Hudson

by Bethany Maines Dedicated To the cast of the 1999 version (AKA the best version) of The Mummy. Prologue The Strumwolke Alexander Ash “Alex!” Alex resisted the urge to tap his computer to make the signal come in more strongly like he used to donk the TV in the fifties. The image shook as Hudson fumbled his phone. Alex reminded himself that even with the distance between Germany and Greece, he did not need to hit anything anymore. But he couldn’t stop himself from adjusting the angle of the screen. “Alex, Alex, Alekos!” Hudson ended on the Greek version of Alex. The image shook again, and Alex gave the computer screen a tiny flick. Old habits died hard. Finally, Hudson’s face stabilized, and Alex could see his packmate’s sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. “Did you see my email? Did you check the coordinates? Did you go out yet? Is the Strumwolke there?” Hudson Knox asked more questions than any three wolves put together, but the torrent of inquiries only made Alex smile. Behind Hudson, he could see that the bland German hotel room had become covered in papers and notes. Hudson was young, but his research habits were old school. It was one of the things Alex liked about him. Hudson had been in Germany for nearly a month, first in quarantine and then at the Arolsen Archives. The quarantine rules were annoying, as was the insistence that Hudson get vaccinated. Wolves never caught human illnesses, not that they could tell the humans that. It annoyed Alex that all the human fussing was hampering his efforts. But Hudson had kept Alex from conking any human heads together by reminding him that the humans were doing their best and it wasn’t any worse than the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918, and Alex should breathe. And now Hudson’s research in the Nazi archives was paying off. “I looked at the charts,” said Alex, reflexively flipping the string of blue lapis lazuli worry-beads around in his hand so that he could run his thumb over the centerpiece, a blood-red scarab carved from carnelian and inscribed with the Egyptian hieroglyphics of a bird, a hand, and an arm. “It’s the area we’ve been narrowing in on.” “But way more specific!” “Yes!” agreed Alex. “Sebastian’s readying the boat tonight. We’re going out first thing in the morning.” Alexander Ash had been searching for the Strumwolke for nearly seventy years with one goal—clear his brother’s name. Howell Ash and his team of Supernatural Allied soldiers had set out to stop the Nazi ship the Strumwolke, but Howell and his team had never returned. A magical firestorm had swept across the ocean, scorching Greece’s shores, killing every Supernatural in the blast radius. When the Supernaturals were finally able to put the pieces together, they realized that it must have originated from the Nazi boat and Howell Ash’s team, but no one knew anything beyond that. After the war had ended, finding the Strumwolke and answers had become Alex’s single-minded pursuit. “What do the others think?” demanded Hudson. “Sebastian and Killian aren’t offering opinions.” Hudson made a rude noise. “What does that mean?” Alex asked with a laugh. “It means Sebastian and Killian are being too conservative because they don’t want to get your hopes up.” “It’s…” Alex hesitated. “I… we… have been working on this for such a long time. They’re not wrong to be cautious. Sometimes I have a hard time believing we’ll succeed. The odds seem slim.” “No!” huffed Hudson. “The longer we work, the better our chances. And before, well, you didn’t have me.” Alex smiled, knowing very well that Hudson’s bravado was false. Hudson was brilliant but had never gone to college and always seemed to think that his hard-earned education was less than everyone else’s. “No matter how small the chance,” continued Hudson, “I believe we can do it. I know we can do it.” “Well, you may very well be right. Pellos certainly thinks so. He says he got chills the moment he saw your coordinates. He says this is the one.” Hudson gave a fist pump. Pellos’s intuitions weren’t like seeing the future, but when Pellos had a good feeling, they all had been known to put down money on whatever it was that was giving off the tingles. Alex had never thought of becoming the leader of his own pack. When the war had broken out, His brother Howell was the one who had struck out on his own, determined to carve out his own destiny. Alex and the other young wolves from their pack had enlisted and gone to the Pacific theater. After the Night of 1000 deaths, his packmates had stranded him on an atoll. They said his bloodline couldn’t be trusted. He might somehow set off a bomb and kill them too. The searing pain of that rejection had only eased with the arrival of a new family. Like Alex, Sebastian and Hudson were young wolves who had been kicked out of their packs. Killian was from South Africa and had never had a pack since his parents had been killed by warlocks. Then there was Pellos. Pellos had been barely ten when he’d tried to pick Alex’s pocket on the streets of Athens. Now he was looking down the barrel of forty. Alex had never before believed that a human could belong to a pack, but now he had no doubts. Pellos was his. And his pack had worked tirelessly to fulfill Alex’s mission. “I sent the diagrams, right?” demanded Hudson, sorting through the papers in front of him. “It’s seventeen meters long, flak guns at midship and aft, with a turreted top. Those shapes should be distinct on radar.” “Yes,” said Alex. “You sent the diagrams.” Of course he had. Hudson was conscientious, thorough, and reliable as the sun rising in the East. Not to mention loyal, kind, and brilliant. The fact that his birthpack had expelled him was simply proof that they