It nudged the marker with its tusk, then slammed a flipper down hard enough to crack the surface underneath. A sharp sound rang out. The ice popped beneath them. Both of them stilled. A long fracture spidered out in the silence.
Caleb’s blood ran cold. They were too far from shore—and if the ice gave way now, there’d be no getting out. The walrus let out a low, strange groan. Not aggressive. Not calm. Just… strange. Then it turned again, moving away from Caleb in an awkward, shifting crawl.
It stopped at the edge of the drill hole and peered in, nostrils flaring. Caleb, still flat on the snow, finally pulled himself up to his elbows, trying to keep breathing slow. His bag was shredded. The fish was gone.
And the walrus, massive and unpredictable, was now blocking his only path back. The walrus turned away from the drill hole and began to crawl—slow, heavy, deliberate—toward the west. Its body swayed with each movement, flippers slapping against the ice.