A Familiar Roar, Then Sadness and Resolve

MOORE, Okla. — This is it, Mark Ellerd thought.

Insulation rained down on his head. He could hear glass shattering, walls crumbling and the roof tearing from his one-story home in the shadow of a multiplex here. And, of course, there was that familiar roar, like a train.

Having lived in the Oklahoma City area for his entire 49 years, Mr. Ellerd was no stranger to tornadoes. But never before had he been in the eye of one. When the moment came on Monday afternoon, he was alone at home, and all he could do was lie on the floor of his bedroom closet, cuddling his cocker spaniel, Molly, who was crying. He thought he was going to die.

As rescue workers continued on Tuesday to frantically search for survivors beneath mounds of twisted metal, wood and other debris, residents like Mr. Ellerd tried to come to grips with what they went through, and the arduous, uncertain path forward.

There was a mix of sadness, resolve and reflection in the air. Dozens of news trucks were parked amid the wreckage as television reporters broadcast live. Law enforcement vehicles with their lights flashing raced up and down the street.

CreditKatherine Taylor for The New York Times

Rescue workers gathered around buses and trucks in the parking lot of a large movie theater that remained mostly intact, though crews worked on the facade with a crane and people in military fatigues raked the lawn out front. There was apprehension as lightning flashed and thunder roared amid the occasional downpour. There was a chill in the air.

Mr. Ellerd surveyed what was left of the home that he shared with his wife, son and daughter as tears trickled beneath his tinted glasses. Red bricks were torn away. Most of the roof was gone, and the house’s wooden frame was all that was left standing in parts. The drywall was soiled around the brown door to the closet where Mr. Ellerd had hunkered down. A lavender bottle of women’s body spray sat on a dresser and a cable box was on a separate chest of drawers.

Law enforcement officers asked Mr. Ellerd to stay away from his home for the time being because of lingering dangers.

Mr. Ellerd, his son and a friend camped in a tent they pitched next to the remains of their home, fearing looters.

“I want to get what’s left of my possessions out and they’re not letting us do that,” he said. “So my nightmare is continuing because of that. Once I get my things secure, then I can go rest. Until I do that I can’t have no rest.”

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Mr. Ellerd’s 22-year-old son, Tyler, surveyed all that was — or was no longer — around him. He pointed a block up where a row of homes and a 7-Eleven store had been razed.

“There was a bowling alley there that’s leveled,” he said, pointing across a parking lot to what looked like a pile of wreckage dumped randomly on the asphalt. There, rescue workers were not giving up hope. Some clad in neon yellow coats and helmets climbed on the jagged pile on Tuesday morning with barking dogs by their side.

Across the street from the Ellerd home was the shredded, muddy facade of Moore Medical Center, letters missing from its sand-colored facade and aluminum beams exposed inside. Dozens of crushed cars were stacked in the parking lot. A neon “X” was spray-painted on some of them, marking the ones that had been examined.

Ashley Lockerbie trolled the perimeter of the lot with her father, searching for her silver 2009 Honda Pilot. She had some medication in there she needed to get. They peered closer at some twisted vehicles, but after walking around for about 15 minutes, she never found it.

“I don’t think I have a car,” she told her father.

But Ms. Lockerbie, 25, was simply happy to be healthy enough to search for her car. When the tornado hit, she was hunkered down in a stairwell of the medical center with two of her children — one 9 months, the other 2 years old — and about 15 other staff members and patients.

“It was loud,” said Ms. Lockerbie, who works as a medical assistant. “You could taste the dirt falling from the ceiling. You could smell the gas. You could hear the things just pounding on the door, so we just held the door shut as tight as we could. It was scary.”

A version of this article appears in print on , Section A, Page 14 of the New York edition with the headline: A Familiar Roar, Then Sadness and Resolve. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe