Most of the roads in Florida's Bay County are now impassable. There's no electricity, no working sewers, no gasoline, very little cell service, and a boil water advisory.
"This whole town's destroyed" after Hurricane Michael, says Ryan Smith, a mechanic in Lynn Haven, on the north side of Panama City, Fla.
He's standing outside a red brick apartment complex where most of the roofs are gone and giant pine trees have fallen through some of the buildings.
"This was our house," he says. "Now all our stuff's destroyed."
Smith's stepfather is sweeping roof shingles from the sidewalk as Smith passes out orange juice and bananas to the neighbors.
Some of the tenants here have disabilities, and others couldn't afford to heed the county's evacuation order.
Smith's reason: "We didn't have gas. Everybody took the damn gas."
When he couldn't fill up his pickup truck, Smith built a bunker under his steps using mattresses — he stocked it with food, water and toys for the six children younger than 5 who sheltered there with his mother and wife. He thought it was going to hold until the roof blew open.
"My stepdad — the big dude right there — he's holding the door shut trying to get the air to not come up and rip the roof off," he remembers. "And it's sucking him in the door. And I'm downstairs trying to hold the mattresses over the back windows so frickin' shards of glass ain't flying in and cutting everybody up."
Search and rescue teams will try again Friday to get into neighborhoods like Lynn Haven devastated by Hurricane Michael. It's been a slow process hampered by heavily damaged infrastructure. But until official help can arrive, neighbors are turning to one another for support.
As the eye of the storm passed over, Smith rushed to help neighbors. One of them was Audrianna Peterson.
"We kept hearing the pressure in our ears," she says. "Next thing you know we had a glass bust open and the pressure was so deep we couldn't open our door. We called him. We called Ryan to come. We was calling and screaming for Ryan because we thought we were going to die. If it wasn't for him we would be dead right now."
Peterson was with Anjaleesa Douglas, who shows me what's left of the apartment.
"The roof went down first right here. I mean, it was horrible."
She leads me upstairs, where you can look up and see daylight.
Her room is at the top of the stairs — the sun shining on a soggy upended mattress. Only two pieces of plywood are still attached to the roof truss.
"It was just really an eye-opener," she says. "When they say leave, leave. I will never do this again in my life ever. I will never do this again. I almost lost my life."
Peterson and Douglas are planning to go stay with friends in Pensacola for now. Smith's mother, Michelle Horak, says she's getting her family out, too. Relatives who live in another town are coming with gas to help them leave.
"And then I don't know what we're going to do after that," she says. "I don't know. I guess life as we know it has changed."
As the initial shock of Hurricane Michael wears off, the uncertainty of what the future holds sets in.
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