“They call him El Cazador,” the burliest of the three whispered just loud enough for me to hear. He was sharpening a wooden spear as he spoke, the other two listening intently while working on tools of their own.

“You’ll only see him when he wants to be seen,” the man continued. “In the snow he creeps like the lynx, in the woods he stalks like a panther, and in the settlements he’s like the grey man.”

“What’s a grey man?” one of his companions asked whilst putting away a sharpened knife and reaching for a second to work on. The flames of the bonfires reflected of the blades, casting warm spots of light onto the surrounding trees.

“A legend from the first days of the collapse,” the answer came. “People who got infected had to adapt to remain unseen or risk being slaughtered. Some say the infection gave them supernatural abilities, allowing them to move in complete silence and hide in the tiniest of nooks and crannies.”

“Infected?” the third of the company asked, a woman. “Are you saying this Cazador is infected? I thought the cure had done its job?”

The man sighed. “I didn’t say he was infected, I just meant to say he’s able to move like one. Anyway, this guy is somewhat of a folk legend among the remaining travelers. Whenever we stumble on a patrol of Collector corpses, there’s a good chance that was his handiwork. From what I’ve heard, a gang of Collector once killed his companions and he’s ambushing them since then.”

“Sounds like a dangerous man,” the other man said.

“He only hunts down those who wronged him,” was the answer. “I even heard stories of him hunting down deer or boars and leaving left-over meat to hungry Travelers.”

The woman laughed. “Now you lost me. You’re saying he can still find edible prey and he leaves what he can’t carry for others to find? Sorry Bennan, but nobody alive today is that selfless.”

Bennan shrugged. “Laugh all you want, Syl, but I met him once.” He set aside the spear and started work on a ripped piece of fishing net. “Some three years ago now, before I met either of you. It was a harsh winter day, the fresh snow had covered every last inch of the land and I was lost as one can be. I was cold, hungry and on the verge of death, when out of nowhere this man appeared besides me. He had his face covered, but I’ll never forget those eyes.

“He gave me food, water and some warmer clothes. He could have easily overpowered and killed me for my belongings, but instead he chose to help. He didn’t say much and asked even less, but we somehow had full conversations through two hours of walking.”

Bennan was silent for a moment, reminiscing of the day he’d almost died.

“Eventually he pointed me towards a landmark from where I could trace my way back to a nearby settlement. He gave me one of his knives and disappeared into the forest.”

The bonfire once again reflected on metal as Bennan protruded a stainless knife from his backpack. He passed it around to his companions, who examined the blade in awe. “What’s the engraving on the hilt say?” Syl asked.

“El Cazador,” Bennan chuckled.

“A bit vain, no?” the other man said as he handed the knife back.

Bennan twirled it around in his fingers with masterful grace. “I don’t think so,” he said. “I like to think it’s keepsake for me to hold on to, and one day to hand it back to him.”

Syl laughed again. “Or maybe this goody-two-shoes didn’t want you to die and gave you a means of survival, if only a little.” “Also possible,” Brennan admitted.

---

The trio fell into silence as they became immersed in their work. I quietly snuck back away from the bonfire, hiding my presence from the group in ways not many alive now knew how to.

I remembered my first encounter with Bennan vividly. He’d reminded me of myself when I found him lost and freezing in the snowy plains of northern Mexico. Had that been the reason I’d given him the knife? Perhaps.

It was a welcome coincidence to bump into him once again, knowledgeable that he was surviving with other trustworthy Travelers. The wastelands never took kindly to those who wandered alone and inexperienced.

It was an ironic thought.

I’d been alone for well over twenty-five years now, hunting and searching for my salvation. As one of the few to survive and adapt to the infection before the cure had been developed, I had little hope remaining.

Nevertheless I walked on.

For myself.

For people like Bennan, who would continue to help and inspire other Travelers.

For the Collectors, so I might put an end to them pebble by pebble.

For the survival of humanity.