The dragging sound had stopped. Caleb narrowed his eyes, scanning the horizon. Maybe it was a trick of the wind. Or his own sled shifting in place behind him. Then something moved. A large shape, low to the ground, slowly slid into view from behind a snowbank about thirty meters away.
Caleb blinked. It looked like a boulder at first—broad, wet, and dark against the white. But then it shifted again, revealing thick folds of wrinkled skin and two enormous tusks. A walrus. It was massive—easily the size of a small car. Caleb didn’t move.
He knew they were dangerous, especially on land. Despite their awkward shape, they could lunge faster than people realized. And if it felt cornered, it could crush a man without effort. The animal snorted, steam rising from its nostrils.
It kept crawling forward, muscles rippling under its thick hide. Caleb’s equipment—especially the sack of dried fish he kept nearby—was directly in its path. Slowly, Caleb backed up, raising his hands slightly. “Easy, big guy,” he muttered under his breath, barely louder than the wind.