- Numbers vs. Age, based off of a census of 100,000 citizens of Garba, year 1730.

The monster lies dead on the side of the road. I've managed to regain my wits after the most recent in a long chain of earth-shattering surprises. At this point, I'm starting to view these new realizations less with astonishment and more with resignation -- it seems a human can only take so many paradigm bending experiences before they start to lose their significance. My limit is five, apparently.

I quickly begin to repack my supplies back into the wheelbarrow, always keeping an eye on my surroundings, but focusing more on what I just witnessed.

That monster had Numbers. Five of them, just like any human would. And when it died, it lost its Numbers, each of them getting reset to zero, which is NOT just like any human. When people die, their Numbers do not change. It is actually common practice to display and touch the left arm of the deceased at funerals, out of respect for all they accomplished in life.

This monster's numbers seem to work differently. In what I assume was the moment of its death, each of its Numbers was reset to zero -- just like mine were four days ago. More amazingly, it seems as if a portion of its Numbers, on death, transferred to me, to be spent as I choose. I cannot recall clearly what values its Numbers had, I only had a second to see them before they changed, but I do recall noticing that its dexterity Number was the largest, the only one with three digits.

Was this some freak occurrence? Would this happen every time I killed one of those monsters? I recall the discrepancy in my Numbers before and after I survived the first attack. The same thing must have happened then. I'm curious enough about it that I almost wish another monster would attack. Almost.

I'm not a COMPLETE idiot.

I travel for only five minutes further down the road before taking another break. My shoulder where the monster bit me is sore, and my previously scabbed over wounds on my left arm are seeping blood. I had already checked the shoulder wound underneath my clothes, and, although the jacket has some nice teeth-sized holes in it, my skin only has light scratches and bruises, protected by my many layers of clothing.

I painstakingly wash and dab dry my arm with one of my remaining clean blankets. As much as I am thankful for all the food, water, and other tools, the item I found which has benefited me the most has been all of the fabric. I've used it for cleaning, bandaging, and if I hadn't created a "poncho" out of one of the blankets to wear under my jacket, I don't doubt that those teeth-sized holes would extend all the way through my skin.

It's unfortunate how quickly I'm going through all of my fabrics. Any extra clothes belonging to me at the beginning of this ill-fated field trip were in the burnt out husk of a cabin, and there weren't any actual clothes in the shed, only blankets that could be repurposed. Luckily, I brought enough blankets to more than last me on my trip to civilization, but some paranoid part of me, most likely feeding off of my current series of unfortunate events, is worried about what might happen if I get wounded and no longer have anything to staunch the bleeding or keep it clean.

After resting for fifteen minutes, I shake off the lethargy that follows too much exercise and adrenaline, and pull myself to my feet. If I want to be sure my supplies will last the trip, I can't afford to delay any more than necessary.

I'm slowly trudging up what I'm starting to call "the eternal hill" in my mind, when I pause.

"What is that?" I think to myself, as I sniff the air. I smell something that my nose is now intimately familiar with, having lived surrounded by the scent for the past three days.

There's smoke up ahead!

I break into a slow trot. Maybe it will be people, gathered around a campfire! I won't have to make this whole hellish trip alone!

As the smell of smoke grows stronger as I get closer, my paranoid self whispers a word of warning. After all, the last time I smelled smoke, it was definitely not a herald of something good. I can't imagine how it could be bad though -- if it was a forest fire, I would be able to see a lot more smoke above the trees rather than just catching a faint whiff of it on the breeze. And there isn't anything else out here to burn besides forest. What else could it be but a campfire?

Despite this, I decide to listen to my paranoid side -- out of the last few days, it's been right more often than not. I find a large clump of bushes, and conceal the wheelbarrow as best I can in the underbrush. With the spade and pocket knife in my back pocket and the shovel raised in front of me, I go back to the road and proceed forward at a more careful pace.

I round a bend in the road, coming upon a sight which causes my heart to drop in my chest. At least I now know what happened to all the other students.

Laying on its side with only the tail remaining on the road is the school bus, the Clayton Northern Academy logo emblazoned on the bumper. The front of the bus is firmly embedded in the trees next to the road and the interior is partially burnt out, the smoldering remains providing just enough smoke to alert a wandering student a few hundred meters down the road. It looks as if the bus arbitrarily chose this point to swerve into the woods next to the road, causing it to flip. I can't see anything on the road which might have caused the swerve, nor can I see any sign of anybody being present during or after the wreck, although from this angle I can barely see inside the bus.

Raising the shovel in front of me, I edge closer to the remains.

Ten steps from the rear of the bus, I freeze. The emergency exit at the back of the bus is hanging open, and I just just make out what appears to be a...hand. Hanging out of the emergency exit. Stained red.

With a deep breath, I prepare my mind. I have no desire to experience a repeat of what I saw behind the shed, but there's no way I can abandon a fellow student if there's even a slight chance they are still alive.

As finally get close enough to see the inside of the bus, I immediately turn away, tears in my eyes. That was Sam. I didn't know him that well -- I didn't know anyone in my class THAT well -- but I had exchanged words with him multiple times, and he seemed nice enough. And he is most definitely NOT still alive.

I try to shake the image from my mind as I hyperventilate a few feet from the bus, my hands on my knees. I just need to breathe.

The only thing I can picture is his face, bloodstained with tear tracks down his cheeks, his mouth open in a grimace of pain. His arm stretched out in front of him, reaching for something, as if his fingers could only stretch a bit further he would be saved. I try to focus on something, anything else, when I suddenly stop and my breath catches in my throat. His hand, reaching out to the exit of the bus, was his left. I could see the Numbers on his arm, and they were all zeros. Even more surprising than this, underneath the bloodstains covering his palm, I remember seeing a faint outline of a blue mark. A blue Number. The Number 20.

S: 52

D: 28

W: 28

I: 26

C: 25

22