Philnensia

The window was gone. So was the pot roast on the counter top. Broken glass was everywhere. Tuffs of fur swayed in the night air, stuck on pointed, bent window bars. Gobbets of blood were on the algae green tiles, so red they looked black. The refrigerator was overturned.
“Did they come all the way here to just vandalize my kitchen?” Richelle said, irritated.
“Made away with the pot roast too, my favorite”, Anthony remarked, “Did the silver spook them? Can they smell the silver bullets?”
“Probably. Why else did they high-tail it?” she checked the street below. Several humans had milled around, pointing at the damage.
“Ready some mundane answers to freak show questions, Ant”, anticipated Richelle, “I hate reporters.”
“Oversized pit bulls with a taste for pot roast”, joked Anthony. The doorbell sounded.
“That was fast.”
“I’ll go check it”, Richelle raised her weapon, walking like a FBI agent across the living room. She peeked through the spy hole.

Mrs. Bourbon’s flame colored wavy wig and wrinkled smiling gray eyes were too familiar to her. She was the nearest kindest soul they new next door.
“Richelle, darling, is everything alright? I thought I heard some racket. Are you two lovebirds fighting?” Mrs. Bourbon’s Aunt of Peter Parker voice was almost too concerned. Richelle had a hand again on the knob.
“Ant, it’s just Mrs. Bourbon. We ought to show her we’re okay…” she turned the knob.
“Don’t!” Anthony cried, but his wife had already swung the door wide.

Mrs. Bourbon’s head was held by one seven foot standing fanged, pointy eared gape mouthed hellhound, with bristled fur so red it’s black. Flanked by two more black red giants. All six eyes glowed fired red, while the golden lamps of the corridors outlined their quill like body hair. The one holding the old woman’s head spoke in her voice, large jaws working preposterously.
“Hey, Richelle, my Love, and you. Anthony”, the thing snarled, “remember me, Cris?” It turned the head into a bowling ball, landing on the carpet with a thud and rolled toward Anthony.

The couple looked on a second too long.

“Fire!” Bullets sprayed the walls, but the monsters’ speed flew around them. Richelle was knocked out cold after being gored by one behemoth. The hound that called itself Cris was over Anthony’s prone body, one paw holding the bent gun, the other gripped his head like a vise with elongated fingers.
“You left me, Anthony”, its voice was a continuous growl, “and married my one and only college sweetheart.”
“W-we thought t-they were coming b-back, and y-you a g-goner.”
“You thought correct. We’re back. But now, you are the goner. We won’t eat you though. Rich’s pot roast was too good. So in this city of CSI and Grey’s Anatomy, you die naturally.”
“Hurry, brother, I hear the sirens coming.” It handed Cris a kitchen knife. Anthony fought against the hold, to no avail. The monster gave him the knife in the heart, and he was still.
“Vengeance paid.”

Cris reverted to human form, naked. He cradled Richelle’s body on his lap. Pack mates have become anthromorphic also, somehow producing black trenchcoats.
“Angelina Jolie doesn’t have a body like that. I reclaim you now, Richelle.”
“How about the children? Are they to be killed?” Cris stared at the bedroom door, where the kids breathed no sound. He bared his fangs.
“Eerrrhhhh. No. The humans will nurse them. They call it adoption”, he turned to her sleeping form, “See, Rich, we’re not animals. I will sire my own with you. We will be like we were before in college.”

Police arrived, finding the shocked children and the gruesome crime scene. Meanwhile, the fiends jumped from rooftop to another, hastening to their urban lair.

Richelle had come to, but feigned unconsciousness. She knew her infection by Cris would be inevitable. She knew also, with feral glee, that the females of every carnivorous specie on the planet proved to be more ferocious, predatory, and formidable than the males.
“Vengeance paid”, she thought, as the wind blew her hair like that of a lioness.