((Whoa, Rambo; Zombies watch out!
This looks very cool, and It's been a while since I've done a good zombie RP.))
Name: James Schilde
Age: 19
Gender: Male
Appearance: Short brown hair, ragged from too many self-haircuts without the benefit of a mirror; a rather stubby nose and high cheekbones, the skin stretched over them with little extra meat underneath, and narrow, distrusting eyes the color of hazel. His build isn't exactly lean, but hunger and the street life has ensured that there is little extra meat on his bones, and whatever is there is often muscle, giving him the appearance of a thin man. His clothes are often whatever rags he can throw together, but usually that includes a t-shirt and dark-colored cargo pants; at least, whenever he can swipe them. He also has a black leather long-coat he'd taken off a guy who'd just been mugged years ago, it was more then a little worse for wear, but it did it's job well enough. The only things that look relatively new are his boots, which were, sorta.
Background/History: James life was uninteresting for the most part; raised in a broken home, ran away when he was twelve and stupid, and had been living for himself on the streets of New York City ever since. This included a lot of scraping, stealing, sometimes a little begging, and as always, small jobs for the local gangs. He was too clever to ever get too involved with them though; he preferred to simply run messages and stay out of territorial disputes.
One aspect of his life where he'd gotten luckier then most was his meeting with Jack Bernowski, an old man who'd lost both his arms in an accident years ago. He'd been surviving somehow ever since. Most people just averted their eyes and ignored the old man, but James had met him back when he could still feel pity, and helped take care of the guy for a while. In return, he told James a bit about his past. He'd been member of one of the local gangs years ago, pretty high up too. Having been an expert in several types of close-combat, his job was to teach the grunts how to beat the shit out of people. When he lost his arms though, they dumped him, saying that someone who couldn't even punch couldn't possibly teach other people how. Be that as it may, Jack had retained his knowledge, if not his exact skill, and he spent time teaching James as much as he could. After he died James used his skills to get the upper hand on the other urchins in his neighborhood, and was able to survive where many didn't.
((This next paragraph kind of makes some assumptions about the zombie invasion. Now, from your wording, I'm guessing they've been around for a little while, but if I'm wrong, just say so and I'll change it.))
When the hell started, he'd just turned eighteen, and had, laughably, legally bought his first gun. He found out this had been a very good idea a couple months later when the monsters showed up and it had saved his life numerous times over a few days. Luckily, his survival instinct worked here too, and he always found a way to keep out of their reach while still eating and finding places to sleep, often with groups of others whom he didn't really care about but had guns just like him. Unlike most, he'd not lost hope or tried to leave the city yet. He assumed this meant he was was probably a little insane, but what did he have anywhere else? At least this place got his adrenaline pumping. And for all he knew, the rest of the world was worse.
Weapons: A small, stubby revolver with a wooden handle and six-shot chamber, a box of ammo that he wore on a chain around his neck at all times, and a five-inch long sharpened kitchen knife in his belt. Additionally, he carried gloves with the knuckles coated in steel. Hand-to-hand combat was near-suicidal with zombies, but James had found that they worked well with other people who got in his way, and saved bullets too.