The earth here is brown.
I finally made it through the grey, bleak terrain. There are plants again; I saw a small tree on the other side of the furrow. As long as I can, I'll keep reporting what I see. At least then, there's some hope that I didn't throw my life away for nothing. I know there's no rescue coming. Not quickly enough.
I've started to see patches of the white fungi again. When I've seen them before, the fungi have been full and healthy. Now, the white exterior is tinged with yellow-brown, the skin wrinkled as if they're shrinking, rotting from within. Perhaps the soil here is less favourable to the fungi. Or maybe it's the end of their season. It doesn't matter.
I've neither seen nor heard any evidence that I'm being pursued. I'm not keeping a watch at night, though. If I'm attacked while I sleep, then I'll die. The outcome is the same, only the timing is affected. I can't help but wonder if I'm farther into The Sick Land than anyone has ever been. I doubt it. But I may have gone deeper than anyone has in thirty years. That's something, I suppose.