Frances was trying very hard not to cry, as she had been all day, which was difficult, considering the words on the letter in front of her: “How could you be so heartless, Fran? I apologize, but I don’t think I can do this any longer. I cannot love such a cold, cold woman.”
Frances wasn’t cold. At least she didn’t think she was. She was ordered, sure. Practical, without a doubt. Her sense of humor was sometimes a bit hard to grasp, OK— but cold? Cold? It was not a word she would ever use to describe herself in her diary of daily observations.
She sniffed once and folded her hands over her purse, staring at the other evening commuters on the El: the men in their suits and wedding rings, the college girls with their flat-ironed hair grazing the tops of their jeans. They looked so carefree, so young.
Frances was only 22, but she felt ancient in the mornings. When the alarm went off in the chill darkness, she shuffled past her roommate, an elderly former nun who spent the early hours in supplication on the living room floor, praying for a world that was circling the drain of hell. The ex-nun had tried to teach Frances how to address God, but every time Frances closed her eyes to do so, she irrationally pictured Santa Claus in a loincloth lolling on a cloud.
Besides, she didn’t believe in an all-seeing deity charged with the order of her life. You had to work hard for things: success, happiness, security. You had to have a plan, to apply yourself. That was the only way to do it, she believed. Still, she had worked hard— for years — to secure her desired future (a husband, children, a house with a garden) and this was the result: dumped via post, alone again. Perhaps she would crack a Bible when she got home.
The train doors opened and a couple got off swinging hands. If she cried, she reminded herself now, her powder would melt away and her mascara would run and drip on her white blouse and her father would ask what was wrong when they met for their weekly Friday dinner. When she told him, his eyes would crinkle behind his half-moon glasses and he would try and fail to hide his smile — she just knew it. His face would grow red with the effort not to blurt, “I told you so. I never liked Ian. I told you that boy was flighty. I told you to find someone sturdy and true, like your dear old dad.”
The train lurched beneath her and Frances sat up straighter in her seat, clutching at the pole to her left. A woman leaning against the railing in a smart red coat sniffed in her general direction and France choked the tears down once more. How was she to know that her timing was just dreadful? When she had chosen the glossy issue of Gourmet magazine (the MEAT issue) from the newsstand — nearly salivating at the glazed duck and glistening rib racks pictured on their cover — she had only been thinking of Ian’s love of tinkering in the kitchen with his battered copy of Julia Child’s latest. How he would miss his magazines and lavish dinners while touring India after graduation.
How was she to know that mail takes quite a while to travel the globe? That not long after she sent off the crisp brown paper package, the apocalypse would come tilting around the corner. That the dead in distant lands would begin rising from their graves and feasting on human flesh. That Ian would only then receive the gift and somehow decide that the magazine and its focus on carnivorous delights was some kind of sick joke. The whole idea of zombies seemed preposterous even now, snug on a subway after a long day folding Hermes scarves at the accessories counter. Besides, they were in America and, as entitled as she felt to think so, the bulk of badness in the world rarely happened here.
Although they had started emergency drills at the department store where she worked; all the sales girls were made to crouch under the counters. It was all eerily similar to the “duck and cover” nonsense they’d trotted out during her early school days, which of course ended up being completely useless. Once she had stood up, her hand raised, and asked her teacher how hiding under furniture would save her in the face of nuclear warfare. Her teacher told her to shut up and get under her desk. Nuclear war never came and, she assumed, neither would the flesh-eating hoards.
The train lurched again, so sharply that the men looked up from their shined shoes and the girls grabbed each other and shrieked. Frances clutched the paper and the pole next to her. The metal cylinder shrieked down the track and came to an abrupt stop, flinging passengers this way and that and sending Frances to the floor in a heap of purse and paper and coat and hat. The lights went out and the girls screamed and the men swore. Not Frances, though. She was too shocked, her knees smarting from the impact with the filthy floor.
For a long moment, no one said anything. The conductor shakily coughed once through the speaker mounted to the wall and Frances thought she could hear him hyperventilating. “Help …” he whispered, but the intercom cut off before he could finish his plea.
“OK, OK,” said a man into the darkness of the car. “Seems like we’re having a bit of train trouble. I suggest everyone hold tight. I’m sure they’ll let us know what’s going on soon enough.”
Instantly, Frances relaxed a bit, her shoulders sliding down. The man had a nice voice, like a grandpa. Not Frances’ grandpa. Hers, like her father, had been in the military, so he spoke in clipped tones like clicking heels. She struggled to remember a time that he had hugged her.
Everyone seemed to calm down a bit now that Grandpa had taken control. Still, the train remained dark and still. Frances started worrying about dinner. Would she be late? Would she make it at all? It certainly would be preferable to avoid the whole ordeal. Perhaps she and the nun could have ice cream on the couch and watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show? The thought was oddly hilarious to her and she stifled a giggle.
Frances could make out many silhouettes squinting at their be-watched wrists when the silence was broken by a panic-tinged scream that crescendoed in volume until it abruptly cut off. The tail end echoed through the tunnels of the subway and reverberated, more and more screams joining the fray. The commotion seemed to be coming from behind them, down the track where other subway trains would be. Perhaps their boredom was the least of anyone’s worries.
Everyone shuffled to their feet again and Grandpa pushed the button to summon the conductor. “Stay calm, everyone. We all have our fingers and our toes,” Grandpa said. “Let’s just focus on getting off this train and getting somewhere safe.”
The conductor didn’t answer the call, though. Someone started crying. Grandpa pulled a flashlight from his briefcase — which seemed a bit odd to Frances, but she wasn’t complaining — and she could see now that he looked just the way she imagined. A shock of white hair and beard, someone who might enjoy a good pipe. He also looked a bit like her vision of God.
He aimed the flashlight at the door leading to the conductor’s cabin and threw back his shoulders, knocking briskly at the door. Frances admired his manner, even in this state of emergency. No one answered, though. Grandpa seemed to mull it over for a second, weighing need with impropriety, then cracked the door open and peered around the corner.
“Excuse me sir…” He coughed. “We’re in a bit of a pickle here and I was wondering if perhaps—” Grandpa’s head flew back and he dropped the flashlight, his limbs flailing in the threshold of the door, cast in the rolling light of the discarded torch. Red sprayed across the halo of light and Grandpa screamed, but it hardly mattered because now everyone was screaming, clamoring for the sliding doors, crushing Frances into a suffocating mass of bodies.
A fresh peal of screams rang out behind her, but Frances couldn’t see anything over the crush of people clogging the train. The doors were open, and she hurried with the rest of the commuters into the tunnel, tripping over something as she scampered through the door. When she looked down, her mind tried and failed to understand that she caught her foot on someone’s hand. Someone’s hand that was no longer connected to their body.
The stream of people buffeted her against the stinking, damp side of the subway tunnel and she felt panic beating like a migraine behind her eye sockets. She pressed more closely into the wall as people sped by, creating, for at least a time, a barrier between her and whatever was on the car. She started inching her way down the tunnel, the back of her blouse and skirt growing gamey with subway grim until something jabbed her in the back: a door handle.
The occupants of the train were running full-tilt down the tunnel now, but something told Frances not to follow them, and it sounded a lot like her father’s voice. They were out in the open. Her father would have pointed that out. He would have told her that she was facing a full-on assault and to find a foxhole. A door seemed as good a solution as any, no matter where it led, so she pulled the handle behind her and slipped through the metal passageway into a somehow even darker world of shadow and muck.
The door slammed shut and for a moment or two, she just leaned against the wall, heaving in deep breaths of dank air. The screams reverberated through the tunnels on the other side of the wall and she pressed her hands to her ears, trying to erase the blood from her memory. Fear coursed through her, unfamiliar in its intensity, in the way that it froze her legs and arms into a kind of rictus pose.
She tried to imagine what her father would do in this situation. She forced her feet forward, trying not to wince as her suede shoes splashed through something foul. She knew that it hardly mattered if she ruined her heels at this juncture. The world was surely ending. But, still, something broke in her heart for the soft red pumps she had spent months saving up for. Then she remembered that she had purchased them specifically for Ian’s return to the States and stomped purposefully through a particularly large puddle of muck.
Frances walked for what felt like an hour through the dripping darkness, encountering little more than a passel of rats, who seemed like welcome company at this point. Every once in a while a scream rang out in the tunnels and each time, she couldn’t help it, she leaped a mile high and nearly banged her head on the ceiling. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark by now, but she still couldn’t see more than a foot in front of her face, which is why when she turned yet another corner and ran smack into a group of ragged men and a woman clutching torches— the real kind, with fire — she screamed a scream to rival anything yet heard in the gloom.
“Living or undead?” Bellowed the man at the front of the group, his face underlit by the torchlight. His cheeks were furred with whiskers and his hair hung lank around his ears, but, strangely enough, a sharp pair of spectacles perched on his nose like a delicate bird in the underbrush.
“Excuse me?” Frances sputtered, taking in the group as a whole. There was an older man with a matted beard and a woman with a face like an apple doll and a swollen stomach. “Um…living? I suppose…”
The woman snarled. “You suppose? You’re either alive or you’re not, girlie. But if you stay in these tunnels much longer, you’re liable to end up the latter.” She leaned toward Frances and sniffed, sending Frances lurching back against the wall.
The man with the glasses lowered his torch. “Aw, Hazel, ease up. It’s obvious she’s not one of them. And she’s scared to boot. We should probably help her out, huh?”
The woman put her hands on her belly. “Who are you to be giving orders, kid? You forget you’re new down here — we’re still trying to figure out if we’re going to keep you. There are already three mouths to feed between Larry and me.”
Frances knew there were homeless people in the cities, of course — she had even volunteered at a soup kitchen — but she had never heard of anyone living underground. These people were pale like she got in the winter when she worked too many hours inside at the department store. But somehow even more so. They gleamed in the torchlight.
A scream tore through the tunnels and everyone flinched, even Hazel, who seemed immune to pretty much everything.
“What’s…” Frances ventured. “What’s going on? What’s happening out there?”
Hazel shivered, then sneered. “Don’t you read the news? The dead are coming back and—” she shivered again “—eating people. It’s end times. Like the Book said.”
Frances wrung her hands. “But we’re in America…”
Spectacles snorted. “Figures…”
“What figures?” Frances spat.
“Pretty girl, nice dress, doesn’t think anything bad could happen here.” Spectacles’ eyes burned behind his glasses. “All of you standing by as the world burns while you’re safe at home, eating popcorn and watching Mary Tyler Moore.”
Frances’ heart thudded against her dress. Whether with anger at his words or the accuracy of his statement, she wasn’t sure. “What I mean,” she drew in a deep breath, “is that nothing’s happened here. We’ve been OK.”
Larry laughed, a deep rumbling like mountains shifting. Frances had forgotten he was there; he was so quiet. “It was inevitable that the plague would reach us here. It spreads via the air, you know. It’s a virus. Infected animals curl up in plane wheels and hitch rides. No one is immune. That’s why we’ve been living down here. Preparing.”
Larry was sporting a kind of combat jacket, packed with axes and tools. He had a big backpack slung over his back rattling with water bottles and pans, a crossbow secured at its apex. Hazel was carrying a carpet bag and, clutched over her heart, a Bible. Specs, well, he just had a typewriter strapped to his back. She wasn’t sure what to make of that.
“How long… how long have you all been down here?” Frances said, holding her purse tightly to her chest. She didn’t have much of use in there, aside from a pair of brass knuckles affixed to a knife that her father had brought back from the war. He had forced it on her for her protection when she moved away from home, despite her protestations that it was macabre. It tore holes in the satin lining of her purse into which her lipstick always disappeared.
Hazel cocked her head. “A few years.”
Frances tallied up the time in her head. “But the outbreak only started a few months ago. You’ve been under here all this time?”
“Larry and me have felt the world was going to shit for a long time now,” Hazel cackled. “It’s only just not that it’s caught up. We’ve been getting ready for end times full-time ever since, except for Claude here.” Hazel jerked a finger at Specs, who shrugged.
“I’m a recent convert.” He said, shifting his typewriter to his other shoulder. “Now, should we get the hell out of here or…”
Larry nodded, looping an arm around Hazel. “Yup. They can smell ya if you stand around for too long, or so I’ve heard.”
The strange trio forged through the tunnels ahead of her and Frances had little other choice but to follow them. At the very least, they had torches and it looked like Larry had more than a few weapons. So what if their screws seemed to a little more than a couple of turns loose? Who knew what was currently happening topside?
Frances thought of her father and her heart froze behind her ribs. Would he be OK in his brick building with his ex-cop doorman? He had a gun closet, of course, but did the news know what was unfolding beneath the city? Would he know to pull out his array of handguns and shotguns and bunker down for the fight? She had to hope that, after all those years in the military, he would be able to handle himself — even with his bad knees and fading eyesight. She had to hope or she would lie down on the cement until the rats ate up her from the ankles up.
Hours passed as they trekked through the maze-like underground before Claude said anything, and when he did it was abrupt and sputtering: “So, are you getting your M.R.S. degree or what?”
“Excuse me?” She asked, stopping in the darkness in disbelief.
“You know, like your M.R.S. Like, going to college to get…” Claude trailed off, clearing realizing that whatever humor he had sought to convey was sorely off the mark.
“Married?” Frances asked, sourly. “No. But I have graduated with my bachelor’s degree in archaeology and I am squarely still an M.S.”
Not that she wouldn’t have liked to be an M.R.S. That had been the ultimate plan. Despite having a fancy degree, securing a steady avenue of income had been hard post-college and marriage would have allayed that worry quite nicely. Marry now, career later. Security before dreams. She and Ian had been heading that way for sure. They had danced around the subject before he left for India that summer, despite the fact that Ian’s mother loathed her. Ian had told Mrs. Porter about his new girlfriend one weekend as the family was driving home from a ski trip on the runty Midwestern slopes. When she found out that Frances was not only not a Christian but a Jew to boot, she cried all the way home, soaking the alabaster fur of their poodle, Mary.
Despite her best efforts to win Mrs. Porter’s affections — listening to a long recitation of the woman’s daily medications, kneeling in church every Sunday with the whole brood, puttering along in a golf cart with the frail creature during after-church T-time — Ian’s mother still very obviously hated her. Ian let it slip that Mrs. Parker’s whole congregation had been instructed in private to pray for the couple’s dissolution.
So, no, Frances did not have an M.R.S. and now that the zombies had descended on the city, she doubted she ever would. The tears that she had been holding back started falling then, fast and messy down her cheeks. She was trapped under the city with a band of lunatics, her boyfriend had dumped her and she was suddenly no longer number-one on the food chain. Plus, her father was out there, somewhere, and she had no way of knowing if he was OK or not. She sniffed, kicking through the puddles with such force that Hazel looked back and hissed.
“Hey,” Claude’s lighted on her elbow and she flung it off. Her feet were throbbing in her heels and hopelessness threatened to swallow her. Was this her life now? Wandering in the dark with unfriendly strangers? Would she ever see the light again?
“I’m sorry. I was trying to make a joke and obviously failed,” Claude said, trotting at her heels. “I’ve been told that I’m bad at those. Jokes.” Claude hitched his typewriter higher and scampered up to Frances’ side. “I just meant, you’re probably in school right? And you’re pretty so…” He trailed off, his cheeks reddening in the lamplight. “In conclusion, I am very bad at talking to women. And this is the apocalypse so I’m pretty fucking scared, to be honest, so that’s a factor.”
Frances gave a grim smile through her tears. Ian had been good at talking to girls, she remembered. Almost too good. Before they had gotten together she would see him at parties, his guitar slung across his back, chatting with any girl within a three-foot radius. Honestly, she had been surprised when he had chosen her. And confused. They didn’t mesh. Not one bit. He was loud and loved to be surrounded by people. She was… solitary. For a while, she thought they balanced one another and now…obviously that was not the case.
“Let me start again,” Claude said, breaking her reverie. “I now know that you have a degree in archaeology, which is very impressive. I have already begun cataloging a list of questions in my head with which to bombard you, but I’ve been told that that’s annoying so I will refrain.”
Frances scoffed, but her tears began to abate. If she was a little cold and methodical, this man was a practically a machine. A funny one, like some sort of robot in a comedic sci-fi film. The kind her dad guffawed through while her mother napped. Still, it was comforting in their current situation, which was anything but orderly and methodical.
He stuck out his hand, still walking, almost tripping into a nest of squirming rats. “I am Claude. I am currently getting my Master’s in sociology, which is how I found myself below ground… with you.”
“How do you mean?” She asked, watching Larry and Hazel’s lights dance in front of them. Claude didn’t seem like the kind of person that would consort with people like that pair. She didn’t want to be classist, but they just seemed from totally divergent worlds. Claude seemed like one of the men from her school — someone who would work in the library. Larry and Hazel…well, she had never encountered anyone like them before.
Claude hung back a bit and motioned for Frances to do so as well. “Well, prior to today’s turn of events, I’ve been studying what is colloquially known as ‘mole people,’ or people who reside underneath cities in preparation for doomsday events. Larry and Hazel have kindly allowed me to tag along before, while others have been… shall we say, less than willing. There’s actually a man who calls himself Godslayer who lives in one of the main tunnels. He’s a real sweetheart.”
Frances mulled over his words and, unbidden, images of crazies in tinfoil hats and patchwork rags paraded through her head. She gazed ahead at their compatriots. The pots and pans clanged on Larry’s back and Frances could now hear Hazel reciting what she thought were verses from the Bible. In truth, she didn’t listen much during those weekly church sessions. Maybe because the people surrounding her were actively praying for her unhappiness.
“I’ve been integrating myself with this group on and off throughout my years at university, only going full immersion when the events started unfolding overseas.” He gazed ahead at the couple in front of them. “In truth, I thought they were batty at first,” he said a little too loudly, swirling a finger around his temple. Luckily, Hazel was really preaching now. “But then… I mean, you know how the rats always know when the ship is going to sink? I’m thinking it’s kind of like that.”
Frances scoffed. “So now you’re calling human beings rats?” She forgot her own unkind thoughts about the pair in a fit of righteous indignation.
Claude shook his head, wide-eyed. “No, no, no! It’s a metaphor! Rats do what they have to survive. They don’t worry about television or politics or clothes. Therefore, they’re less distracted. They’re close to the ground. Much like the mole people, they know what’s most important when all is said and done: survival.”
Frances knew a bit about survival, not quite on that scale but on the scale of a woman who had grown up bred for a single purpose: getting married, the doing of which would provide her with a home and a purpose. She had dreamed about being more, of traveling to distant lands and digging toward the beginnings of history on excavation sites. But, as she had been told in high school when she tried to take an advanced calculus class packed only with boys: that was risky. That was unsafe. That would only lead to disappointment.
The group tramped for a while longer, until they came upon what looked to be a makeshift campsite, what Larry called “Base Camp Zero.” Apparently, they had a few camps squirreled away in the tunnels in areas where the concrete was thick enough to mask their scent, at least according to Larry. Sleeping bags stood rolled against the walls and Hazel soon stoked a low fire, illuminating the grey stone walls of the tunnel. Wordlessly, she pulled a pot from Larry’s back and dumped a few cans full of soup into the grimy belly of the utensil. Apparently, they would be eating their stew cold, as the smell of cooking might attract the dead, at least according, once more, to Larry.
Everyone sat down and, after Hazel handed them all spoons, started digging out mouthfuls as the pot went around. Frances paused when Claude handed her the mess, then, steeling herself, took a big bite. Dinner with her father was obviously a wash, was her first thought as she swallowed the swill, then: if he’s even still alive. The idea froze her once more and Hazel had to tug the pot from her grasp.
“You OK?” Claude asked, dropping a hand on her shoulder.
Frances stared at the fire, picturing her family home overrun by flesh-eating monsters, everyone she ever knew slowly digesting in the bloated bellies of the undead. “Do you think… do you think everyone up there is OK?”
Claude snorted, shoving a spoonful of soup into his gullet at the same time. “Doubtful. The world is overrun by some kind of Biblical plague, and if you’re caught in its path, oh boy….” He whistled.
Frances turned her face to him, stricken. Her father, her mother, his sisters, all of her friends. Even Ian. Glib, pompous Ian.
Claude coughed, finally registering her dismay. “I mean, some people probably got… eaten…” He coughed again. “But not everyone, you know?”
Frances nodded, unable to really let anything sink into her weary brain, and stared into the fire until the shape of the flames stopped making sense. Until they looked like blood coursing through some evil god’s veins — spitting and popping. When Larry finally threw her a sleeping bag, she curled up in the fetal position in front of the warmth and light. She didn’t think she’d be able to sleep, but her body hurt and her eyes felt like they were going to explode if they were open any longer, so she closed them against the dully glowing flames. And, despite expectations to the contrary, she drifted off in the gloom and damp.
When she awoke, it was to screams. Leaping to her feet, she blinked until she could make out Larry, his crossbow now at the ready, sinking an arrow into the skull of a man in a business suit. No, not a man, she saw as she squinted, what had been a man. His cheek was gone and so was his eyes, and she could glimpse his ribs from his ripped suit jacket like some kind of fancy ivory cage. A few of his friends, similarly attired, lurched behind him, as did a woman in a nurse’s uniform and, chillingly, a child with only one leg.
A deafening CLANG sounded to Frances’ right, and she whirled on Hazel bashing in the skull of a long-haired woman in tight jeans with their dinner pot, swinging her other hand, wielding a skillet, into the brain of the nurse. The nurse’s blood-soaked cap dropped to the floor with a soft plop.
Clutching her purse to her chest, Frances spun helplessly, taking in the horror around her. Claude was crouched over his typewriter with his eyes closed, swinging another pan at the child, while Larry picked off businessmen one by one with his crossbow.
Frances backed into the wall and stood, her bag under her chin, watching as Hazel and Larry made short work of the walking corpses, sending a man in conductor hat hurtling to the ground with a bash of a cooking pot and a woman in a red coat sailing through the air as the arrow met her brain. It was like some kind of horrible slapstick comedy, but with far more blood. She felt weirdly more alive than she had ever felt, faced with almost certain death, her skin humming and her heart flying against her chest.
She was so preoccupied with the melee, in point of fact, that she didn’t see Grandpa until he lurched in front of her. Relief washed through her at the sight of the composed, organized man. Help had arrived, her brain told her, and she felt herself relax just the slightest bit. Grandpa would take charge. He would see this all through. Thanks to him, they would make it home.
Through her joy, she almost didn’t notice that his eyes were decidedly glazed. Then she took in the blood spilling down his chest and disappointment wormed through her guts. “Oh!” She cried, reaching a hand toward his shoulder and stopping just short of touching his gory jacket. “Are you OK?”
Grandpa cocked his head to the side and worked his jaw, an eerie clicking sound emanating from the inside of his skull. Dread replaced disappointment in Frances’ heart and she gripped her purse tighter. “Fingerstoes fingerstoes,” Grandpa spat, a garbled version of what he had said to the train car just hours earlier. “FingersTOES, FINGERSTOES!”
Frances pressed herself against the wall then, terror gripping her throat, realizing too late that Grandpa was no longer Grandpa, but one of them. She had no crossbow, like Larry — not even a pot or pan like Hazel and Claude. She was unarmed, standing in front of some kind of demonic creature who aimed to eat her. Her brain emptied, and for a brief mad moment, all she could think was: This would never have happened if Ian had married me.
She stood stunned, marveling at what had been programmed into her. That her brain could even light upon such a thought when faced with certain death by wholly unexpected causes. Anger surged through her — at her brain, at her father, at Ian, at the teacher who had turned her away from taking a calculus class. Electrified, her hand worked its way through her purse and, seemingly of its own accord, it lit upon the brass knuckles with the knife. And, before she could think too much before she could fully remember her father forcing her to take the tool while also telling her she would probably never be able to actually use it, she stuck her finger through the loops and tore the thing out of her purse, sending her lipstick flying.
The knife shucked into Grandpa’s forehead like a watermelon and the man sunk to the floor, finally well and truly dead. His legs gave a final twitch as he gurgled blood onto the floor. Frances gaped at him, then took in her fist, slick with gore.
Hazel was just finishing off yet another businessman and even Claude had gotten into the fray, dispatching a portly woman with a bash of his typewriter.
Soon, it was just the three of them, standing in a dim tunnel full of twice-over corpses: Hazel clutching a frying pan, Larry cradling his crossbow, Claude looking sadly at his busted writing machine, and Frances, fist raised, iron knuckles on incongruous display. They all breathed heavily as if to celebrate the fact that they still could until Hazel broke the silence by tossing her pan to the floor.
“You do that?” Hazel jutted her chin at Grandpa, decaying on the tunnel floor.
Frances nodded, slowly, trying unsuccessfully to clean off her knife on the front of her filthy dress.
“Not bad,” Hazel consented, giving Frances a rare, broken-toothed smile. “You might just survive after all.”
Frances dropped the weapon into her flayed purse and hitched it up her shoulder. “Yes,” she said, smoothing back the mess that was her hair. “I suppose I might.”
– Brenna Ehrlich
Brenna Ehrlich is the director of content and culture (indie and rock) at TIDAL. She’s also the author of PLACID GIRL and STUFF HIPSTERS HATE and has had short stories published in Cease, Cows, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, Anon magazine, Impose magazine and Beyond Books. Her other writing credits include a weekly column on Internet etiquette for CNN and articles for Rolling Stone, Bandcamp, Mashable, Heeb magazine, Broadly, Brooklyn Magazine and Nylon.