“Please, tabang, tabang… we need rescue asap. We need a speedboat for rescue. The water is rising too fast.”

This is not a line from a movie. This is the desperate, digitized scream for help from a resident of Villa del Rio Uno in Cebu City, a family, a neighbor, a fellow Filipino, trapped on their own roof as the world they know disappears beneath a churning brown sea.

The Philippines, a nation scarred by the memory of “Yolanda,” is once again on its knees, this time battered by a “pambihira” (extraordinary) storm named Typhoon Tino. The city of Cebu, known for its resilience and beauty, was “surprised” by the cyclone’s “sobrang lakas” (extreme strength). It was a brutal, one-two punch of catastrophic wind and biblical rain that, for many, brings back the darkest memories of 2013.

The situation on the ground is a portrait of apocalyptic chaos. In what should be bustling city streets, there is now a raging ocean. The floodwaters are not just rising; they are devouring. Footage from the scene shows an almost unbelievable sight: cars, once symbols of stability and family life, are now floating like bath toys, stacked haphazardly on top of one another in a grim monument to the storm’s power. Refrigerators, washing machines, and freezers bob past, swept from homes, a testament to the lives being washed away. “Grabe, parang dagat na yung buong paligid,” (It’s horrifying, the whole surrounding area is like a sea) one witness remarked.

But the real horror is inside the homes. The pleas for help are frantic and specific. In Villa del Rio Uno, the water has already swallowed the first floor. The residents, including “bata” (children), have been forced to climb onto their rooftops, exposed to the howling wind and rain, with nowhere else to go.

Their lifeline to the outside world has been cut. “911 can’t reach us,” a resident cries out in a video, the panic in their voice palpable. They are alone, surrounded by a swirling deluge, posting desperate pleas to social media with their dying phone batteries, praying a speedboat sees their pin on a map. “If possible,” one message pleads, “we have children here.”

This is not an isolated pocket of destruction. The entire region is a disaster zone. In Talisay City, the devastation is absolute. Videos show entire villages of “magagandang bahay” (beautiful, well-built houses) almost completely submerged, the water lapping at the very edges of their rooflines. The terror is unimaginable: “Just imagine how scary this typhoon is,” a narrator comments, “How about if the water goes past the roof? It’s just a little bit more.” In Mandaue City, the Butuanon River has burst its banks, swallowing everything in its path.

The storm’s power is shocking. Residents describe how “magandang bahay” (nice houses) are being torn apart, their roofs “winasak” (destroyed) by the ferocious winds that howled through the pre-dawn hours. The surprise and the strength of the storm have left the city reeling, its infrastructure crippled, and its people exposed.

Amidst this terror, a familiar, bitter anger is beginning to surface. As families cling to their lives, one resident, filming the destruction, unleashes a torrent of rage not at the storm, but at the establishment. “Nalipay na ‘mga politiko na corrupt,” he sneers. (The corrupt politicians are probably happy now.) His commentary, raw and unfiltered, captures a deep-seated feeling of abandonment. He speaks of the corrupt politicians in their safe, grand houses, while the ordinary people who “wala namang balay” (don’t even have a house) are left to suffer and die. It is a sentiment that resonates deeply in a nation that has seen so many disasters and so many broken promises.

This is a national crisis in the making. The government has raised Signal Number 4—the second-highest warning level—across a massive swath of the country. It’s not just Cebu. Areas in the Northern and Central portions of Negros, Iloilo, Guimaras, and parts of Leyte are all under the gun. The storm’s “sobrang laki ng sakop” (extremely large coverage) means this catastrophe is still unfolding, with millions more in its path.

The authorities are issuing warnings, “Please, everyone, be careful… Don’t wait until you need a rescue operation… Flee. This is dangerous.”

But for those in Villa del Rio Uno and Talisay, that warning comes too late. Their homes are gone. Their streets are rivers. Their 911 calls have failed. They are now, quite literally, screaming for “rescue” from their rooftops, clinging to their children, praying that a “speedboat” will arrive before the water rises that last, final few inches. The typhoon’s winds may be howling, but the most terrifying sound is the human cry for help that, so far, has not been answered.