Killer View by Ridley Pearson

deputy took this as Walt’s attempt to fix the race and continued ahead.
    “Stand down, Deputy!” Walt tried again.
    Brandon glanced back, grinned, and then bent over to loosen the snowshoes. He came out of them fast and climbed up onto the porch, banging a shoulder into a wind chime. Light flashed from the spinning metal, and the tinkle of bells carried on the wind.
    A spurt of blood burst from Brandon’s shoulder, and the exterior wall of the cabin splintered with a thwack . He spun, reached out, and pulled down the wind chimes with him as he fell to the deck.
    “Tommy!” Walt dove into the snow, rolled onto his back, and dumped his gloves in order to lose the snowshoes. He fumbled with the straps, finally kicking the snowshoes loose. Beretta in hand, he belly-crawled toward the cabin. “Stay down!” he shouted. “And don’t move!”
    He stole a glimpse up the hill toward the woods, believing the shot had come from somewhere out there. Fresh tracks led through the snow in that direction. Then he lowered his head and continued his belly crawl, staying below the snow’s surface. He crawled . . . paused . . . listened. It felt as if the cabin was moving away from him; as hard as he crawled, he didn’t seem to get any closer.
    “Fuck!” It was Brandon, from the porch.
    “Stay down!” Walt shouted.
    “I’m hit.”
    “Stay down and don’t move.”
    “Shut the fuck up! I’m hit.”
    “I’m coming.”
    “The fuck you are. He’ll pick you off.”
    There’d been only the one shot. It offered two possibilities: a shoot and run or a shoot and hunt to the death.
    Walt needed cover: he saw the move, as he finally drew closer. He jumped up onto the deck, spun, back first, to the house, tucked himself into a ball, hands over his face, and vaulted backward through the window. The glass exploded and rained down around him. He hit a table, caught a lamp with his toe, and brought both down on top of him. He scooted away from the glass, came to a standing position, and rushed the front door.
    The other window was shattered too, glass on the inside. Had that happened when Brandon had been shot? He didn’t recall the sound of breaking glass, only the bells of the wind chime. He reached the open window and peered out past the jagged frame.
    Brandon lay below him, faceup. The man’s glove was gripped high on his left arm, which was blood-covered and still oozing.
    “You okay?”
    “Dandy,” Brandon answered with a grimace.
    “I’m going to pull the door open. We’re going to do this fast, on three. You with me?”
    “Three,” Brandon said, and he started to slide on his back toward the door.
    “Shit!” Walt said, as he yanked open the door, reached out, and found the man’s right shoulder. He dragged him—the man was heavy—through the door and slammed it shut.
    “Motherfucker hurts!” said Brandon. “Goddamn it!” He ran through every expletive he knew, as Walt opened the jacket and worked it off the man’s left arm. As wounds went, it was pretty awful. The bullet appeared to have missed the bone, but the exit wound was twice the size of the entrance, leaving a hole the size of a golf ball. The bleeding was severe, possibly arterial. The wound wouldn’t kill him but the blood loss might. With Brandon compressing the wound, Walt stripped a shoelace out of the man’s boot.
    “No,” Brandon said.
    “I’m going to tie it off.”
    “The hell you are,” Brandon said. “Once we do that, we can’t go back. The toxins’ll kill me if we loosen it, and, if we don’t, they take the arm. Fuck that. Compression for now. We only go to tourniquet if I pass out and you see no other choice.”
    “There is no other choice.”
    “I’m not losing my arm, Sheriff. Nice try.”
    “Tommy!”
    “No . . . fucking . . . way. I’ve done the course, Sheriff. I’m not losing this arm unless I have to.”
    Walt looked around the room, as if someone might arrive to help him.
    “You’ve got to go after him,”