Chapter Forty: The Unruly Villagers (Fourth Update of the Fifth Watch)

The ground was littered with cat corpses, all of them stripped of their fur. No one knew when they had appeared, but now a thick layer of flies had gathered atop them. The sudden fright from the passengers on the bus sent the flies buzzing away in a cloud, and a wave of stench rolled forth, causing several passengers to vomit right there.

“It seems our opponent is truly deranged. We must be extremely careful this time.” I said offhandedly to the stout man beside me. The sight rattled him as well; he whispered to Song Nianqiang, “Maybe we should call the police… This is beyond us.”

“You think the police have nothing better to do than handle a mass cat death in your village? Let’s go!” I shook my head—summoning the police was useless unless there was a murder. Otherwise, they wouldn’t mobilize.

The driver was a seasoned veteran, maneuvering the car perilously close to the cliff. Song Nianqiang, inside the vehicle, was terrified, worried that if the driver made a single misstep, they would plunge down the cliff and their deaths would be utterly meaningless.

Another half hour passed before the car slowly pulled into the station. From there, Song Nianqiang and his companions had to continue on foot. Fortunately, it was Song Nianqiang’s first time venturing so deep into the mountains, and he treated it as a hiking trip, not minding much. He followed the uncle to their village.

Upon entering, Song Nianqiang immediately felt an oppressive atmosphere, exceedingly so. He glanced up at the sky above the village and saw thick clouds shrouding it, lingering stubbornly. Clearly, the village was heavy with dark energy, and resentment hung even heavier.

“Find us a place for tonight. We’ll observe for a night before deciding.” Now on someone else’s turf, they had to listen to the locals. The uncle nodded and led Song Nianqiang and his companion to a relatively clean room. “How’s this room?” he asked. Song Nianqiang, having grown up in the countryside, was satisfied as long as there was shelter from wind and rain.

“Yes, it’s fine. We’ll stroll around the village. If anything comes up, we’ll find you.” They’d arrived early, before lunchtime, and to familiarize themselves with the surroundings, Song Nianqiang suggested a walk. The uncle agreed readily.

“Let’s go!”

With a grim face and furrowed brow, Song Nianqiang headed west. The matter was clearly complicated, troublesome to handle. The two walked, stopping occasionally, picking up bits of soil and sniffing it, but soon shook their heads and continued west.

At the westernmost edge of the village lay a large depression. Recent rains had left it filled with water, and on the far side were the villagers’ fields, where a few hardworking farmers were still laboring. But as Song Nianqiang approached the depression, his expression changed drastically.

“A place of buried evil!”

Song Nianqiang’s lips moved, uttering the phrase. The stout man beside him said, “No wonder people still practice forging cat ghosts—just bury the cat corpses there, and in seven days the cat ghost appears.”

Both Song Nianqiang and the stout man looked uneasy. The depression was sizable, and who knew how many cat corpses were buried within. But there was no time to dwell on the matter; they hurried back to find the uncle and told him about the depression.

The uncle was skeptical at first. That depression was a swamp—no one ever dared to set foot there. Even the animals knew better, whether dogs, cattle, sheep, or even ducks—they all avoided it. How could there be cat corpses there?

“Someone did it.” At this point, Song Nianqiang could only offer this explanation. If they didn’t dig out the cat corpses soon, after forty-nine days, every living thing in the village would die. The place of buried evil was no joke; after forty-nine days, any corpse buried there would mutate, and Song Nianqiang and the stout man’s skills would be useless against mutated cat corpses.

Seeing the urgency in their faces, the uncle tossed away his half-smoked cigarette and shouted, “Follow me!” He jogged toward a house where the village loudspeaker was kept—the so-called brigade headquarters.

“Attention, all villagers, gather at the brigade for a meeting! Everyone, hurry to the brigade for a meeting!” The uncle’s voice was anxious. Song Nianqiang’s words had unsettled him; if this was truly man-made, the village faced catastrophe.

Within half an hour, everyone had left their work and gathered at the brigade. The village was small, barely over a hundred people. They’d all been frightened by the midnight cat howling lately, so when the village chief—uncle—called out through the loudspeaker, they rushed over, even women who had just given birth came carrying their infants.

“Today, I introduce two young comrades, brought from the county to help us,” the uncle announced. Song Nianqiang and his companion nodded to the crowd, but soon voices rose from below. “Why bring two kids? What can they do!”

Others chimed in. According to their thinking, only elders past fifty, preferably white-haired Daoists, could handle ghosts. Now two kids had been brought in—what kind of joke was that?

“You shut the hell up!” Seeing the situation, Song Nianqiang grew impatient; there was no time for arguments. He stood on the stage and shouted at the crowd, but these were uneducated villagers. Hearing someone speak to them so brashly, they grew angry.

“Kid, say that again if you dare!” A young man, barely older than Song Nianqiang, with dragon and tiger tattoos—clearly a local troublemaker—pushed through the crowd and jumped onto the stage. He pointed arrogantly at Song Nianqiang’s nose. “Get down, or I’ll make you crawl off.”

Song Nianqiang was speechless. “Fatty, deal with him!” He was exasperated by such people. The stout man, hearing Song Nianqiang’s helpless call, grabbed the troublemaker and delivered a resounding slap. The crowd fell silent.

“You son of—”

The troublemaker started to erupt, but the stout man kicked him hard in the stomach, silencing him. He crouched, clutching his belly, but the stout man wasn’t done. The whole village’s lives were at stake, and this fool was making trouble.

“Get up!” He yanked the troublemaker by the hair and slapped him again. This time, the troublemaker realized these two weren’t to be trifled with, looked aggrieved, and tears welled in his eyes.

“Useless!” Seeing him cry, the stout man lost interest in further punishment. Seeing the situation was under control, Song Nianqiang addressed the villagers loudly: “You may not trust us, but you can’t let uncle’s efforts go to waste. I’ll point out a place—the depression at the west end. Go home, grab your tools, and dig there. If nothing’s found, I’ll leave. If something’s found, you all listen to me. Agreed?”

Song Nianqiang tried to use a conciliatory tone. After all, he was an outsider. The villagers argued a bit, then broke into small groups to fetch their tools.

“Troublemakers!” Song Nianqiang muttered, glancing at the troublemaker still standing there dumbly.