The walrus paused. Its head tilted just slightly, eyes locking on him. Caleb could hear the slick scratch of its belly on the ice and the wet slap of its flippers as it readjusted its weight. He glanced at the drill—still running. The hum might be attracting it.
He reached out and tapped the power switch. The noise died immediately. The air went quiet. The walrus exhaled loudly, then crept a few more feet forward. Its gaze moved to the open pack beside the gear. Caleb swallowed.
It could probably smell the fish. He took another step back, his heart pounding harder with each inch. Caleb’s breath caught in his throat. The walrus was much closer now—ten meters at most. It sniffed loudly, its whiskers twitching, eyes never leaving him.
The space between them felt thin, fragile. Caleb’s boots shifted slightly in the snow. Should he run? He knew better. You couldn’t outrun a walrus on ice—not at his age, and maybe not even in his prime. They were surprisingly fast for their size. And turning your back could still trigger a chase.