seen darkness form shapes and speak in tongues older than the sky.

And he'd seen this baby survive all of it, untouched.

No crying. No fear.

Not even once.

Eventually, he knew he couldn't keep the boy. He wasn't meant to raise a child. Not anymore. Too many scars. Too much damage.

He brought him to the Ishama Foster Home on the outskirts of the ruins. It was a small building, untouched by the Fall, or perhaps protected by something.

He handed the baby to a caretaker named Rosa.

"What's his name?" she asked.

Jasper shook his head. "His parents are gone. It's your choice now."

She looked into the boy's eyes, her mouth slightly open, as if she recognized something. Or someone.

"Ephraein," she said finally. "That's what I'll call him."

Jasper gave one last look, then walked away, never turning back.