Chapter 152: Blood-Sucking Monster (5)

Unlike the warm and harmonious atmosphere of the restaurant, the entrance to Tunumo Village, just a few hundred meters away, presented a completely different scene.

Dozens of white ranchers, armed with various farm tools and even firearms, stood there filled with righteous anger and aggressive intent. They blocked the entrance to Tunumo Village, trying to force their way in and wreak havoc.

By the time Everly and Misha had finished lunch—both curious and uneasy—and hurried upstairs on some pretext, the white ranchers at the village entrance and the Native Americans who had come to stop them were already at a standoff, tensions running high.

Because of the distance and the wind outside, Everly couldn’t clearly hear what the two sides were saying. Fortunately, she had Misha, an unparalleled intelligence gatherer.

“Ahh! These white farm owners are being way too much!”

“What? What happened?”

“Well, it’s like this…”

Misha handed her phone to Everly, showing her a trending post they had previously looked at together.

The post, titled “[Personal Compilation] Mysterious Livestock Deaths Around Craven”, was being continuously updated by the original poster. Based on the timing and conditions of each farm’s losses, they updated a map of farms in the outskirts of Craven, marking all those that had been attacked by nocturnal creatures.

When they checked it yesterday, people in the comments were still debating what kind of species the blood-sucking monster might be and how to capture it. Some were also complaining that the police were incompetent, unable to catch even a single animal after so long.

However, just yesterday evening, a single comment from a random onlooker suddenly changed the direction of the entire discussion.

That user, on the 311th floor, posted only one sentence:

[Have you noticed? It seems like all the Native American farms have been avoided.]

At first, the comment didn’t receive much attention. But about a dozen replies later, someone else quoted it and attached a newly compiled map they had organized themselves.

The original poster marked all farms owned by Native Americans in bright yellow on the new map.

Although people often preach “freedom and equality,” in reality, Native Americans in the United States have long faced subtle discrimination and exclusion. This kind of bias can show up as polite rejections during hiring, preferences for certain skin tones in relationships, and, naturally, unequal treatment when it comes to leasing land.

For various reasons, the land Native Americans are able to lease is often relatively barren or poorly located. As a result, the farms they operate on the map do not form continuous clusters, but instead appear scattered like dots, radiating outward from Tunumo Village.

When no one pointed it out, nothing seemed unusual. But once the map was labeled according to farm ownership, the pattern became immediately obvious—

Just as the user on the 311th floor had noted, when the blood-sucking monster attacked livestock, it had perfectly avoided every single Native American-owned farm. The most striking example was the Dakota Farm.

Dakota Farm was surrounded by several white-owned farms and belonged to a Native American named Dakota. Everly recognized him—on her first day in the village, that warm, straightforward man had even handed her a small biscuit.

The night before last, the first human victim of the blood-sucking monster, Old Gresk, had heard strange noises coming from Dakota Farm. Feeling uneasy, he went out to patrol and was ultimately attacked by the creature, dying from severe blood loss.

After killing Old Gresk and all the animals on Gresk Farm, the monster went on to attack several neighboring farms adjacent to Dakota Farm, killing large numbers of livestock and causing heavy losses. And yet, Dakota Farm alone remained completely unharmed.

In earlier attacks, there had also been a few “lucky” farms that the monster seemed to skip over, so at first no one thought much of it. But once the map was marked in yellow, people were shocked to realize that those previously overlooked “lucky” farms were also all owned by Native Americans.

Although the owners of those farms did not belong to the Winton tribe—and strictly speaking had no direct connection to Tunumo Village—the white ranchers didn’t care about such distinctions. In their eyes, whether Navajo, Hopi, Winton, or Cherokee, as long as they had the same skin color, they were all simply “Indians.”

As a result, once this discovery was posted, it immediately sparked heated debate on the forum.

Of course, most people remained rational. They believed it might just be a coincidence and not necessarily related to Native Americans. But there were also some—people who already harbored prejudice and hostility toward Native Americans, or those whose farms had suffered losses and were overwhelmed with negative emotions, desperate for someone to blame—who began jumping around in the thread, fanning the flames and insisting that everything must be part of some Native American conspiracy.

[439F]: They’ve always hated us!

[456F]: Maybe it’s not even a monster—it’s those Indians sneaking into farms and doing this themselves!

Comments like these would be labeled as racist and “politically incorrect” if spoken in real life. But once online, shielded by the anonymity of the internet, people quickly gave in to their impulses, venting their malice and dissatisfaction without restraint.

[522F]: Not just that! I live near that village, and from what I’ve seen, those Indians are always secretly organizing strange activities in their reservation…

[523F]: Case closed! They must have performed some kind of demon ritual on the reservation, which caused all this chaos. Otherwise, why would the monster only target our farms and spare theirs?

[619F]: There’ve also been more deformed animals born on farms lately—maybe those Indians cursed us!

If this were her previous life, Everly would have thought such brainless comments were just people trolling for laughs. After all, in the 21st century, believing this kind of nonsense made about as much sense as believing the person on the other end was Qin Shi Huang (first emperor to unify China).

However, when such remarks came from residents of this version of America, Everly had a feeling—they genuinely meant what they were saying.

How to put it… although the U.S. gives foreigners the impression of being a superpower with booming economy, politics, and culture, the general quality of its population is, in truth, quite uneven. In more developed cities, you might mostly encounter well-educated white-collar elites. But in some remote rural areas, there are plenty of uncultured and rough individuals.

In addition, due to the diversity—and sometimes confusion—of beliefs, there are quite a few religious extremists in the U.S. And education level doesn’t necessarily correlate with belief: a rural person who didn’t even finish high school might be a firm materialist, while a highly educated person with multiple degrees might be deeply religious, firmly believing that prayer alone can cure serious illnesses… In short, on this strange soil where all kinds of horror-movie elements seem to mix, anything is possible.

“Normally, comments like these would just stay as arguments on the forum,” Misha said, guessing that Everly had finished reading. She scrolled further down and pulled up the latest updated map from the original poster. “But last night, another farm was attacked… Look—the monster has moved further north.”

Following Misha’s indication, Everly looked over.

Last night, the creature appeared again. It attacked three farms adjacent to Karl Farm in succession, then skipped over two relatively poorer farms in between, and went on to attack two larger farms northwest of the village.

Whether it was fortunate or unfortunate, those two skipped farms also belonged to Native Americans living in Tunumo Village. Meanwhile, every one of the attacked farms was owned by white ranchers…

Once or twice could be called coincidence. But when the same pattern kept happening, it was starting to look far too deliberate.

The great plains of Yanifly State stretch from north to south, flanked by hills and mountains on both sides, forming a long, narrow strip like a stick. Due to the terrain, farms in this area are mostly small, family-run operations. And because of their limited income, such farms often don’t carry insurance.

As a result, during the livestock attacks that had continued for nearly half a month, all the losses suffered by white ranchers had to be borne entirely by themselves. Many people had worked an entire year for nothing, only to end up in debt; some had even lost family members because of it. Naturally, they were furious.

The blood-sucking monster was elusive—appearing and disappearing without a trace—making it difficult for the farmers to catch it and vent their anger. Now, however, a convenient target had appeared right in front of them. The white ranchers had never been particularly close with the Native Americans to begin with, and once they suspected this tightly knit group of “yellow-skinned” people, their emotions quickly boiled over.

Thinking of this, Everly put down her phone and leaned closer to the window.

Squinting against the somewhat glaring sunlight, she scanned the crowd of white ranchers gathered at the village entrance—and, sure enough, she spotted the burly white farm owner she had seen the night before.

He was holding a hunting rifle, his face flushed red from neck to forehead, furiously arguing with Karl and the others who stood blocking his way.

It seemed Misha was right—these farmers had seen the analysis on the forum and had come all the way to Tunumo Village to cause trouble.

Leading the group were several men and women dressed in black, their faces filled with grief.

Everly had seen photos of the scene where Old Gresk died on the forum, and she quickly recognized that those people in black were likely his family.

These white ranchers were convinced that the Winton tribe had performed some kind of evil ritual on the reservation, summoning a monster to attack white-owned farms and kill Old Gresk. They crowded the village entrance, shouting accusations nonstop. Some even carried axes, pitchforks, and similar tools, smashing the totem poles, vehicles, trees, and other things around the village.

Horror Movie Survival Rule #14: Stay away from large crowds.

As an outsider, Everly wasn’t in a position to intervene in the conflict between the Native Americans and the local white residents—and clearly, the Native Americans didn’t need her help anyway.

There were quite a few white ranchers gathered this time. Used to physical labor, each of them was strong and sturdy.

But the Winton tribe was not to be trifled with.

Although Tunumo Village was small, it still had a population of over three hundred. Around 80% were Native Americans, and most of the remaining 20% of white residents had close ties with them for various reasons.

When the entire village united, standing together and directing their hostility toward the intruders, a mere few dozen white ranchers were no match for hundreds of villagers.

Yes, the white ranchers had guns—but this was no longer the 17th century, when colonists first set foot on this land. Whatever weapons the white ranchers had, the Native Americans had as well.

Led by Karl, a dozen or so Native villagers stood fearless, guns in hand, forming a human wall to block the only path into the village. They were all among the oldest members of the community. Even if they were to die in a violent clash, they would have no regrets—so long as they could protect the younger generation of their tribe.

“Get out. I’ll only say this once—leave our village, or you’ll get a taste of bullets,” Old Karl warned as he raised his rifle.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!”

Behind him, the other Native villagers also raised their weapons, aiming their dark gun barrels at the intruders.

Centuries ago, when white colonists drove Native peoples off the fertile lands they had lived on for generations and took their homes, they relied on gunpowder and firearms far more powerful than those of the natives—as well as invisible pathogens unseen by the naked eye.

Now, however, as Native Americans had learned to use the colonizers’ weapons, the line between victory and defeat was no longer determined simply by race.

When dozens of rifles were all aimed at the white ranchers at the village entrance, the elderly Native men—faces lined with deep wrinkles—wore identical expressions of ferocity, resolve, and readiness to face death. In places beyond the reach of civilization, brutality and violence became the ultimate means of asserting one’s voice.

Clearly, in terms of sheer combat strength, this small and isolated group of white ranchers was no match for the Native villagers.

After trading insults for a while, the white ranchers were the first to crack under the pressure of so many guns pointed at them. Like a flock of defeated chickens, they retreated in disgrace, slinking away from Tunumo Village.

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Author’s Note:

Native Americans have had a tragic history—especially those in North America, who were nearly wiped out and still face discrimination today.

In fact, when colonizers first arrived in the Americas, the two sides fought for a long time, and their military strength was once fairly evenly matched. Later, however, diseases from the Old World spread to the indigenous populations, dealing a devastating blow—drastically reducing their numbers and collapsing their social systems—allowing the colonizers to gain the upper hand.

There’s also a piece called 《The Last of the Mohicans》 (often associated with the film The Last of the Mohicans). You might want to give it a listen—it’s quite moving.