The sound came from behind—slow, wet, and heavy, dragging across the ice like something being pulled from the deep. Caleb froze. The wind had died, the drill had stopped, and for a split second, the Arctic lay still. He turned, heart hammering, and saw it.
A massive shape emerged from the white—dark, hulking, with long tusks catching the light. A walrus. It was headed straight toward him, eyes fixed, breath puffing from flared nostrils. Caleb took a step back, then another, trying not to slip. But his boot caught the edge of his gear bag. He went down hard. The air left his lungs as he hit the ice.
His bag tipped over beside him, scattering a few pieces of dried fish. The walrus lunged. It moved faster than he thought possible—snorting, grunting, tusks low—and closed the distance in seconds. Caleb threw up his arms, sure this was it. He’d never felt so small… or so certain that he wasn’t getting back up.