The Last Alarm
My name is Jack Mercer.
For twenty-seven years, I worked mountain rescue in Montana. I trusted weather more than people, dogs more than systems, and instinct over alarms. I saved hikers from blizzards, dragged kids from creeks, tracked lost travelers through the snow until they were safely in the world again.
When my knees gave out, my daughter insisted I move into her place just outside Spokane: a glass-and-steel house perched on a hill, humming with every kind of automated control. Lights came on when you blinked. Doors unlocked themselves. The fridge would text you if you ran out of almond milk. It was a museum of convenience, and I was an exhibit that didn’t belong.
I arrived with two things: a duffel bag of flannels and Bear.
Bear is thirteen. Half German Shepherd, half something feral, with a muzzle streaked in gray. His right ear has a jagged tip, a souvenir from a coyote chase in ‘16. His bones creak like an old bridge, his joints snap when it rains. But if the wind howled at night, he would hear it first, see it first, and move before anyone else.
My son-in-law, Ryan, called him “unstable.”
“He’s too old. He’s unpredictable,” Ryan said during my first week, straightening the screen on his smartwatch. “What if something happens to Noah?”
Noah, my grandson, was eight, perched on the sofa with a VR headset. His little hands swung wildly at dragons and robots, entirely oblivious to Bear, who lay in the shadow of the table, his eyes half-lidded.
“Bear isn’t a pet,” I said. “He’s part of the family. You don’t put family in assisted living just because he scratches the floor.”
Ryan sighed. “We’ve found a place. Heated floors, cameras everywhere. You can watch him on your phone. It’s safer for everyone.”
I shook my head. “Safety isn’t a smart lock. It’s knowing who’s got your back when the lights go out.”
I should have taken that as foreshadowing.
Two nights later, the power died.
No lights. No Wi-Fi. No polite voice telling us everything was fine. The house fell silent except for the low hum of the backup generator kicking in—and then dying.
Bear stood. Not fast. Not loud. Just… certain. His hackles rose, and his gaze cut through the darkness.
Then I heard it: a floorboard creak upstairs. Another. Heavy, deliberate, slow. My stomach froze. My daughter’s voice, sharp, then cut short. Ryan’s shout. Something metal hitting the wall.
I grabbed the baseball bat by the bed, Bear trailing close, eyes glowing faintly in the candlelight.
In the living room, a man was there. Hoodie up, hands trembling over a crowbar. Ryan was on the floor, clutching his jaw, blood seeping between his fingers. Noah crouched behind the couch, paralyzed.
The intruder’s eyes darted to Bear.
Bear moved.
It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t practiced. It was raw muscle and memory. Teeth and weight. A shadow lunging to protect. Bear hit the man with such force that the crowbar flew. He screamed, scrambled backward, then bolted through the open sliding door into the rain.
I dropped to my knees beside Bear. He was breathing heavily, ribs cracked, one gash on his shoulder. My hands pressed against it, whispering, “Stay with me, buddy. Stay.”
Ryan stared at the white rug, horrified. “The floor… the blood…”
I didn’t answer. I carried Bear into the truck, drove him to the nearest emergency vet. The night blurred. Rain lashed the windshield. The vet confirmed two broken ribs, deep lacerations, but his heart was strong. Bear would live.
When I returned the next morning, the house was humming again. Lights on. Coffee brewing. Silent cameras tracking nothing. Ryan emerged from the driveway.
“We’re grateful,” he said. “But after last night… Bear is too unpredictable. He’s a danger around Noah.”
I ignored him. I loaded my duffel bag. Bear sat, sedated, bandaged, eyes watching me.
I drove north, toward an old cabin I had bought years ago. Drafty windows. Wood stove. Dirt floors. No alarms. No cameras. No one telling me how to live. Just Bear and me.
Three days in, the storm came. Not rain this time. Snow, blizzard winds. Bear limped beside me, but his senses were perfect. Then I noticed footprints. Not human, too large. Circular. They surrounded the cabin, vanishing into the woods.
I called out. No response.
Then the first gunshot cracked the stillness. Not far, not random. Precise. Intentional.
Bear growled low in his throat. He had never sounded afraid before.
From the tree line, shadows moved. Three figures, dressed in black, faces obscured. Not ordinary intruders—too organized, too patient. They circled the cabin, silent but watching.
I loaded the old rifle from the corner. The stock smelled like pine and oil. I aimed at one, then hesitated. Bear nudged my leg. He didn’t growl. He watched me. He trusted me to decide.
One of the figures stepped closer, and suddenly the truth hit me. These weren’t random thieves. These were the same men I had tracked six months ago in a missing-person case—the case that went cold. The one I reported to the FBI after realizing they weren’t lost hikers. They were being used. Smugglers. Killers.
And now they were here. For me.
Bear whimpered once, then barked—a deep, urgent sound. The kind of sound that wakes the dead. One of the figures faltered. Then the lights of a drone flickered in the snow. Another gunshot, closer. And then… the cabin exploded in a fireball.
I was thrown backward. Snow and heat stung my face. Bear was gone from beside me. I rolled, scrambled to my feet. The cabin burned, flames clawing at the night sky. The intruders melted into the storm.
All I had left was the duffel bag, half-buried in the snow. And the memory of Bear’s eyes, full of fear for the first time.
I realized then, as the storm swallowed the horizon, that the life I thought I had escaped into—the wilderness, the quiet, the loyalty of an old dog—was already compromised. The storm was only the beginning.
And Bear… Bear was out there, somewhere, alive, because he always survives.
But now the hunters knew me. And they would not forget.
