“This is Caleb Morgan from marine station nine,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “There’s an active poacher camp near Ice Ridge Delta. They have weapons in the camp. Please send help—” A hand grabbed the back of his coat and yanked hard.
Caleb dropped the radio as he was dragged backward, boots scraping the snow. He twisted, struggling, but the man’s grip was firm. The others gathered quickly, their shouts full of anger and disbelief. One of them looked past Caleb and let out a laugh.
“Well, would you look at that,” he said. “The idiot brought us an adult, too.” Caleb’s eyes shot toward the middle of the camp. The walrus was tangled in a heavy net—its tusks caught, its body thrashing, kicking up snow and torn canvas. But the more it struggled, the more it became trapped.
Caleb’s chest tightened. They had both been caught. The man holding Caleb shoved him toward the center of the camp. “Sit,” he barked, pointing to a slushy patch of snow beside the now-crumpled cage. Caleb stumbled, breathless, and sat down hard.