A belated entry to Luis Vito's JUKEBOX Jam. A Disciples of the Worm minidungeon for Delta Green.
Once a Spanish trade post, then a Mexican army fort, then an antebellum slave plantation. Now a small citrus farm in the Texan backcountry, producing sweet Marrs oranges and Mexican key limes.
The locals don't have much to say about it. The workers keep to themselves, act polite, and pay in cash. They're not all Mexicans and Guatemalans either, a few had odd foreign accents. Maybe European?
They don't see the tunnels twisting beneath the earth. The crates of guns and bombs and worse hidden beneath sweet-smelling citrons. The parasites coiling inside perforated intestines, pain barely dulled by fistfuls of pills. The thing in the pool, robbed of language but still begging for death in wordless screams.
