Crisscross a flash fiction story by Lou Rera

My dog did his best to claw through the Styrofoam cooler. Primal instincts directed at two raw steaks. The smell of blood, but without drama will do that to an animal. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw his mean ass in the back of the van. He jumped, growled,x and at this point I didn’t feel I could turn my back on him. I kept my left hand on the steering wheel, and slammed my closed fist down on his snout.
    “Get the hell back th— ”
    The sound of the crash was like a sack of bricks exploding into the front of the van. I yanked the wheel and jammed the brakes. Stones against metal, dust in plumes. The windshield had a hole punched in the center. On the front seat lay a twisted pair of eyeglasses, the lenses smeared with blood.
    The dog sheepish in the back—head on paws, looking guilty. Over to the left in a ditch, a guy moaned. Blood poured from a gash in his head. His right leg looked twisted like a mannequin put together by a madman. I tried to assure him he’d be okay, just hold tight. I didn’t believe it. Not for a second.
    I looked closer. My stomach roiled and I vomited. I knew in an instant that my life would never be the same. I recognized this guy. The man I just ran down because of that goddamn dog was Stephen King.