![rawImage.jpg](https://steemitimages.com/DQmRmyv4vwHnM9g44yw3PZ83vp2A2bVq55NxCbevTbm4i49/rawImage.jpg)
(Image from SF Chronicle)

I'm posting up the chapters of this uncompleted book as I hope the Steemit community might offer up its criticism (which would, in turn, force me to finish it, honestly). Started in 2008, this was my first foray into novel writing and was my undergraduate thesis required to graduate. The story is about an executioner in the not-too-distant future. Executioners are highly trained individuals with extensive educations built to help them execute their prisoners in the exact same manner that the prisoner's victims died. This is called the law of retaliation or _lex talionis_; you may know it better as "eye for an eye."

Because I was also getting my degree in philosophy, I wanted to explore the ethics involved. While I feel I'm a better writer now and could certainly expand most of this book, I also really enjoy criticism as I'm usually too close to the work to see what's working and what's not (though in this case, there's plenty that I feel is not working). So please...feel free to criticize the work if you'd like, but be constructive about it. Simply saying "this part isn't good" doesn't tell me much; don't hesitate to tell me why it's not good or offer up possible alternatives to make it better.

Thanks in advance!

***

Previous Sections/Chapters:

_Part I_
[Chapter One](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-1) / [Two](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-2) / [Three](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-3) / [Four](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/tgjcj-the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-4) / [Five](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-chapter-5) / [Six](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-6) / 
[Seven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-7) / [Eight](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-8) / [Nine](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-9) / [Ten](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-10) / [Eleven](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-11) / [Twelve](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-12) / 
[Thirteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-13) / [Fourteen](https://steemit.com/writing/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-14) / [Fifteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-15) / [Sixteen](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-i-chapter-16-the-end-of-part-i)

_Part II_
[Chapter One](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-11) / [Two](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-2) / [Three](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-3) / [Four](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-4) / [Five](https://steemit.com/fiction/@bucho/the-bulwark-s-shadow-a-novel-in-progress-via-steemit-part-ii-chapter-5)

***

I figured the lunchroom would be empty later that day, but I didn’t think everyone would be put in temporary lockdown indefinitely. Perhaps because I was not around the boys or maybe because the tray was haphazardly tossed into my cell, but the food was not as good today as it had been and I found myself not hungry despite my belly’s protestations to the contrary. 
	
Riddle had found his freedom, if only for a couple hours. We sat on my bunk in silence for awhile, worrying in our own ways about Panzer. After things had calmed down in the rest of the prison, the guards did a thorough check of each cell and each prisoner, making sure we were all where we were supposed to be. They couldn’t find Riddle for an hour or two until they marched past my cell and one of them did a double-take, turned promptly on his heels and called out for his companions. I assume they escorted him back to his cell while I continued to sit in the quiet, but the guards have never felt a need to divulge any information to us other than when to eat, sleep and behave. 
	
Dinner was served the same way that night: one disposable foil tray, no silverware, nothing to drink. One meat substance covered in a gravy type sauce (served cold and congealed), vegetable medley (served over-hot and flavorless), and a red, neutral tasting jell-o. I left the half-eaten tray near the door to my cell and curled up on the bed, still exhausted from the long night and a morning exacerbated by who knows what reason. This was a miniscule punishment for me, but I hated not knowing why a riot of Sisyphusian proportions began or ended. Perhaps this was a byproduct of the majority of inmates not talking to me. Was I out of the prison information loop on purpose? I brushed the thought aside as none of the other guys had made mention or hints about the event either. I wouldn’t have wanted to know about it beforehand anyway. 
	
Despite my exhaustion, I couldn’t sleep. I pounded the pillow into several different amorphous shapes and never found one conducive to easy dreaming. My sheet seemed to have intentions of its own, wrapping itself up between my legs uncomfortably. I eventually tossed it to the floor and laid on my back with eyes open and focused on one lone spot on the ceiling. My conversation with the dream maker never came that night. 
	
My door slid open the next morning, shaking me from a sleep deprived reverie involving forests of pine trees painted across the feet of purple mountain ranges. The sun had risen just over the valley and set their top branches aflame as I watched from what appeared to be many miles away. 
	
No one appeared in my doorway, so I assumed it was breakfast time and headed out into the too quiet hallway. As I walked, I noticed that several of the other cells were empty, but locked up tight. A cool breeze skirted the walls and blew along my arms, goosepimpling my skin as I headed towards the cafeteria. The doors were open and there was a singular figure already eating at the far end of the otherwise empty cafeteria while a lone guard stood at attention near the buffet table, electraprod in hand. I was tempted to ask him why I was one of the lucky two getting to eat in the caf today, but the purple bruise around his eye told me to keep my mouth shut and just eat. 
	
The kitchen was dark and the NV’s who normally prepared hot breakfasts for us were absent. I grabbed a tray and slid it across the buffet table, grabbing an apple and a Styrofoam bowl for my cereal. Looking around, I saw that no plasticware had been provided today and chose not to inquire about the fact. I could slurp my cereal just as well without the spoon as I could with it. 
	
I turned away from the buffet to the empty room and realized that I could sit wherever I wanted without repercussion of starting up some nonsensical beef with any other crews. As with any other prison (at least what I remember from television), the lunchroom was broken up into several mini-societies, all watching each other’s backs while taking care of prison politics. The NV’s who weren’t working got first crack at the buffet, simply because they were higher up on the prison food chain. This may not make sense, but when you realize the NV’s are leaving the prison eventually, some favors can be swapped for a payment of sorts later. 

Of the NV’s, the drug dealers were at the top of the list simply because they were the better businessmen in this environment. After that, your common thugs followed because of their lack of hesitation to pound someone’s face in: ex-mafia lieutenants, “cleaners” (the ones who get their hands dirty), muggers, rapists, and your dimestore cowboys in for armed robbery. The prison was filled with these guys and for the most part, none of us DC’ers really had any desire to mess with them. At least none of my crew was interested. 

The gangbangers took up the front quarter of the cafeteria. These guys weren’t lifers by any means, but they acted like it through heavy doses of ambivalence towards anyone else in the caf, even the guards. Watching them in action saddens me; they act as if the five year sentence they received is the end of their lives, so they play the imaginary part to the nth degree, taking pride in a lifestyle that can only end poorly. 

Then there’s us, the Deathwatch Crew. Someone way back when had overheard the guards use that phrase in regards to those of us destined to die down here and it just stuck. Some of the guys stick to themselves, choosing not to associate with anyone. You notice them, but only when they disappear and then no one can remember their name. Weeks later, they’re completely forgotten. We as DC’ers don’t have much pull as far as the prison barter system, but that’s why several of us stick together: Reitman, Scabs (before he went “poof”), Panzer, Big James, myself and now, Jilette, who was always the odd man in and will probably continue to be the jester to our cafeteria court proceedings. 

I chose my regular seat, opting for normalcy within the surreal. My first bite into the apple seemed to echo off the walls and for a moment, I was embarrassed, as if eating were a thing to be ashamed of. The slurping of my cereal was even worse as I ended up with droplets of milk in my beard and then choked on a lone hair at one point. Breakfast ended early for me and I headed back to my cell, hoping to sneak by all the others still locked up in their own. 

I napped until lunch, finding that I was again one of only two prisoners allowed to eat in the caf. Wheat bread, a disappointing selection of lunch meat, raw carrots, and kool-aid, red flavored, awaited me at the far end of the room, but I was too tired to really eat anything and just nibbled at the carrots. The food isn’t usually this terrible. Movies over the years have made prison food out to be maggot-infested gruel with no flavor and no variety; this isn’t so. Lasagna on Fridays, coupled with one (and only one) piece of garlic bread and unseasoned asparagus. Macaroni & cheese on Tuesdays, accompanied by cornbread and mashed potatoes. Wednesdays was a kind of a la carte concoction of our choosing and Thursdays were pizza boat day. We hold Mondays in high regard as they were both the start of another week towards our ultimate end or (if you were one of the lucky ones) your eventual release and we dine on pancakes. Saturdays and Sundays are leftover days, but sometimes we’d get lucky and the kitchen crew would make something ethnic on Sunday nights. This was rare, however.

When dinner time came, I decided to join the other lone diner. I was tired of sitting in silence and had actually acquired an appetite since I passed on lunch. Lucky for me, it was sandwiches again. 

I slid my tray across the table in front of the other inmate and sat down. “Hey,” I said. “Got tired of the oppressive quiet in here, mind if I join you?”

He motioned for me to sit and continued to chew. He had made several sandwiches and had the early hints of a kool-aid mustache. He was younger than me by about a decade and his forearms were covered in tattoos. Some were imperceptible while others were bright and detailed. I had seen the dagger on his right forearm before. A few of the other gangbangers had it and explained during a bout of strange openness that it was a murder tally. By counting the drops of blood coming off the blade, one could figure out how many people he’d killed, or had claimed to kill. I saw three. He noticed me looking and stopped chewing for a moment. “You know what this is?” he asked, nodding at the tattoo.

“Yup,” I replied, taking a bite out of my sandwich. “It’s a tattoo.”

He put the sandwich down and looked me in the eye. “Do you know what it means?”

“Yup,” I mumbled through a mouthful of sandwich. 

“You’re not bothered by it?”

“Why should I be? If that’s how you want to express yourself, then who am I to judge? Plus there’s nothing you could do to me that’s worse than what I’m waiting for, so…” I said, shrugging and taking another bite of sandwich. 

He licked his teeth and picked up his sandwich again, devouring nearly half of it in one bite. I watched as he threw the other half onto his tray, picked it up and moved to the table beside us. He stared at me as he sat down and began to eat again. I shrugged, finished my sandwich, and hoped the boys would be back in the lunchroom soon as I walked back to my cell for another long night of quiet.