A/N: Thank you for those who have been reading and adding the story to their alerts, I very much appreciate it. Please, please review. I do not mean to plead, but I have not had a single reviewer so far and its a bit disheartening. Anyways, this chapter shall reveal what that horrible scream was.

CHAPTER 1 has been updated, please re-read to catch up on the updates.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything of either of these creations. This is purely fictional. I mean no disrespect to the legitimate members of Easy Company.

"So, if you're tired of the same old story, oh, baby, turn some pages
I will be here when you are ready to roll with the changes, baby
Roll with the changes."

-Roll With the Changes- REO Speedwagon

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Whilst Winters and Luz had discovered Guarnere, the hazel eyes of Joseph Liebgott bore fruitlessly into the obscurity of the immense forest he had landed in. Where the hell was he? And furthermore, why was there a castle in the Norman countryside? By God, he would receive some answers when he rendezvoused with the rest of Easy.

The trees surrounding him formed grotesque shapes in the dull luminosity of the moon. For a moment, Liebgott thought he noticed indistinct shapes moving about in the vagueness of the gloom. Terror seized him, but, because of his intense mental and physical training, he coerced his mind to calm itself. He assumed it was merely the tension of the night playing ruses upon his psyche.

"Get a grip, Joe," he muttered to himself, shaking his head.

To detach his mind from the enormous strain, he inspected his equipment. His leg bag had fortuitously survived the drop, so he possessed his machine gun, bipod, and ammo. Unfortunately, he had no assistant for the weapon, and if the enemy attacked, he was alone in operation of the heavy, steel machinery. Hendrix. He needed Hendrix. Or Plesha. Retrieving the Browning .50 Caliber Automatic Rifle from the bag, he transferred the rest of its holdings into his main pack. He raised his fist to his helmet and rapped his fist upon it three times. Good luck.

Slowly and fastidiously, he began stepping backwards, head swiveling about in all directions. A flash of white appeared at the bottom of his vision. He frantically looked down. It was his hands; they were alabaster; he had been gripping the machine gun so forcefully the blood had run from his fingers, rendering them plainly visible in the darkness. Tautness eased from his muscles and he chuckled, starting to tread rearwards again.

"You gotta' stop scaring yourself, Joe, or-,"

Suddenly, his felt himself lose balance and plummet backwards, hitting the earth with an eerily echoing thud.

"Shit!" he cried, scrambling to his feet and wildly rotating. Panic struck him hard and fast; his wits were being stressed nearer and nearer to their limits. Sweat breached his pores and ran down his face, blinding him and stinging his eyes.

And that's when he heard the telltale sound that had been drilled into him since the before the jump.

Click-clack.

Anxiety rushed to his skull and the sensation of utter dread filled his stomach. He had misplaced his cricket-clacker whilst back at base. With no remaining option, he yelled out:

"Don't shoot! It's Liebgott!"

"Jesus, Lieb'! It's me: Christenson! Where the hell is your cricket?"

Relief poured over Liebgott like a sweet sun-shower.

"I lost it."

Christenson scowled.

"You still got your gun?" Liebgott inquired.

"No. I lost it, along with my entire leg bag, during the jump," replied Christenson sullenly.

Liebgott smirked.

"Alright, good. Then you can be my assistant on 'ol Browny here," drawled the Jew of German descent, patting the side of the machine gun on which was scrawled the word 'Browny'.

"Yeah, whatever," muttered Christenson.

"Then let's get moving; this place gives me the god-damned creeps."

And so Liebgott and Christenson started off in an arbitrarily-selected direction. Liebgott reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a pack of Lucky Strikes.

"Smoke?" he offered, motioning the pack towards Christenson.

He looked at it, and then shook his head.

"Oh, well. More for me then," stated Liebgott, placing a standard-rolled cigarette between his lips and lighting it. He drew in, and released the smoke through his nostrils. The night was oddly quiescent, and both men felt the tension return to the air. They continued along for an inordinate amount of time, before Christenson vexingly inquired:

"Do you happen to know where we are?"

Liebgott turned his head and peered at Christenson, eyes squinted in exasperation.

"Does it look like I know where the hell we are?" he hissed.

"Geez, Lieb, I was just asking. Don't need to get so angry over it."

"You know what Christenson, next time you decide to ask me some moronic question like that, why don't you-,"

He froze. The cigarette fell from his now-ajar lips.

"Joe?" queried Christenson, still looking at him.

"Don't move Burt. Okay, easy now, slowly turn around. Don't make any quick movements."

Christenson complied, and the sight that met his eyes caused his heart to momentarily stop pulsing. It was a beast of a creature, half-horse and half-man. The trunk of the entity was that of an equestrian, and its upper body was human. It did not move, but simply observed the men, gazing at them with eyes of turquoise that shone in the moonlight.

"Holy sh-," Christenson began.

Just behind him, Liebgott opened fire with his machine gun. Christenson dove sharply to the right as the bullets whizzed past him and indubitably at the strange creature. In horror, he looked up to see a barrage of bullets laid waste to the creature, which dropped to the ground instantly. Liebgott fired two more bursts into its prostrate form, before halting.

For a minute neither man moved.

Then the creature began to emit that horrible scream.

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