We followed the furrow all day. We haven't made it as far as I've been before, and we haven't encountered anything unusual. The field team has fragmented into small groups, pairs and threes. Everywhere I look, I see sallow skin and red eyes. I can tell that they blame me. They try to hide it, but I can feel their eyes on my back. There's a palpable sense of doom pressing down on the expedition; we all know that there'll be more deaths before we make it back. If we ever do.
I've just reread the last paragraph. I sound crazy. I think the problem is the mal. I don't know for sure, and none of the right equipment is working, but we're either in the Yellow or very close. No one on the team seems to get sick, but we can all feel it burrowing away into our brains.
I'm sleeping in the Jeep tonight.