One thousand seven hundred and thirty six. I've been squirreling away rifle rounds for years: in the basement, the trunk, my locker at the plant, under the bed, in the closet, my folk's house in Jackson, Everywhere. The ones at my folk's place are effectively out of play, but having made it to the plant and back safely I have all the others with me.
I suppose I could get more in town, but right now every fool in a hundred miles is desperately looking up where all the gun stores are... Bang! One thousand seven hundred and thirty five.