‘Twas the night before Christmas when they slit the throats of the guards, set fire to the secret military facilities in the mountains and slipped silently into the woods, leaving no footprints in the snow.

They scanned the night, eyes shining with a supernatural intelligence that was genetically engineered into them, along with other abilities that made them effective killers.

“Where to?” asked the largest of the mutants.

“Canada,” said the smallest. “We’ll lay low in the arctic.”

The other eight saluted him—their sharp, hoof-like claws raised up to their grotesque antlers.

One by one, they leapt into the sky, never breaking rank, until only the faint glow of their leader’s nose could be seen among the stars.

“On Dasher, on Dancer, on Prancer and Vixen. On Comet, on Cupid, on Donner and Blitzen.”